I figure it's gonna take 32 more victories to win this thing. Every time we win, we peel a square.

—Lou Brown, manager, Cleveland Indians, Major League

This one was a specialty from the Mets playbook. We're reasonably hot. We leave town. We alight in some city where the local team is dreadful. We're facing some two-bit emergency starter. We're sending out somebody who's been going pretty to very well lately. We know that our divisional competition has already lost. We can move past them and reach a high point for the season. All we have to do is win.

But we don't. It is such an obvious setup, yet we fall for it over and over and over again. The rain was the first tipoff. We wanted it to stop because we couldn't wait to take advantage of Coors Field and its famously whispering upper deck. No doubt the extended delay was the heavens' way of warning us that last place or not, the Rockies are exactly the kind of team that trips us up when we're looking past them. Like the Astros at Shea in June. Like the A's in Oakland a week after that. Like the Pirates in Pittsburgh before the break. (Only the Bucs did not use us for a springboard for immediate and lasting success.)

Ted Robinson, affecting a supersavvy attitude from all his time broadcasting Barry Bonds' exploits there, was practically salivating over the Mets' chances to score ten, twelve, fourteen runs; ever get the feeling Ted Robinson misses doing Giants games? Between Robinson and the rain, I could feel what would come next.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing. A first three innings like we had Monday night — nine up, nine down — are not easily overcome, even in Colorado. Whatever magic we made in the top of the fourth went poof in the bottom of the fourth. And that was essentially that. Of course DeJean had no problem with us. Of course Relaford threw out Reyes from an impossible angle. That's how one of these games works: the ex-Mets are inscrutable, while the allegedly lousy team's actual good players excel. Of course Helton got hit after hit (and watch him feel fine by tonight) and of course Fuentes baffled Beltran and Floyd. And in the final of course, of course Mike just got under a 2-0 pitch to end our last, undeserved hope.

This game reaffirmed the ol' you're gonna lose a third of your games rule and you're gonna lose a segment of those in predictable if irritating ways. The trick is to minimize the damage and not lose too many of the third that decides your fate.

The Mets have, at last, played against every National League team in 2005. I feel safe in asserting that the Senior Circuit breaks down as such:

• Crappy Teams

• Less Crappy Teams

• St. Louis

We're not trying to be world-beaters here. We're just trying to be of the least crappy teams going. We have a lot of competition, but our fiercest rivals are ourselves.

More good news: We're 1-6 in contests conducted west of the Mississippi, or what I've been fearing as the Dirty Thirty since I got a good look at the schedule. Keep in mind that the rest of this trip is two games in deceptive Denver and four in hot, hot Houston. August wraps SD-LA (6) and AZ-SF (7) around a week at home. Each of those teams rather sucks, but when has that been of any comfort to us?

That's 24 of the Dirty Thirty. The final four, it bears repeating, come at Busch, September 8-11. The Cardinals decidedly do not suck. They could very well be preparing to clinch a playoff spot by the time we show our struggling faces. How much do you suppose St. Louis would relish doing it against us? It's their last season in that stadium and what better way to mark the countdown to its destruction than to participate in ours? It would be a throwback weekend. Whitey Herzog, Tommy Herr, Cesar Cedeño and Vince F. Coleman could be called on to peel off the Bye-Bye Busch panels in the middle of every game just to remind us of what's happened to us there before. Think LaRussa, whose 2000 was ruined by us, wouldn't mind returning the favor?

At the risk of getting ahead of ourselves, we cannot afford to have these three western swings reveal themselves as Kryptonite the way they usually do — the way the Oakland-Seattle leg did, the way the first game in Colorado has. Salvation does not await in St. Louis. Thus, between tonight and September 8, we face nineteen absolutely critical tests far from Shea.

We cannot be shaken by time changes and unnatural altitudes and lengthy flights if we are serious about being less crappy than the other less crappy teams in this league. If the New Mets are, in the end, any different from their predecessors, they will strap it on and win games they would normally lose.

I never quite figured out how Lou Brown knew the Tribe would need exactly 32 more victories to make it to the finish line, but I'm gonna give his style of strategizing a shot. Here goes…

The Mets need to win at least ten of the nineteen road games they have remaining against the Rockies, the Astros, the Padres, the Dodgers, the Diamondbacks and the Giants. They will have to fly home from San Francisco on August 28 with a Dirty Thirty mark of 11-15. Call it a hunch, but if they can do that, they will have proven that they are a contender for September. If they cannot, that St. Louis series and the rest of the season will be a moot and bleak point.

Peel the first square tonight.

Well, it was fun waiting two extra hours for that.

I'd forgotten how insane this park is — shots flying to the gap like they're tennis balls, and just when you get used to that you get bled to death by loopers that drop right behind the infielders because the shell-shocked outfielders have retreated to Kansas. When we turned it on for that one inning, it sure looked like we were in for a 15-14 barn burner — hopefully one without Dante Bichette pumping his fist at 3 a.m., but I guess that was all we had in the tank. Oh, and I'm particularly bitter about not laying even a pinkie on the loathsome Mike DeJean, one player the home fans should be not just allowed but even encouraged to boo.

Here's hoping we get some Sherpas to take the boys back to their hotel rooms, they acclimate and come out looking a little more fierce tomorrow night. Though I keep reminding myself that it's Coors Field, and all our pitchers get a pass for most any misdeed committed here — even TMB or (gulp) Ishii.

Of course after these three we're headed to another pinball machine of a ballpark….

Joshua has fallen in love with the stuffed Sandy the Seagull Stephanie was kind enough to give him. (He insists on calling him “Sammy,” despite understanding that isn't his name — I'm think it's an homage to Casey Stengel.) So when he found out we were taking him to Keyspan yesterday to see the Cyclones, he was tremendously excited, chiefly because we assured him that yes, he would get to meet Sandy. (Interest in actual baseball is a bit more fitful, but it'll come.)

So we get in the park and Joshua wants to know where Sandy is. He sees him down on the field and wants to go down there that minute. No, I say, we can't meet him yet. But we'll try soon. After a brief sojourn in the bleachers, I take him into the main stadium, figuring I can intercept the mascot after one of his between-innings responsibilities. We go down behind home plate, just in time to see Sandy vanish down the tunnel. That's OK — it's a really hot day, we'll say hi when he comes out next inning. The security guy is very nice to us and lets us stay — in fact, he's happy to have us sit in the best seat in the house. The Cyclones cheerleaders are also very nice to us, chatting and admiring Joshua's PLAY BALL shirt. Sandy, they say, is having a bird bath. Time drags on, Joshua is getting fractious and wants his mom, so reluctantly I abandon our post and take him back to the bleachers. Lots of game left to play, we'll check in with the mascot later. On the way back to the bleachers we do run into Pee Wee, Sandy's pal. Pee Wee is great: He pretends to drink from Joshua's sippy cup, gives him a hug, slaps five with him. We see him again a few minutes later and Joshua is very concerned that Pee Wee is thirsty. Pee Wee instantly stops, remembers, pretends to drink again and hugs the kid, who's thrilled. (Pee Wee's kindness will soon prove important.)

But after a time in the bleachers, Joshua wants to meet his hero again — and from across the park I can see Sandy's returned from beneath the stands. This time Emily and her pal Brooke undertake the mission. They're gone like 20 minutes. When they return, Emily has spots in her cheeks and a gunfighter's glower. Uh-oh.

Turns out they'd gone back behind home plate and been nicely allowed to wait right outside the tunnel while Sandy attended to various giant-seagull duties. When Sandy turned their way, Emily got his attention, started to talk to Joshua — and the mascot tapped his big feathery wrist and strode right past them. “You should have seen Joshua's face,” Emily says, seething. Memo to the PR people of the world: You don't ever want to hear a kid's mother say that in that tone of voice.

Luckily, Joshua's young enough to be distracted: Ice cream and chatter about Pee Wee put him back in a good mood. Minutes later, he was happily thumbing through a Cyclones program pointing out pictures of Sandy and saying how much he loved him, and somehow that felt worse than the cold shoulder. I mean, I'd worried that Joshua might one day get a less-than-kind brush-off from some surly Met. I'd wondered how I'd explain it, and if I could ever root for that player again. But from a mascot? At two years old? I'm generally pretty cynical, but I never expected that.

Look, Sandy, I know you're busy. I know it must be hot as hell in there. I know maybe you see the mom with the camera and think it's gonna take too long, and maybe you're right. I know it's hard to see and you're not allowed to talk and that makes it harder. But Jeez, tousle the kid's hair, kiss him with your beak, then point at your wrist and touch your chest in apology. That would've taken, what, 10 seconds? And Joshua would have been so thrilled that I guarantee we'd be explaining why we can't go to the Cyclones every night. (We did get a picture of Joshua with Sandy when he was up in the concourse near game's end. I hovered nearby wondering what I'd do if my wife clocked a mascot. Not exactly a warm moment: In contrast to Pee Wee, the Seagull could barely be bothered to put his hands on Joshua's head. Emily was not mollified.)

During a summer internship a million years ago I dated the office receptionist. She kept getting in trouble for being rude to angry callers and thought this was unjust, complaining that “taking shit from people isn't my job.” She was pissed at me when I pointed out that, actually, that was about 90% of her job. If Sandy was rushing off to interrupt the countdown of a backpack nuke discovered underneath the stadium, then I apologize. (And good show, homes.) But failing that, I can't really imagine what duties a New York-Penn League mascot had that were more pressing than taking a moment to be nice to a little boy.

Alex Wolf is 1-0 lifetime at Shea Stadium. I'm 169-131 there, including the post-season, something I don't normally take into account when discussing my Log, but if the 1998 Yankees can claim 125 wins in one year (the regular schedule not nearly expansive enough to contain their self-aggrandizement), then I can stretch my truth just a bit. The point is, Sunday afternoon was my 300th game* that counted inside the big, blue thing. It was a personal statistical milestone for three reasons besides:

1) It was my tenth game of the year (6-4 in '05), marking the ninth straight season I've reached double-digits, eleventh time overall. It's been a rich, full life.

2) This was the first homestand in which I saw the Mets beat three different teams and not suffer a loss at all — one win apiece against Atlanta, San Diego and Los Angeles. Mr. Piazza homered in all three. And I resuscitated my 1997 ice cream cap for each game. If only all that mattered was lucky headgear…

3) At this moment and for the first time ever, I have a .500 or better record against every single National League opponent…except the loathsome Atlantans (12-20 when counting Game 3 of the 1999 NLCS). I have never held a winning mark versus the Braves; my best was 2-2 after a 4-3 victory on July 22, 1987. Lawdy, I hate them.

Today snapped a four-game losing streak to the Dodgers that I'd been schlepping around since 2001 (a schneid which culminated in another friend's son's far from auspicious debut) and brought me to 9-9 where they're concerned. The other night made it 7-7 against San Diego. So this homestand has been a real threading-the-needle experience in the land of Log.

I'm 12-9 against the American League at Shea — considering all Interleague foes as one jumble is the least unpleasant option vis-à-vis breaking out the records against each Junior Circuiteer, if you get my drift.

As for Game No. 300, it proved one of the most relaxing in recent memory, even given the exhilirating aftereffect of moving us to within 3-1/2 of first. Get a lead early and let Mr. Benson do the rest. It allowed me to talk Alex and his dad through any and all questions posed. Alex wanted to know what that was out there beyond right field (the Mets' bullpen); if home runs break car windows (not usually); and if that guy batting first for us was indeed the shortstop (he was). His dad was a little vague on the concept of pinch-hitting and how a pitcher gets credit for a win, but we covered that, too. They're both quick studies. Alex's mom told me she once got a pennant autographed by Tug McGraw, Tommie Agee and Cleon Jones at a store-opening. She also inferred the Dodgers were pretty lame today. I think I see where Alex gets his baseball bug from.

*It has come to my attention that the third game I ever attended, on June 28, 1975, was delayed by rain for nearly an hour-and-a-half at its start. I remember leaving, at my sister's behest (she was sure they wouldn't resume playing), during that delay but have always recalled the tarp coming out in the middle of the second inning, meaning I had to have witnessed at least a little of that affair. But what I'm remembering being stopped by the umpires, I now have to admit, was the Old-Timers Game that preceded the “real” game. That's what was interrupted by rain. Apparently I never saw any of the Mets-Phillies action in person that afternoon. The question then becomes, should it still count as part of my Log? In 1999, when you and I attended the twinight doubleheader in which Ventura hit two grand slams, we missed most of the opener. I decided then that as long as I see one pitch of a game, I can say I saw the game. Since that ruling came 24 years after the game I didn't see, I've decided 6/28/75 will remain on the books, grandfathered in prior to the '99 decision, as a game I went to. I did go to it, after all. Thus, today was indeed my 300th game, 169th win and I can continue to say — now and forever — that I was at Shea Stadium at least once when Randy Tate started. It's always been a point of pride for me. (I'm not a particularly prideful person.)

The Dodgers obviously haven't heard about our roll. That, coupled with San Diego's refusal to stay classy, allowed the Phillies to elbow us back into fourth. Plus, Clemens, the ol' evildoer himself, has Houston ahead of us for the Card that runs Wild. On the other hand, the Astros kicked Washington in the Nats; the Giants kept the clock ticking on McKeon; and Alex Cintron proved one dandy Diamondback (the Braves lost in the tenth a game they all but won in the ninth? Unpossible!). Ergo, we're still 4-1/2 back if not quite as roly-poly as we were Thursday afternoon when the world was our bag of oyster crackers.

This was a horrible, horrible game to not win. It was so much like lice, I said it twice. And really, we lost it twice. We lost it early when Victor didn't have it (no crime there, except for pitching to Kent) and we lost it later when after Beltran got us to within 6-5, Floyd, Wright and Piazza let Weaver off the hook on like five pitches. I have no witnesses, but after Zambrano left — shame on anybody who booed him and still calls him or herself a Mets fan — and Bell gave up the hit that made it 6-0, I muttered, “great, now we'll lose 6-5.” Sometimes the gift of clairvoyance is pretty annoying.

As is Merengue Night every year. I hate Merengue Night with a fiery passion. I have hated Merengue Night with a fiery passion going back to the second one. The Mets lost that night. Ya hear that, Gary Cohen? Mets PR Department? THE METS LOST ON MERENGUE NIGHT, 1998!

Sorry if I sound a bit cranky and irrelevant about this but every year Gary mentions this incredible record the Mets have posted on Merengue Night, particularly the first several, and it's just not so. I saw the press notes from which he derived this erroneous information a few years ago, so Jay Horwitz's staff isn't getting it right either. They listed the wrong date for 1998; I don't remember the date they listed but I do remember when Merengue Night actually was.

It was July 10, 1998. It was a complete Mets disaster. First off, it took place in that stretch of 1998 when almost every loss was a tear your hair out with your teeth debacle. The night before, for example, the Mets lost 9-8 in eleven; Todd Pratt was picked off second, I think, after delivering a pinch double. The game before that, right before the All-Star break, was the Angel Hernandez game. 'Nuf said.

Frustration was in the air. And the Expos were in the park. These were unvarnished Expos, not reconstituted 40% Natspos. In 1998, Montreal took eight of twelve from the Mets. The Mets finished one game behind San Francisco and Chicago for the Wild Card. The Expos' record that year was 65-97. You do the math. You think Mark Grudzielanek, Shane Andrews, F.P. Santangelo, Rondell White, Chris Widger and a couple of kids named Orlando Cabrera and Vladimir Guerrero cared that they were overmatched against the big, bad Mets?

Oui, right.

Not only were the Expos continually rising to the occasion of playing and beating the Mets but thanks to Felipe Alou, they had an unnaturally large following among New York's Dominican community, which was already sending a sizable contingent to Merengue Night. Music was the main attraction. Alou and his Dominican superstar-in-the-making rightfielder provided an opening act. And the Mets? To what must have been at least half the crowd, the home team was no better than a nuisance.

There I was, already in the throes of a bad summer of Mets-rooting. One night was more aggravating than the next. And in “my house,” I had to put up with oblivious, obnoxious strangers. Again. Two weeks after withstanding the initial invading force of Yankee fans, there were suddenly Expo fans, actual or de facto. A sizable portion of Shea was rooting against the Mets. And, worst of all, the Mets were playing to their interests by falling behind 4-0 and, after tying it in the sixth, 5-4.

The Mets fought back to take a 6-5 lead in the seventh, sparking some hope among the bare plurality that was under the odd impression that this was a Mets game. Silly us, we forgot our bandanas and flags. We came to root for the home team. But we were shouted down by Expo fans and, more gallingly, non-baseball fans. Forget what the paid attendance reads. The gates stayed open all night to accommodate a flood of showgoers. Not only did they have no interest in the game, they had no interest in finding their seats. By the ninth inning, the front row of loge reserved, where I sat, was no match for those who decided to ease on down to the field boxes for a good view of the post-game extravaganza. Those folks didn't bother with those messy ramps. They just streamed right down from the loge boxes, where blue practically meets orange, while the game was in progress.

While we poked our heads over the steadily flowing masses of Merengueans, John Franco was blowing the business at hand. Did I mention the game? Oh yes, that loss that never gets reported as part of Merengue Night lore. Leading 6-5 in the ninth, Johnny gave up three runs to the fothermucking Expos. As the Dominican flags waved in salute of the team from Canada, Uggie Urbina shut down New York in the bottom of the ninth. We lost 8-6.

The place went wild. Expos win! Merengue's starting! Mets lose their fifth in a row and ninth of their last eleven!

We didn't stay for the concert.

As my companion for the evening and I exited, turning our seats over to whoever was determined to take them, I seethed. Seethed like I never seethed before at Shea and only a few times anywhere else. In the dark concourse, I found the first thing available, an almost full bottle of Pepsi with its cap off and flung it as hard as I could at the side of a trash can. Like me, it exploded. Still cursing and still unsatisfied, I found a half-drunk cup of Budweiser. I lifted it above my head and slammed it to the ground. Most of it splashed on my pants. That cooled me off slightly, at least in terms of my instinct to raise the stakes and search out a bottle of Jack Daniels to destroy. Didn't make me feel any better though. My companion, who by this point in the evening would usually be reciting chapter and verse from his scorebook (“at least Wayne Kirby scored a run for me”) was frightened into silence. It was a good — good, being a relative term — ten minutes before he said a word to me, and when he did speak, it was to inquire into my well-being.

I attended three other Merengue Nights, all because the tickets were part of my or somebody's mini-plan. The Mets won all of them. The first one was against Sammy Sosa and the Cubs which was an even bigger sop to the Dominican community but we won, so I didn't care. The second one was secured by Timo Perez, who was cheered by all attendees given his background and uniform. By then, the Mets had established enough of an identity for themselves with New Yorkers of all heritages to be confident enough to have Merengue Night against some non-descript band of Marlins who weren't led by a Dominican icon.

Before the Mets had their first Merengue Night (which, if memory serves, came after the Mets split a doubleheader with the Dodgers in 1997, a harbinger of things to come in that Shea was packed with Dominican fans of Raul Mondesi and Korean fans of Chan Ho Park, with Mets fans of Mets from all over kind of left out), I'd never heard of the genre that was being celebrated. I have nothing against it musically. I have nothing against it culturally. I have nothing against people who seek it out.

But don't enjoy in the face of a Mets loss at Shea Stadium with so much enthusiasm seven years ago…and don't rewrite history to pretend it never happened. Because it did.

Boy, did it ever.

“If everybody doesn't write negative things about me, this will probably feel even better” — Kaz Ishii

Sorry, Ish. While everyone in the Kingdom of the Blue and Orange is extremely happy to see that “W” next to your name this morning, here comes some writing of negative things. Though you seem to have mostly gotten your wish: Many of the New York papers acted like you were the author of a masterpiece, when I saw a whole lot of errant brushstrokes on the canvas.

I mean, my goodness. Rick Peterson was out on the mound after just six pitches in the 1st. Then again in the 3rd. And the 5th. And for good reason: Five walks in six innings. Of 97 pitches, 49 were strikes and 48 were balls. In the first, Ishii sandwiched walks around a crucial double play — that came on a 2-1 pitch. (Way to work a count, Mark Loretta!) In the third, Loretta was once again in a giving mood, somehow managing to bunt into a double play with two on and none out. (And Ishii then promptly walked Brian Giles.) In the fifth, Eric Young (who'd walked on four pitches) ended the inning by getting caught stealing on a 2-0 pitch. (On the other hand, it was poor Loretta at the plate again.) And in the sixth, with one out and two on (one via a leadoff walk), Xavier Nady drove a 3-2 pitch to deep left — where Floyd made a terrific running catch.

Six innings, no runs — but absolutely everything went right for Ishii. If Loretta hadn't had the day from Hell, think about what the score might have been when Nady came to the plate. I think in a lot of parallel universes, Nady's drive goes over Floyd's head to make it Padres 6, Mets 5 — assuming Ishii's even still around.

That didn't happen, and of course I'm glad. Heck, I hope that W calms Ishii down and he presents us with a very interesting problem once Trachsel comes back — in the same way that the good Victor Zambrano seems to have conquered the bad Victor Zambrano and started trusting his excellent stuff. (Now let's get the poor man some runs.) But let's not fool ourselves that Ishii had a good outing — he danced through a thunderstorm and somehow came out dry. Sometimes it's better to be lucky than good, but a wise man doesn't count on it twice.

Administrative Note: Anonymous comments have been disabled, because I'm tired of deleting online-poker comment spam. Apologies for any difficulties this causes.

I've been cruising Retrosheet on party-pooper patrol.

Through 107 games in 1991, the Mets were 57-50, 5-1/2 out of first in the N.L. East.

Final record: 77-84.

Through 96 games in 1992, the Mets were 48-48, 4 out of first in the N.L. East.

Final record: 72-90.

Through 94 games in 1996, the Mets were 46-48, 4-1/2 out of the Wild Card.

Final record: 71-91.

Through 106 games in 2002, the Mets were 55-51, 4-1/2 out of the Wild Card.

Final record: 75-86.

Through 94 games in 2004, the Mets were 47-47, 3 out of first in the N.L. East.

Final record: 71-91.

In 1969, when we made the playoffs, we were 55-40 through 95 games.

In 1986, when we made the playoffs, we were 65-30 through 95 games.

In 1988, when we made the playoffs, we were 58-37 through 95 games.

In 1999, when we made the playoffs, we were 54-41 through 95 games.

In 2000, when we made the playoffs, we were 52-43 through 95 games.

Through 95 games in 2005, the Mets are 49-46, 4-1/2 out of first in the N.L. East and the Wild Card.

Just sayin'…

On the other hand, in 1973, when we made the playoffs, we were 42-53 at this point.

At heart, I'm no party-pooper.

If the Mets were in the National League West, they'd be a half-game out of first. And the commute home would be a bitch, so never mind. But we just did a pretty neat job of sweeping a first-place team on the back of the most foreboding pitching matchup since Heilman vs. Beckett.

This game of baseball — one never knows, do one? A blowout in your back pocket before three o'clock in the afternoon…at the expense of an All-Star starting pitcher, no less. It was a bad day for assumptions. It was a good day for the previously damned.

Ishii lives! (But if he misses the plane to Denver, that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.) Willie suggested Kaz got the start because he's had some success against the San Diegoites in the past. You mean that studying precedents and planning around them actually works?

Benito Santiago has abandoned his Norfolk post knowing that the backup catching juggernaut known as Ramon Castro is powerful and unyielding. He could use a blow, though. Maybe Piazza can fill in for Ramon for the next four days.

Ted Robinson told a sweet story about how a righteous Gerald Williams stood up for a callow Bernie Williams against a taunting Mel Hall in a tense clubhouse situation long ago. His “great teammate” attributes continue to trump his “washed-up” qualities where Willie (who witnessed the aforementioned morality play) is concerned. If the GW bridges some unseen gap between Mets and makes 12-0 wins possible, then I will cease mocking him as the human white flag of surrender. Until we lose four in a row.

The heretofore rusty Doug Mientkiewicz got well against some chump named Peavy…oh crap, we play them out there next month and I just provided him with bulletin board material. Go take it out on the Phillies, Padres. Then forget about us.

Thus unfurls the complexity of a league full of competitors. Today's enemy is tomorrow's ally. I have just rooted home Odalis Perez and the Dodgers in Philadelphia so we could touch down in third for the night. By the time the 5 o'clock whistle blows on Friday (and everybody's working for the weekend), Los Angelinos will be the objects of our disaffection. And, yes, we'll need those can't-dress-themselves Friars to cook on our behalf.

You stay classy, San Diego. And thanks for stopping by.