You get a shiver in the dark

It's been raining in the park, but meantime…

Know why I'm particularly happy that it was Chris Woodward who walked us off into victory Tuesday night? Because every time he comes to bat, Shea's P.A. plays a few notes from a Dire Straits song, usually 1979's “Sultans of Swing”. I'm not a Dire Straits fan per se (though “Sultans of Swing” is No. 480 on my Top 500 Songs of All Time list, “All Time” encompassing the years 1972 through 1999, but never mind that right now) nor is Mark Knopfler a personal hero of mine. I just like the idea that a 29-year-old ballplayer chooses something relatively ancient and probably obscure to the current generation of players as his theme. “Sultans of Swing” seems more suited to a middle-aged softballer. Or a relentlessly sedentary writer/editor/consultant. Or Gerald Williams.

Good on ya, ya erstwhile Torontoan, for giving us a shiver in the dark in the eleventh inning and for reaching back more than a quarter-century for your intro music. You make me feel so young. You make me feel there are games to be won, homes to be run and a wonderful fling to be flung especially when you, the Woodman, pinch-hit instead of Williams, the human white flag.

Last year, ESPN.com did as in-depth a study as anybody could ask for on which songs are requested by which ballplayers when they come to bat or the mound. As a Jay, Woody went for “anything by Creed”. Glad he switched.

If you've already forgotten how various 2004 Mets set the stage for their respective individual dramatic presences, Jason Phillips rocked you like a hurricane, Todd Zeile let it whip and Mike Stanton associated himself with the red, white and blue.

The flag awaits his apology.

A hit that ends a game at Shea, which by definition ensures a Mets win, is music to the eyes as well as all other senses because when the hitmaker gets to first, he generally raises an arm in the air and pumps a fist, just as Woodward did against the Padres. Ain't that fun? Ain't that joy in a kid's game? The rest of the time a batter who as much as smiles “better watch his step” lest he “violate” the “unwritten rules”. That's why almost all players effect the grim visage of investment bankers about to take a conference call even though they've just batted a baseball off the bottom of a scoreboard 430 feet away.

Last week, when Wright cracked his second homer against the Braves, there was a swelling demand for a curtain call. I knew we wouldn't see one. Diamond Dave is too cognizant of protocol and his single year of service time to acknowledge the crowd as early as the fourth. Too bad. One of the things that made the 1986 Mets so beloved by the fans was the way they stepped out of the dugout to wave their caps — anytime, anywhere for having done anything. No shyness about it. No worrying about how it looked, only how good it felt. The practice made the other team mad but our guys cared about us, not them. I've never understood why it's so wrong for ballplayers to demonstrate that kind of emotion as the rule and not the exception.

Imagine being a Major League Baseball player. You're living the life. You're being paid exponentially beyond anything approximating your or anybody's value to society. You get to run around baseball fields almost every day or night for six months in front of tens of thousands of people at a time, many of whom worship you, cheer you and wear garments with your name and number on the back. To top it all off, your employer will play a song real loud just for you. Not only should you express exuberance when you do something good, you should jump up and down and clap and go “WOO-HOO!” every couple of minutes just because.

That's what I did when Chris Woodward said thank you, good night, now it's time to go home.

The antithesis of the baseball team as an exercise in unpredictable ebullience can also be interpreted as the deadliest, most consistent winners we'll probably ever see in our lifetimes. In fact, we just saw 'em. See 'em again, if you dare, at Gotham Baseball.

I hope Alex gets a game that good — well, OK, it would be nice to have one not quite as long, and one played on a night not quite as much like an armpit or a stagnant aquarium in the sun. (New York City is really no place to be right now.) Weather aside, though, that was a good 'un. Heck, any game that ends with the guys wearing your colors clustered around home plate waiting to spring is, by definition, a good 'un.

Still, for a while it felt like a game on a treadmill, which I suppose is fitting for a season on a treadmill. Exactly how many times were we going to have a runner at second with one out and walk away with nothing? Exactly how many great relievers could the Padres run out of the bullpen? Exactly when was Trevor Hoffman going to come out and blitz us for God knows how many innings? (Thankfully, that never happened.)

While we're sort of on the subject, how terrible are the Padres' uniforms? In fact, have the Padres ever worn a uniform that isn't rub-your-eyes ridiculous? They change them every other year, spinning up the color wheel like crack-addled hamsters while the designs morph from godawful to uninspired and back, and not even by accident do they ever hit on something worth greeting with more enthusiasm than, “Well, I guess that's better than the old Padres uniform.”

I mean, we know bad uniforms. We started out OK (combining the Dodgers and Giants colors gave us an identity as a newborn expansion team, even if our infatuation with ol' Ebbets Field and Polo Grounds favorites served us poorly for a time), mucked things up with the wretched side stripe of the 1980s, banished that only to usher in the thankfully short-lived METS with a tail (which can be seen, for some unfathomable reason, on minor-leaguer Jim Burt's 2005 Bowman card), and then unleashed sartorial hell, with the ice-cream caps probably the low point. Now the classic pinstripes are hardly ever seen, and we're usually screwing up the fairly cool black unis by wearing them with that awful blue-billed cap. If there's any rhyme or reason to when we'll be wearing black or snow white or pinstripes, it certainly escapes me. If I had my say, things would be simple and predictable: Home rotation would be pinstripes as the norm, black on the weekends, snow white on holidays, no blue bills ever. Road would be grays as the norm, black on the weekends and holidays. There. Was that so hard?

But compared to the Padres we look positively classic. Shudder.

Speaking of shuddering, I'm beginning a tiresome and probably futile campaign of complaining about the dead roster spots occupied by Mister Koo and Danny Graves. Koo couldn't manage to get any lefties out, which is his only purpose for being on the team, and was only saved from disaster by a lucky roll up Piazza's arm that deposited the ball in perfect throwing position for Mike to nail Dave Roberts on what sure looked like a lazy call at second. (Jose tagged the immediate space around Roberts' various limbs repeatedly, but I'm not sure he actually got the runner.) As for Graves, well, it would be cruel to state the obvious. Why, oh why, can't we see Ring as the lefty specialist? I don't much care who replaces Graves. OK, not Mel Rojas or Rich Rodriguez, but other than that I'm open to anything.

And why in the name of James Baldwin and Scott Erickson is Ishii getting another start? Augghhh!

On the other hand, there was David Wright batting ahead of Piazza in the batting order. About time — let's hope it lasts longer than the Jose Reyes Bats Seventh experiment. Braden Looper managed to avoid the dreaded Closer's Second Inning debacle. Kris Benson was masterful. And Chris Woodward, well, he sent us all home happy.

Hi Alex,

My name is Greg. My wife Stephanie and I are looking forward to meeting you on Sunday. We've heard a lot about you. It's hard to believe you're about to turn eight and this will be the first time we'll be seeing you. Perhaps you've heard grown-ups use the expression “time flies.” Well, it's true.

Your dad and I worked together a long time ago before you were born. When you came along, we sent your parents a Mets uniform for you to wear, one you've long since outgrown. At that time, I told your dad that one of these days we hoped to go to a Mets game with you.

That day will be Sunday. It won't be just any game. It will be your first baseball game. First for you, first for your brother Zack. We are honored to be a part of such a big event.

Your dad is a great guy. He hired me for my first full-time job and we became friends and have stayed friends ever since. The only thing your father and I didn't share was a love of baseball. He's not a baseball fan, but I'm sure you don't hold that against him. I know I didn't. Everybody has different interests. Guys like you and me really like baseball. Your dad says you're quite the shortstop. I'm impressed! That's a very important position. I was never much of a player myself, but I'm a pretty big fan, especially of the Mets. Your dad knows that and asked me if I wouldn't mind sending you some information about my favorite team before you go to your first game. I said I'd be happy to do so.

I'm not sure how much you already know about the Mets. Your dad says you know Mike Piazza. That's a good place to start. Mike Piazza is the best-hitting catcher there's ever been in baseball. He's getting older now and isn't as good as he used to be but he's still able to win a game with a big home run every now and then. He did that last week against Atlanta. I was at that game and it was very exciting.

The Mets' shortstop, the guy who plays your position, is Jose Reyes. He's very young for a Major League ballplayer. He just turned 22. He had some problems early in his career avoiding injuries but this year so far, he's stayed healthy. He's shown great ability to get to balls that are hit to his right and he steals a lot of bases. I think you'll like watching him play. He's my favorite Met on the team right now.

Another really good young player is David Wright. He's the third baseman. He's also 22. David is going through what almost all young players go through, something called growing pains. He has good games and he has bad games. Sometimes he has them at the same time. He's also worth watching.

The Mets have three very talented outfielders. The left fielder is a veteran named Cliff Floyd. He's the Mets' biggest home run hitter. He's hit more than 20 this year which is a high total. As a fielder, he's made some terrific catches. You can say the same for Carlos Beltran, a very good centerfielder. He came to the Mets before this season and got the fans very excited because he had been a very good player for Kansas City and Houston. So far, he hasn't been that great for the Mets but even when he's not at his best, he helps them win. He can hit for power and run very fast. I think he'll be better in the second half of the season than in the first. The rightfielder is Mike Cameron. He's what you might call a team player because he used to play center but moved to right to make room for Beltran. He's had his slumps this year, but he hustles in the field and has good speed, too.

I don't know who will be playing first base and second base on Sunday. The Mets have had a lot of injuries at those positions. That's why you need a good bench. The Mets have been lucky to get two reserve players (your coach might call them subs) to fill in: Marlon Anderson and Chris Woodward. They've been the most surprising players on the team this year. Surprising in a good way, that is.

The pitcher who gets to start the game is decided by what is known as a pitching rotation. That means the pitcher who starts the game gets to do so, basically, because it's his turn. Sometimes the rotation changes but if it doesn't, you'll probably see Kris Benson pitch. He throws hard and has had a good season. If he can't pitch all nine innings — most starting pitchers don't — the manager, Willie Randolph, will select from among six or seven relief pitchers. Who he uses to pitch will depend on how the Mets are doing in the game and what point of the game it is.

You may have heard of Pedro Martinez. He's the Mets' best pitcher. He is a lot of fun to watch. It probably won't be his turn on Sunday but I would suggest that the next time he is pitching that, as long as it's OK with your mom and dad, you watch the Mets on TV. He knows where to throw the ball where the batters can't hit it. Not every pitcher can do that, but Pedro can.

Those are the main players on the Mets. I can't promise they'll all play but probably most of them will. If you're curious about any other players on Sunday, I'll try to answer your questions.

As for where you're going to be on Sunday, the Mets play in Shea Stadium which is in New York City — in Queens, to be exact. Shea was built more than 40 years ago specially for the Mets. The Jets used to play football there, too, but moved to New Jersey where you live more than 20 years ago. Now it's used only for baseball and maybe a few concerts. (Your dad and I were going to see one there once but we had to work and couldn't go.)

There are newer ballparks in other cities but Shea has what is known as character. That's a nice way of saying it is old but it can also mean it stands out from other stadiums. What gives Shea character? For one thing, it has a lot of color. The seats are orange, blue, green or red depending on where you sit (we'll be sitting in green seats). The outfield fence is blue as is the outside of the stadium. If the game is good and the sun is out, it becomes a very exciting place to watch a game. It can be a little loud at times because the people who run the ballpark like to play music and stuff over the loudspeaker when the game isn't going on. Character also means that when you go there, you are reminded of the good things that have happened there before. If you look at it that way, Shea Stadium has a lot of character.

Your dad also asked me to let you know a little about the Mets' history. Well, the Mets were born the same year I was, in 1962. They were what is known as an expansion team. The National League, the league they play in, needed a team in New York because New York was the biggest city in the United States and the two teams the league had in New York, called the Giants and the Dodgers, left the city a few years earlier to move to California. (The Los Angeles Dodgers are who the Mets will be playing on Sunday.) The Mets took their colors from those two teams — blue from the Dodgers and orange from the Giants — and formed a new team. The idea was to get those old fans to come see them but also get new fans interested.

The Mets weren't very good at first. Actually, Alex, they were pretty bad. People called them the Amazin' Mets as kind of a joke. But that made their fans like them even more. Sometimes people like to root for a team that isn't all that good because they know when that team gets good, it will make winning that much better. And you know what? That's exactly what happened. In 1969, after the Mets had been so bad for so long, they got very good and won the world championship. Then they were called the Miracle Mets. That's when I became a Mets fan and I stuck with them after that no matter how they did. Sometimes they were very good. Sometimes they were very bad. But I always liked them and always rooted for them. They were my team. They still are.

The Mets won another world championship in 1986 and have been in two other World Series, in 1973 and 2000. Since 2000, they've had some bad seasons, but they seem to be improving this year and I think they'll have better luck next year and the year after. To be honest, I would believe that even if I didn't think so. There was a Mets player many years ago named Tug McGraw. In 1973, when the Mets were in last place, Tug came up with a saying: You Gotta Believe. Everybody listened and the Mets finished in first place. It's a saying Mets fans live by to this day. Really, all it means is that if you're going to be a Mets fan, you should never give up hope, not during a game or during a season. You gotta believe that the Mets can come back and win.

I've been lucky enough to have gone to hundreds of baseball games since I was a kid, not only at Shea Stadium but all over the United States and even in Canada. Every time I go, I feel happy. I don't always feel happy when the game is over, especially when the Mets lose, but there is something very special about going to a baseball game. You'll see why on Sunday. You'll see the colors and hear the noise and cheer and clap and maybe eat a hot dog (check with your mom) but mostly you'll go home with a memory that you can't get anywhere else.

And there's another thing. You will be a part of history. This game between the Mets and the Dodgers will go into the record books. You'll be able to look the date up online and see that it really took place, that you weren't just imagining it. That may sound silly right now. You know you're going to the game, why would you have to look it up? You'd be surprised at how much stuff a person forgets as he gets older. The details of your first game might become hard to remember, but the record books will show it really happened. You'll be able to look it up and point to it and tell anybody, “hey, that was my first baseball game, my first Mets game, the first game I went to with my mom and my dad and my little brother. I was there at Shea Stadium in New York on July 24, 2005.” And when you do, you gotta believe that that will be pretty cool.

Like with most things in life, Alex, baseball is something you need to experience for yourself to know how good it really can be. That's why your folks are taking you and Zack on Sunday. That's why we'll be there to meet you. We can't wait. See you then.

All the best from your fellow Mets fan,

Greg

It's a long way from Brooklyn Heights to Keyspan Park. It's even longer when you decide that in order for the journey to count, you should really start from the “Welcome to Manhattan” sign 2/3 of the way across the Brooklyn Bridge. And it's longer still when you decide that, what the hey, it'd be quicker to get to that sign by walking across the bridge from Brooklyn, then turning around. And while 100% humidity doesn't make distance longer, it sure makes it feel that way.

Oh, and the Cyclones game? Started an hour late, then was suspended in the fourth inning. When the tarp came out for the second time, Pete and I had no debate over the proper course of action. “This ain't no playoff game,” I said, and we were gone as fast as our wet, swollen, possibly damaged feet could carry us. (Which wasn't very.)

There are some things that make distance seem shorter, though. Like beating the tar out of your personal tormentors, 8-1. Like Pedro Martinez authoring a low-speed masterpiece and hitting the shower early because this one was safe and we'll need him later. Like having Eddie Coleman and Gary Cohen for company in one ear as one Brooklyn neighborhood slowly turns into another. And better yet, there were Met fans in those neighborhoods. The guy on the northern edge of Midwood who took our picture was wearing a Met cap and beamed when I pointed at it and said we were up 4-0. (“Against the Braves?” he asked. I wondered why the heck he couldn't be sitting on a bench on Ocean Parkway with a radio, but hey, not everybody can be Superfan.) Later, pushing through Gravesend, a man went by on his bicycle, transistor radio strapped to the handlebars, giving me Eddie and Gary in momentary Doppler studio. It wasn't until we were at Keyspan that I heard about Leiter and his rejuvenation. (Which didn't bother me one bit: A Marlin got traded to the AL team in town, whoop-de-doo. Though I gotta say Al did look good in that uniform.)

An 8-1 win makes every glass of .500 seem half-full, but I was relieved to hear Gary Cohen — not one for sugarcoating things — pooh-pooh the idea that a split in July was something to fret about, and to include the Mets in his list of talented teams that could have a run in them. Gary didn't say this, but he seems to expect the Mets to put that run together. You keep waiting for it, too. And so does Willie Randolph.

That makes three smart guys expecting this franchise to clear the cobwebs and go on one of those 14-3 tears that makes a season look a whole lot different, while I — the perennial doubter, the thrower of towels, the wanna-be trader of Hall of Fame catchers — walk to Coney Island in the rain. Here's hoping there's an obvious lesson in that, even if it is at my expense.

And whaddya mean there's no game tomorrow?

There are worse things than being a .500 ballclub. For one thing, when you continually find yourself one below, you are continually given chances to climb back to .500 and then can continually hold out hope that you will inch one above .500. It gives you something to shoot for and allows you to have humility, which comes from being humble and not having Humber.

You can also take comfort in the notion that a win is never more than a day or two away. Losing too many robs you of hope. Winning makes you take it for granted.

I guess we're just right.

In terms of competitive alignment, maybe we've been looking at this all wrong. I keep thinking we're just about to get on the roll that will put us well beyond .500 and turn us into the team that won't be caught. Maybe what's going to happen is we'll just keep chugging along a win and a loss at a time while everybody else in the East suffers the one big meltdown that each of them is due. Then, as they all sink below us, we'll be the team that can't be passed. Right now, that's probably as good a shot as we have to win — or not lose — this thing.

Credit Eddie Coleman with the line of the year in the bottom of the fourth. With the Mets far ahead but rain threatening to render the whole matter unofficial, the precipitation suddenly ceased. Maybe, Eddie speculated, Pedro simply put his hands up and made it stop.

So today we go for the split. Which is to say, we go for the right to tread water at .500 again. With four more days off the calendar. Like I said a couple of days ago, a split here is like being on death row and the governor doesn't call: You're not dead, but you sure are closer to it. And, of course, Pedro might lose 1-0. So the choice today is between “we lost 3 of 4; time to sell off saleable pieces with an eye on 2006” and arguing about whether or not it's late enough that we should sell off saleable pieces and look to 2006. Oh boy!

Meanwhile, Philip Humber is getting a second opinion on his elbow. Met doctors say he needs surgery. I'm confident the second opinion will be “there's nothing wrong with this fine young man's elbow that a couple of Nuprin wouldn't fix — in fact, you should send him to the Show immediately!” Ha ha! (Last year the docs really would have said that, only to admit a few months later that they'd looked at the wrong elbow.) I think I just heard the sound of eight million dollars being flushed down the Tommy John. But wait, you say: Lots of young prospects have that procedure. Why, some of them even come back with extra oomph on their fastballs, or crazy movement they never had before. Yeah, but most of them don't. Most of them don't come back at all. Hope we read about you in 2007, Phil.

Getting back to the dismal present, could we please end the Danny Graves experiment? Or at least relocate it to Norfolk? Nothing against Mr. Graves, who seems a decent young man liked by his teammates and all that, but, well, um, he can't pitch. He finished May with an ERA of 7.36 and since then has managed to raise it to 7.85, which is hard to do. Surely there are things about Juan Padilla or a bullpen-bound Kaz Ishii that we could learn instead of amassing more evidence that Danny Graves is a dead roster spot.

My pal Pete and I hit upon the preposterous idea of walking to Keyspan Park today, so we're off on our Brooklyn sojourn. Where are the Mets trudging to, and how long will it take them to get there? I'm no longer willing to even hazard a guess.

The less said about Saturday night, the better, with the exception being another round of pat-on-the-back, don't-hang-your-head, go-get-'em-next-time kudos for Victor Zambrano. He's only gotten to live up to his name four times all year despite pitching like a victor (not to mention a new man) for the last two months. Hey Mets lineup, are those bats in your pocket or are you just unhappy to see him? Take out your wood and starting whacking home some runs for him. In fact, don't wait for Zambrano's next start. Act now.

Think about the wonderful starting pitching we've gotten the first three nights of the second half and try to figure out why we've derived only one win out of it. Don't think about it too much, though. You'll not want to face another dawn.

Now it's up to Pedro. It's always up to Pedro, isn't it? We wouldn't have it any other way in these circumstances even if we'd rather it not come to this. We'd rather Mr. Martinez be asked to put an exclamation point on a four-game statement, not erase the same aggravating question marks that always seem to pour down in buckets on our heads after these Brave abominations. Whatever symbol is called for, Punctuatin' Pedro will know what to do.

It was said during the winter that Pedro Martinez was, in effect, replacing Al Leiter in the Met rotation. Al won 10 games for a lousy club last year. Pedro won 16 for an eventual world champion. Al's ERA was almost seven-tenths of a run lower than Pedro's. Those who can't stand for any of us to be happy scoffed that given the numbers, it wasn't much of a tradeup. These were the same people who wrote off the opposable thumb as just another finger.

As Leiter attempts to resuscitate his career back where it all began (who else wants to bet that “in my heart of hearts, I've never taken off the pinstripes” will be uttered in some form or fashion by the Senior Senator from the State of Self-Absorption?), Pedro is tasked with saving our season…again. There isn't that much left to save, but a split with the Braves is a lot better for morale than losing three of four, especially if the final two come at the hands of pitchers — particularly Hampton (ptui!) — who had been disabled until five minutes before their first pitch.

This is a job for Pedro Martinez. He's going on six days' rest and avoided that trip to Detroit. He's our man. If he can't do it, no one can. But make no mistake about it, he's ourman. Not everybody's caught on to that inconvenient little reality.

In Saturday's Times, a generally good columnist named Harvey Araton genuinely offended every fiber of my being with the suggestion that Pedro is in the wrong place at the wrong time. His point was that the “best rivalry in sports,” between the first- and third-place teams in the American League Eastern Division, which of course is the axis upon which the world — never mind baseball — spins on, was better when Martinez was at the center of it. OK, as far as that goes, but Araton would reverse the events of the past eight months altogether in the name of saturation:

I miss Pedro. I wish he were here, still pitching for the Red Sox, who foolishly let him escape to the Mets, or for the Yankees, who stupidly spurned his advances.

Maybe Araton still wishes he were writing for the Daily News, which devotes most of its sports pages, a chunk of its news hole and an occasional Thersday feature to Red Sox-Yankees, Part LXXXVI. Regardless of where he works, the important thing the writer stumbled across is the need to embellish “the best rivalry in sports.” Why are we selfishly holding onto our ace when he could be doing the only organizations that matter some good? Let's get Pedro Martinez to Fenway tonight. He can pitch alternating innings for both clubs.

Better yet, how about Bud Selig declares a periodic draft of the best players from the 28 MLB also-rans so the elite two can fill in their respective trouble spots as warranted? Albert Pujols would look awfully good in a Yankee or Red Sox uniform…Miguel Tejada would look awfully good in a Yankee or Red Sox uniform…Jake Peavy would look awfully good in a Yankee or Red Sox uniform…see? It's easier than thinking!

It's not our problem that Boston is reduced to hiring distasteful, overgrown urchins like David Wells to take starts while its formerly imperious foe runs its rotation like Bob Barker. Sean Henn, come on down! Tim Redding, come on down! Al Leiter, come on down! More Gong Show than The Price is Right, really.

The Mets' guess was on the nose when they signed Pedro Martinez. He's better off with us (and us with him) than trapped in somebody else's tired storyline.

Can't add much to the “good defeat” concept except that there's no such thing even though I get what you mean.

There's nothing to overreact to from Friday. I came reasonably close to calling Glavine “Tom” for the first time when he escaped one jam or another. Despite that unlikely flirt with familiarity, I wouldn't overreact that he's come around once and for all, but he did his part in this Brave-on-Brave pitchfest and for that I am grateful. I noticed after he had an easy first, he stopped to ask the home plate ump something. Was he told, “No, we're not giving that outside strike anymore”? If that's what he learned, may he continue to use that knowledge for good.

Gary Cohen called David Wright a Brave killer after he hit his homer. He has nine in his one-year career against them. He and Howie were all “about freaking time we have one of those.” When he launched his deep fly ball in the ninth, I thought it had to go out. He's a Brave killer, right? If it were Chipper or Burrell or Preston (hello, hello again) against us, it would have. We just don't have our intradivisional killer instinct up to speed yet. It will come. Wright?

We should, however, fire the entire grounds crew. Pebble? A pebble!? Let me get this straight: You have one job — to make the field playable. This isn't “your job is to go out and try to hit a 95 MPH heater from Brad Lidge.” You could try your best to do that and likely fail. That's acceptable. This is dozens of men versus an minute but visible inert object. How could the pebble emerge victorious? Why are we buying dirt with pebbles anyway? How can an organization paying $100 million in salaries and taking in who knows how much from us eight different ways not be assigning an intern to pick out pebbles before they nearly kill our shortstop?

On the out-of-town scoreboard, Ex-Met, Ex-Brave and Eternal Yankee Mike Stanton balked in the losing run for the Nationals in Milwaukee. Hasn't been a particularly good month for the lefty law firm that used to run our clubhouse.

And in the there's no need to embellish it department, the MLB Game Break Thursday night on DiamondVision wasn't an update on Marlins-Phillies or Yankees-Red Sox but Tigers-Royals.

With nothing left to curse at except the standings, let's turn our attention to one name that encompasses three men of the moment. The Password is Rafael. Betty White, why don't you start us off?

Furcal: Why isn't he in jail? Doesn't drunk driving mean anything in Georgia? There's a debt to society that he still needs to fulfill. I'd suggest 19 days a year of community service, two of those days this weekend. Somebody at least cuff him to the bench because he is, all due respect to Andruw Jones and Johnny Blue Jeans and Old Man Franco and Kelly Johnson (he should really see a urologist about that), the most dangerous Brave in their lineup and on the field. He's Jimmy Rollins, Alex Gonzalez and Jamey Carroll bundled into one explosive, bite-size package. He is Beyond Chipper as a Met menace. To use a Jim Hainesism, boy is he hateful.

Palmiero: Congratulations to the most obscure apparently great player of this generation on attaining his 3,000th hit; I'd say that in the second-person but I'm thinking he's not celebrating his milestone with a late-night surf of Mets blogs from a hotel suite in the Pacific Northwest. If you were to airlift his numbers and deposit them in the middle of the 1920s and '30s, we'd just assume he was one of the greats of all time — unless he wasn't a Yankee, because they define baseball. 17-1 twice in the same season! That's hysterical!. That it never occurred to any of us that we were watching a living legend these past two decades is our problem. Palmiero's Cooperstown-bound even if it's a crime that he's not joining Gil and Keith in the first basemen's wing.

Santana: The Mets' ever helpful e-mail bombardment has notified us that Lenny Dykstra and Rafael Santana will be rocking FanFest Saturday night. I imagine only those who can't hack the queue for Nails (who will autograph all currency you win from him via impromptu games of chance) will seek out Ralphie. To anybody who's going, do me a favor and show the day-in, day-out shortstop of the greatest team in franchise history a little love. My family adored Rafael Santana. My mother named a stuffed dog after him. When the Mets unveiled their most Amazin' Moments in 2000, the only two players for whom I couldn't contain my glee beyond mere standing ovations were Willie Mays (who must've gotten paid a fortune to attend) and Rafael Santana. In a foreshadowing of things to come, the very first phone call Howie Rose ever took on Mets Extra, before the 1987 title defense began, was “the Mets need to replace Santana.” Howie and I each had our sensibilities ruffled. I just liked the guy and the way he didn't screw up across parts of four seasons and one post-season. It was a big deal when he was traded to the Yankees after '87 (opening the door for all-hat, no-cattle Kevin Elster to disappoint greatly) and of course I mourned his new business address. But even that worked out well because a young intern who worked in the Yankees' front office in the summer of '88 obtained a game-used Rafael Santana model Louisville Slugger. Through the actions of my very thoughtful friend Richie, that very bat sits inches from my desk at all times, including now. The pine tar that's dried along the handle, I've been assured, was applied by Ralphie himself while he was still Met property. I don't believe it for a second, but I appreciate the assurance.

Ya gotta be careful with the idea that there's such a thing as a good defeat, because the next morning you're looking at what that meant in the standings and in time off the calendar, and suddenly it's awfully hard to see the good. But still, I shut off the TV a few minutes after all was said and done and felt like I could hold my blue-and-orange head high. (On the other hand, if I heard the “Surrender” song from that Absolut ad one more time, my frontal lobe was likely to implode.)

Great ballgame. We didn't do anything wrong except be the ones in the field when a ground ball hit a pebble. I even found myself cheering Tom Glavine, though maybe “exhorting” is a better word for what I was barking at The Manchurian Brave. First came the fifth, with Francoeur on third, McCann on first (by the way — who are these guys?) and Smoltz at the plate with one out. In so many previous games against the Braves, Smoltz would have blooped a hit or worked a walk or somehow added one more straw worth of Braves-Mets horror to the pathetic, splintered collection of camel vertebrae that is our collective psyche. (I can see Jay Payton getting thrown out at third as I type. And Brian Jordan connecting against Benitez. And Gerald Williams trotting home. And Shinjo positioned wrong in the outfield. And, and, and…) In so many previous Glavine starts, he would have found a way to lose right there. “Come on, Tommy!” I was shouting. “Don't you fuckin' give in! You can do this! You can become one of us!” And let the record show that he didn't give in.

And again in the sixth. Furcal on third with one out, Giles, Andruw and Julio Franco coming up, and we all knew the script. Time for some play not made, a couple of doubles, a Glavine exit and us for mutter that that 8-2 loss was a pretty decent game until it came apart in the sixth. Only Glavine, once again, refused to fold.

Ditto for the eighth, with Roberto making a terrific play on Franco's hard comebacker to get us out of trouble — at least until Wilson Betemit hit a ground ball with evil intent. Then, of course, it was our turn to hit into ya-gotta-be-kidding-me double plays. It was great to see Jose Reyes come out with his split finger and single off Kolb to get us started — at least for the five seconds before Cameron hit a Baltimore chop that somehow turned into a DP. Just as Cliff Floyd's leadoff single off Reitsma in the ninth was hard-won and clearly marked the turning of the tide, as did the hard smash Piazza sent up the middle — right to Marcus Giles. Of course David Wright hit the final pitch of the game 356 feet to a part of the park that's 358 feet deep. How could it have ended any other way?

Good defeat. Nothing to be ashamed of. Someone had to win, just wasn't us. My head's held high.

Remind me of all that when I look at the standings tomorrow.

Know The Score. Literally. If a game is over and you are wearing the sacred NY on your person, be prepared to inform the inquiring passerby. There's no better feeling than being able to answer, “Mets won 6-3. Benson got the win. Wright hit a homer. Beltran got three hits.” If the result is not so felicitous, make one up that is. You're never gonna see that nosy jerk again anyway.

—The Greg Commandments

The shame is nobody asked me the score on my way home. Nobody gave me a chance to explain that although Benson got no-decisioned, Wright dinged twice and Beltran went 4-for-4, the actual score matched the hypothetical example presented Thursday afternoon.

That, however, is the only shame to come out of Thursday night and it is a shame with which I can easily live.

Jock Soto, eat your heart out. Our principal dancer has yet to yield the stage. This, too, is the stuff I'm talking about.

Mr. Floyd made yet another amazing catch, tumbling and descending into one of those Shea left field voids wherein if you don't hold onto the ball, you're sucked into a black hole in which Wes Westrum is forever haranguing himself, Gus Mauch is pouring jars of pickle brine into a vat and Mark Bradley is loping after singles in an effort to turn them into triples. If it weren't for the abandoned KINGMAN FALLOUT ZONE sign, the half-filled applications for the all-new 1998 Mets Mastercard from MBNA and, of course, the beefiest feral cats you ever saw, you wouldn't have a clue regarding your former whereabouts.

But Cliff hung on, so it was OK. So did Looper. That's LOOOOOO, to everybody in Section 9. Not BOOOOOO. I mean, yeah, I understand, but c'mon. Don't make me read you the rules again.

Good night to be a Mets fan, to be among Mets fans, to meet a Mets fan. Good night all around.

Mets won 6-3. Did I mention that?