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?

It was 1998. Bobby Cox threw everybody but Chief Noc-a-Homa at us to throttle our desperate bid for a wild-card spot. Mike Piazza, booed at Shea after his roundabout trip from L.A. to New York via Miami, seemed destined to head elsewhere. Our final memories would be seeing him standing helplessly at the dugout rail in enemy territory as we breathed our last.

Blaine Boyer, meanwhile, was 17 years old, playing baseball for the Raiders of Walton High in Marietta, Ga. Brave country, don'tcha know. Fannypacks under spare tires and plenty of seats come playoff time.

Fast-forward seven years to a sultry night at Shea, the second half of the 2005 season, a crucial four-game set against those same Atlanta Braves. Win three of four or (salt thrown, wood knocked) sweep and we'd be back in the wild-card race, to say the least. Lose three of four or (salt thrown, wood knocked) get swept and for all intents and purposes it would be 2006. Split and it'd be days on death row without the governor calling — not technically fatal, but still four days closer to a last meal.

I wound up dipping in on via handheld radio at odd intervals, my presence demanded elsewhere by the departure of a longtime colleague. When I left the house, Kris Benson had sent every Brave to arrive at home plate back the way he'd come. It was early, Mets up 1-0, but on TV O'Brien and Seaver weren't shy to point out what Benson had done, or rather hadn't done. Could I leave with perfection possibly in the cards? (I know, I know. If your team had gone a billion years without a no-hitter, you'd think silly things too.) I could leave. I had to leave. In the subway I was thinking about how I'd just idly wondered if the first Met to pitch a no-hitter was on the roster. I let myself imagine the amazed comments, the joking requests for more psychic powers, how it would all be utterly predictable and totally, giddily glorious.

Except that as I dashed up and down the stairs from the A platform to the concourse to keep a faint signal audible, something had gone wrong. A Brave had reached base somehow. Cairo was involved. No matter. Clearly an error. And that's fine. Unseemly to demand too much from the baseball gods.

Um, no. When I emerged from the A train in lower Manhattan scant minutes later, the score was tied at 1. So much for history. So much for my psychic powers. As I arrived for the farewell party, Wright made everything OK with his second dinger of the night. It wasn't Fran's night, but damned if it didn't sound electric at Shea.

Then came the bad-luck part. Somehow, during the next few innings, I developed an uncanny sense of bad timing, typified by my tuning in just in time to hear Benson throw a 3-1 pitch to Adam LaRoche. Auggh! No! (Months earlier I flipped on the radio in this same bar to hear what would turn out to be the lone hit against Aaron Heilman. I apologize to both pitchers.) And Estrada had been on base because of Wright's error. Too cruel. 3-2 Braves. Too cruel! In the race between David Wright's future and David Wright's present, the present seemed to be winning.

But wait! Wright draws a walk! And he's on third with just one out! Miguel Cairo, professional hitter, missed by the Yankees, semi-incumbent second baseman, just has to hit a sac fly to tie things up. But no, he can't manage to do that. Now we're relying on Jose Offerman with two out. Jose Offerman who's been a marvelous pinch-hitter, but is still, well, Jose Offerman. Iron-gloved, cusses at the media folk, surely has used up the luck in his veteran bat. We're asking too much of him, aren't we?

Nope. Tie game. I should really stop thinking, saying and writing bad things about Jose Offerman. (Meanwhile, on the bench, Brian Daubach starts pondering apartments in Norfolk.)

Sad to say (in safe retrospect), I missed the worm turning for David Wright with that unassisted double play on the suicide squeeze. Really it's just as well, because my heart might well have stopped. But I had the earbud in for the bottom of the eight, when Mr. Boyer and Mr. Piazza got acquainted. Which, as everybody knows by now, is the heart of the matter.

0-1 pitch, one out, two on. The world has contracted until it's me and the sound in my right ear. Boyer throws a 93-mph, high fastball that Piazza's late on. It's a meatball, the kind of ball the Piazza of '98 or '01 or '03 would have turned into confetti. I know it, and Howie Rose acknowledges as much, noting that's the best pitch Mike's likely to see and the kind of pitch that once upon a time he would have hit hard and far. But not anymore. Not tonight. Howie sounds genuinely sad to find himself the one saying it. I find myself begging that Mike won't hit into a double play, that Wright will get a chance. And I shake my head that it's come to this, that the best I can do, when Mike Piazza is at the plate, is root for something bad not to happen.

And then, with an 0-2 count, Boyer tries to throw another meatball past the old man, the hobbled catcher, #31 who's trying to adjust to a bat that's slower, a swing that's longer and later. It's a battle no hitter ever wins — there's only one outcome possible, and the only question is at what point everyone acknowledges the day has arrived.

CRACK!

That day is coming for Mike Piazza. In fact, it's coming quickly. But it is not this day.

In December 1981, Dick Enberg broadcast a Saturday afternoon football game between the New York Jets and the Cleveland Browns all by his lonesome. Usually he was partnered with Merlin Olsen, but NBC thought it would be a draw to hype it as a single-announcer affair. (A year earlier the network tried one with no voices, just graphics.) Olsen was shooting a TV movie and he came on in the second half via satellite to ask Enberg how it was going. Professing distress, Enberg begged Father Murphy to come back because “this is hard!”

In that vein, glad to have you back…back to the blog, back in your house, back to the season. I'm very glad to have baseball that counts (I mean really counts) back, too. Looks like we're gonna make it through the 99-hour drought after all.

Weather permitting, I'm going to the game tonight which I'm looking forward to a great deal since I'll be joining an old friend and am slated to meet up with a new friend. If any of the Mets want to be friends to the fans, they'd be advised to take tonight's game. I don't believe in getting ahead of ourselves, so I won't say “take three out of four,” but you can infer what you like. I also don't believe in the Braves getting ahead of ourselves.

As for other beliefs and non-beliefs, so happy you asked. I have a few suggestions that will ensure better rooting all around. Call it a second-half manifesto for the Mets fan who wants to be the best possible Mets fan he or she can be as prescribed in a set of stringent guidelines developed by some self-aggrandizing online lunatic who doesn't get nearly enough sleep or all that much done in the course of a day.

Focus On The Mets. Got something better to do? Didn't think so.

Pay Attention. There's no excuse not to know who's on the team, not to know the general state of the team, not to know whether we won or lost last night by the next morning.

Pace Yourself. Take 'em one game at a time, otherwise you'll have no walls left to put fists through.

Be Loyal. Complain all you want about the Mets, but if you take a hike after a bad series or season, your gripes carry little weight.

Hate The Yankees. “Well I wanted them to win against Atlanta.” “I'm from New York, so I want both teams to do well.” “They're in different leagues.” Go play in traffic.

Dislike Your Opponents. They have their own fans. They don't need you. Also, if someone next to you boos some random Cardinal, Brewer or Astro, do not ask him why. Being a random Cardinal, Brewer or Astro is crime enough.

Choose A Second Team With Care. Stay out of the National League. Calculate the Interleague odds of clashing. And when we do come face to face with your No. 2, always look out for No. 1.

Respect The Other Team's Best. When lock Hall of Famers who haven't disgraced the game or themselves (so much for Bonds and Clemens) come to Shea, applause at their first at-bat is not too much to ask. Just because somebody's great doesn't make him a villain.

Acknowledge Ex-Mets. Particularly the true ex-Mets. Don't wanna go gaga for Gary Bennett? Fine. But if somebody who did something for ya comes back in the enemy uniform, ya stand up and ya cheer — at least until he does something to ya.

Don't Boo Your Own. Honest to god, you sound like morons when you do. Criticize all you want. Express some frustration after the fact if you must. But if you want your — I don't know — second baseman from another country to succeed, don't make it that much tougher on him.

Conceive Trades Realistically. How about Aaron Heilman for Derrek Lee? It makes perfect sense. Heilman's been great and the Cubs need bullpen help. Lee would be ideal between Beltran and Floyd. Hello? Hello?

Record Judiciously. I've pulled out one too many cassettes in order to preserve the last out of the first Mets no-hitter. Don't worry. When it happens, they'll play it over and over again. Keep your jinx under lock and key.

Know Your History. If you're under the age of 10, it's OK not to know the Mets have never had a no-hitter. Otherwise, bone up. Jack Lang, Leonard Koppett, Howard Blatt and Dennis D'Agostino have each written essential Mets histories. You have your homework assignments.

Absorb Details. To whomever's sitting behind me tonight or any night: Don't ever let me overhear you ask your companion “what are those numbers on the wall for?” unless you are under the age of 10, somebody's date or from way out of town. Otherwise, prepare for the most boring lecture of your life on the twilight of Casey Stengel's managing career. 37's just the first number of the many numbers to keep on file. Lucky for you, there's a place to learn the rest. Visit it often.

Keep Your Years Straight. Don't refer to 1969 as the year Tug McGraw said “You Gotta Believe.” True, a presidential candidate once did that and later got elected, but you're gonna have to be as charismatic as Bill Clinton to get away with it.

Believe In A Place Called Hope. Whatever year it is, allow yourself to think it's 1973 if that's what it's going to take to get us where we need to be.

Go On The Road. At least once in your life, take a vacation in San Francisco to see the Mets. Or a quick trip to Philadelphia to see the Mets. Anywhere will suffice. Be the visiting fan for a day. It's a very different feeling.

Bet Sparingly. “Wanna make it interesting?” a Yankee fan once asked me when I predicted the Mets would do something better than his team. Silly Yankee fan — baseball is already interesting. Rooting for the Mets is enough of a gamble any time.

Collect Stuff. You don't have to be a world-class keeper of every baseball card ever printed with a picture of a Met on it. You don't even have to maintain a baseball library no matter how insistent Lindsey Nelson was that you do. But save your programs. Save your ticket stubs. Save the stupid mousepad they'll give out tonight. Throw it in a drawer and forget about it. Stumble upon it in five years and smile. Then put it on eBay if you must.

Display Stuff. It's always been my nature, when given the space and the organizational spark, to show off my Mets stuff. I've been surprised to learn that every other Mets fan in the world doesn't think such homage in the home or workspace necessary. Have at least a K Korner in your living room. Hang pictures of Kranepool, Koosman, Koonce, Koo. It's the right thing to do. Reminder: You can't spell Kranepool, Koosman or Koonce without Koo. (Strangely enough, you can spell relief without him.)

Wear Stuff. Rob Emproto, who had a football Giants jacket for as long as I've known him, told me recently he stopped wearing any and all team apparel. Why, I asked. Because after the Giants blew a humongous lead to the 49ers in a playoff game, old men came up to him and started crying. He couldn't take it anymore. Gave the jacket to goodwill. It's a touching story, but I don't approve. Show your colors at least when you come to the game. The inverse of this rule applies to me: Once in a while, I try not to wear team apparel.

If You're Wearing, You Should Be Watching. Ever notice how many people in Yankee caps wander around town while a Yankee game is in progress and they're not listening to it or don't seem to be in any rush to get to a television, let alone The Stadium? They're probably not actual fans. You don't see that during Mets games because you're a good fan and you're watching or listening to the Mets game and not gallivanting about in a cap representing a team you don't pay attention to.

Keep Up. Fans of a team that plays in the media capital of the world should never be taken by surprise to find Gerald Williams on their roster. They should be horrified by the occurrence, but not surprised.

Sweat The Small Stuff. Why isn't Brian Daubach getting more playing time? It's a rhetorical question for our purposes, but you're just not applying yourself if you don't lie awake and wonder.

Don't Root For Injuries. In Game Five of the 1988 NLCS at Shea, Kirk Gibson slid into second and came up in obvious pain. Mets fans cheered. There, I thought, that's it, we're screwed. Be a human being about these things. Wish no pain on anyone. Wish they enjoy a pain-free three-month stay on the DL instead.

Abide By Karma. Don't get greedy with the gods.

Understand Luck. There are only so many fair balls that trickle up the first base line and get by the first baseman. Be glad when we get them, but don't demand too much of the fates. Sometimes we have to win these games via skill.

Welcome Sincere Newcomers. Not such a problem for a .500 team, but don't chalk up everybody who just bought his or her first Mets cap to bandwagoneering. People discover baseball all the time. Make them feel at home. Just don't let them get better seats than the veterans.

Manage Your Quirks. I have a friend. Good guy. He likes to keep score at every game he goes to. He likes to keep score at home on occasion. He likes to compile all the statistics from all the games he scores. He likes to keep track of who his seasonal and all-time leaders are in each statistical category that he scores. All of that is his business. When he calls me up and starts a conversation with “guess who set a scorebook record for most triples in a Mets career?” it becomes my business. And I have to be in a very good mood to be in that business.

Find The Game. If the Mets aren't on WFAN, they're almost surely on WBBR, 1130 AM. If they're not on MSG, check FSNY, WB-11, Fox 5 or ESPN. There aren't that many places they can be hiding.

Carry A Walkman. I'm a fossil. I still call it a Walkman. Whatever kind of miniature radio works for you, keep one on you. Life gets in the way of baseball, but make every effort to minimize the damage. How many other things in life are broadcast live like baseball? Try not to miss a pitch.

Read The Papers. Or the Web. There's too much information available about your team to not take advantage.

Acknowledge Your Sources. Don't say “I heard the Mets are trying to trade Looper” unless Omar Minaya called you with that info. The beat writer who digs up that nugget deserves the credit.

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.

Prospect Lightly. Know your minor leaguers, sure, but pencil them into the 2006 lineup at your own peril. What game in this series will Kazmir pitch anyway?

Moneyball Isn't Everything. It's not worthless either. Don't view every Mets move through the spectrum of stats vs. scouts. There's room for Roberto Hernandez and Heath Bell on the same roster (if none for Felix Heredia under any circumstances).

Think Before You Think. No thought before its time. Don't say, even to yourself, “Wow, once the Mets wrap up this Friday night win over Pittsburgh, we can go for four in a row tomorrow.” Think instead, “The next pitch is being thrown. I certainly hope it bodes well for my Mets.” We'll save each other a lot of grief.

Curb Your Enthusiasm. If and when and if the Mets get on that roll we've discussed so much that you'd think we work for a bakery, let's see how it unfurls before we're sure that this is the one that will turn us around. It gets dizzy early around here.

No Poormouthing. Woe is us! We're Mets fans! No trade works! We lose all the time! We're cursed! Take that somewhere else. We are clearly not the most successful organization in baseball but we are clearly not the least successful. Context, people. The White Sox haven't won a World Series since 1917. The Devil Rays have never sniffed 81 wins. The A's choked away four straight playoff appearances. The Cubs swapped a young Lou Brock for Ernie Broglio. The Padres haven't no-hit anybody either. Lameness abounds. It ain't just us.

No Apologies Necessary. When encountered by the non-fan in a fannish situation and you have to excuse yourself to get a score or scream into a towel, be who you are. Don't tell them “there's something wrong with me taking baseball so seriously.” They're the ones who are nuts. They're the ones who are missing out.

No Being Glad The Season's Ending. Anybody who whines anything like “at least football will start soon” is whistled 50 yards for ingratitude. Football? Fall? Winter? A Mets loss in August is better than no game in November. You can have a baseball game on a Thursday afternoon in August. All you get on Thursday afternoon in November is more November. That's about as awful as it sounds. Come the offseason, you, me, all of us will be wishing and hoping and counting down for spring training. As Warren Zevon suggested, enjoy every sandwich — all 162 of them.

Shea Is Readily Reachable. It's next to a highway, a subway, a railroad, a marina and an airport. It's right there. Plenty of good seats are still available. Attendance of at least one game annually is mandatory for every Mets fan who is within reasonable proximity of the ballpark. Save for physical incapacity or prohibitively dire financial straits, there's just no reason not to come on down and Meet the Mets. You could mention several but I won't accept any.

High-Five The Good Things. If you're at Shea and Cliff Floyd homers, raise the hand of your choice and find the hand of your neighbor in the air. Celebrate. Is there something besides baseball that rates it more? Still didn't think so.

So tonight, returned from the land of pine trees, black bears and staticky losses against the Pirates, I wound up locked out and wandering across my little slice of Brooklyn. It's too complicated to explain and not very interesting, but the elements were a similarly locked-out wife without a cellphone; a two-and-a-half-year-old being entertained by WWAC at a park under threatening skies; a randomly encountered friend with the kind offer of temporary shelter for WWAC and attendant child; and The Human Fight, who graciously agreed to double back from Manhattan to fetch our emergency keys from his apartment. Scramble the above chronologically, throw in a couple of multiple meetings, and you have a “Family Circus”-style map of my travels across Brooklyn — minus deities and the ghosts of relatives, at least as far as I could determine.

And what was I doing on my wanderings? Thinking about the Mets, of course.

Cliff Floyd is a smart guy, so what on earth was he doing diving on that ball against the Pirates? What would have happened next if Kenny Rogers had struck out Andruw Jones? Is Minky's steadying presence at first worth anything to Wright and Reyes, or are his offensive stats so bad it doesn't matter? Will Kaz Matsui play another game for us? How much more rope will Ishii get? Who's out when Trachsel returns? How will Trachsel pitch, anyway? Will Heilman get a spot in the rotation? Will Seo? How the hell did Goddamn Benitez manage to walk Fucking Paul O'Neill? Who's gonna get traded? Can Pedro win 20? We have a run in us, don't we? We're not that far behind the Braves — could we catch them? How good a second half can Beltran have? When does Wright get to move up in the batting order? Is it unhealthy that I'm still this pissed off at Franco and Goddamn Benitez for the end of 20012002?* How can this really be the end for Mike Piazza? What's Todd Hundley up to these days? Could we dump Glavine on somebody? When do we get to see the new stadium design? Will we finish over .500? What's a good year, anyway? 88-74 is definitely a good year, but what about 85-77? Is 83-79 good, or just OK? Will Victor Diaz come up and stick in the second half? Does Pedro count as an All-Star? How much did it suck that the year Bobby Valentine got to pick Mets nobody was having a decent year? Why the hell can't we run the bases? Is the guy who's gonna throw the first Met no-hitter on the roster now?

That's a few blocks' worth of wondering and wishing, fretting and fuming. All of it followed by a feeling of bizarrely intense dejection — almost abject despair, really — that there was no game tonight. It should be wrapping up about now, and instead there's just the churn of the dryer. A couple of days ago I was fairly content in my Mets semi-vacation, particularly when I heard what Looper and Co. were up to in Pittsburgh. Now it's the last third of the very brief All-Star break, and you'd think I'd been wandering in the desert for…well, you get the idea.

On my unforeseen walk I of course answered not a single one of the Met questions above. But at least tomorrow night will bring some of the bits and pieces that will eventually yield answers to some of them, others will remain as unanswerable but hurt infinitesimally less, and we'll have new ones to chew over.

THE NEW METS: BETTER THAN BEING LOCKED OUT OF THE HOUSE

Put me in, coach. I'm ready for the second half.

* Oops. Not that it matters — I'm sure Franco and Goddamn Benitez screwed up memorably in 2002 as well. If I could find a way to blame them for my not bringing my keys with me to the grocery store, I would.

“Why don't you folks come in? We're very happy when parents take enough of an interest in their child's work to meet with us.”

“We wouldn't think of not coming, but to be honest, we're a little surprised that you're relying on a parent-teacher conference to tell us how he's doing. Don't you send home report cards anymore?”

“No, we don't do midterm report cards here. We feel the analysis we do every sixth of the year should give you enough written guidance. If you want a report card, one is available in the Post.”

“I see.”

“Now, which one is your child?”

“Mets.”

“First name or last?”

“Last name Mets. First name New. Middle initial Y. You have him on your chart right there: New York Mets.”

“Forgive me. Of course I recognize New Mets. We have to do thirty of these over the next three days. This is a very busy time for us. Before you know it, the second half of the year begins.”

“We understand.”

“Good. Let's get started then. I feel New Mets is progressing.”

“Progressing? Could you elaborate?”

“Certainly. His records show he's made tremendous strides since last year.”

“Well he should. We sat him down after last year and told him he can't expect the world to give a damn about him unless he's willing to work harder.”

“That's a good message, but I hope you used language that perhaps wasn't that strong.”

“Oh, I'm sorry. We try to watch our tongue around New, but he makes it so damn hard. Will you listen to me? I mean so hard.”

“I'm only his teacher and you're the parents, so we certainly respect your right to talk to him the way you see fit. But studies have shown that kids can be sensitive to abusive language or sentences casually laced with obscenities.”

“Gotcha. We'll try to watch it.”

“Fine. As I was saying, New is coming along. He shows up most days, something that didn't seem to be the case last year. He seems eager to learn but the results don't reflect it yet.”

“No?”

“Understand that we try not to judge our students by archaic grading systems. We also understand that standardized tests are not necessarily foolproof. Yet there are certain examinations each child needs to pass to move on to the next level and New might not be ready yet.”

“You have to understand that New isn't a very good test-taker. I'm sure many of your students have that problem.”

“All due respect, Mr. and Mrs. Mets, I'd like to stick to your son New in this discussion. And I'm concerned that while he does well on some tests, he really struggles in others.”

“Which ones in particular?”

“Well, as you know, we like to divide the classroom into six sections and group the students four or five or six to a section. New is in a group of five. His skill sets are very comparable to the other four he sits with.”

“That's good, isn't it?”

“Yes, it's very good. But to be honest, New has been lagging behind the rest of his group most of the first half of this year.”

“Is it bad?”

“It's nothing he can't overcome. I'm not at liberty to discuss the other children in his group, but it's not like his peers have really overachieved — except for this one transfer student from Quebec who has surprised us a great deal. And that Braves boy — we thought he was going to miss the whole term, but he's got a lot of pluck.”

“Doesn't sound very good for New, then.”

“New is performing at level close to his friends Florida and Philadelphia. They spend a lot of time bunched up. In fact, I'm a little worried they've picked up some bad habits from each other. But they're not the ones whose interaction with New relates to that test-taking problem I mentioned.”

“No?”

“It's that Braves boy. Atlanta.”

“Yes, New has mentioned some problems with Atlanta. He's come home a couple of times looking like he got into a fight. We'll ask him what's wrong and he'll mutter something about Braves taking his lunch money but then he clams up.”

“I see. His record does show a history of bad experiences with Atlanta. I wish I had known sooner because it's a problem New is going to have deal with sooner than later.”

“We know. We've tried. We just can't seem to get him to focus.”

“You as his parents and I as his teacher will have to devote our energy to that as soon as the second half of the year starts. Atlanta presents a test that New must pass if he wants to progress even further.”

“Excuse me, but there was another test he seemed to do pretty well in.”

“Which one.”

“It involved that other kid with the same first name as him.”

“Same first name…oh, you must be talking about New York Yankees. What about him?”

“Well, New came home very excited a couple of weeks ago telling us how he really aced a test with them.”

“I see it here in his file. I have to admit it was impressive, but there are couple of things I need to caution you about where that Yankees boy is concerned.”

“Please, tell us.”

“For one thing, Yankees is not a member of his group. You folks, the Mets, shouldn't be concerned about the Yankees kid right now. He's only going to provide a distraction for New. Furthermore, while your son did do well in that test, he didn't do all that well.”

“What are you talking about? Are you calling my kid a liar?”

“No, of course not. But despite however excited you and he may have gotten after that test, it seems he only really got half the answers right. See? There were six segments to that examination, and he only prevailed in three of them.”

“That's not good?”

“It's not a question of New being good or bad against Yankees. Really, you could say that about the entire year to this point.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at his numbers. One day he does very well. One day he doesn't. The next day he succeeds. The next day he doesn't. This inconsistency is the most consistent thing about him.”

“That's not normal for a kid?”

“For a little while, maybe, but eventually you want a student like New to develop a pattern and show some promise. He's doing better than he was last year but you have to want him to do even better in the second half of this year.”

“How can we do that?”

“That's a very good question. I think what we all have to do with a child like New Mets is work on his fundamentals.”

“Doesn't he have those? You're not calling my kid stupid, I hope.”

“I don't think New lacks intelligence or anything of that nature. But there are certain aspects of learning he's having trouble with.”

“Such as?”

“Well, his math skills need improving.”

“Math?”

“He's not very good at keeping track of things. He might think there are three of something when there are only two and that gets him into trouble. He might not understand the value of going from point A to point B as soon as he's allowed. He might need four of something to get to his goal but he won't show the patience to get them.”

“You've lost me.”

“We have this exercise in which we use balls. We tell the children, if you gather four balls, you get a reward.”

“Uh-huh…”

“The other kids eventually figure out if they demonstrate patience, it will pay off for them. Four balls equals good. The only way to get four balls is to use your judgment and wait long enough to collect them. It's not always the thing to do but we've found it can be very helpful for most kids.”

“Uh-huh…”

“But New, especially at the start of the school day, never seems to remember that.”

“Well, to be fair, that does sound a little complicated.”

“No, actually, it's not. Wait for four balls and get a reward.”

“Look, maybe for a teacher, that's easy to comprehend, but a kid like New isn't going to understand that. In our family, we've never been very good about patience.”

“No?”

“No. The Mets have never wanted to wait very long. I don't think any of New's relatives would figure that it would be to their advantage to get four…what is it again?”

“Four balls.”

“See? Ya lost me again.”

“It's not just a matter of math skills. It's a matter of perception. Those four balls can help him advance and New doesn't accept that.”

“Maybe we can work with him on that. Are those his biggest problems, the four balls and the test-taking?”

“Another thing I've noticed is New doesn't pay attention for very long.”

“Doesn't pay attention?”

“There are times when it seems he's going to do very well. Let's say he has to solve a series of problems. A three-part series of problems. He'll get through the first one wonderfully.”

“Good!”

“Then he'll get the second one, perhaps with a bit more of a struggle, but he'll get it.”

“Excellent!”

“But he seems to lose interest when it comes to the third part of any given series. New apparently doesn't think it's necessary to really go after it and succeed. It's like he's satisfied with just taking two out of three.”

“You know the saying: Two out of three ain't bad.”

“Yes, I'm familiar with it. But at this school, we want the kids to aim higher than that.”

“I'm sure you do. But if New got two out of three in every series the way you describe, wouldn't that be a very good mark?”

“The point, Mr. and Mrs. Mets, is at the rate he's going, that's going to be impossible.”

“Really?”

“Really. While New has an above-average attitude and I personally think he's been a lot of fun to watch throughout the first half of the year and that he shows great spurts of enthusiasm and maybe even the potential for brilliance, his overall performance is not likely to reflect a great deal of growth by the time the second half is done.”

“Oh my. That sounds serious. What should we do?”

“You need to help me in getting New to focus. Concentrate. Don't let him make silly errors in his school work. Tell him he can't just forget how many there are of something. Tell him he needs to be patient. That he needs to stay with a tough series of problems until he gets all of them. And to face his tests — even the ones with the Braves kid who's been taunting him for so long — with a greater level of resolve.”

“I guess that's not such bad advice coming from a teacher.”

“I'm glad you think so. We all only want what's best for New.”

“Listen, we paid a lot of money to get him into this school so we'll make damn sure he does what he's supposed to do.”

“And please, Mr. and Mrs. Mets, watch the rough language around him.”

“My apologies. That kid can bring out the worst in us sometimes.”

Pedro cures all. So much for the can't win on Sundays, can't win outside the division inside our own time zone, can't win when half of Team FAFIF steals away from proximity.

Ah, Pedro. I'd still prefer our ace do at least a flyover of Detroit Tuesday night (according to our redoubtable radio guys, Carlos and Mike, like most lavishly compensated players, each has a private plane booked to whisk them to and from the festivities). He really is our star of stars. A couple of weeks ago, I gave him the highest honor at my disposal and added MARTINEZ 45 to my t-shirt rotation. I wasn't planning to. I wandered into the Mets Clubhouse Shop on 42nd to browse and Pedro's garment just kind of called to me. Maybe I'll wave it at the screen during the introductions.

About time we beat the Pirates. My middle-of-the-night ode to their park and their past notwithstanding, my favorite Bucs-Mets memory occurred at Shea in 1989. I took my best friend Chuck, then living in Washington, to his first game in a generation. He's not that much of a fan but he does know how to get caught up in the moment. When Dave Magadan hit a two-run homer in the bottom of the eleventh to win it, I was happy. But Chuck was delirious beyond all recognition. The sendoff he directed toward the visitors that night — FUCK YOU PIRATES! FUCK YOU! over and over again — remains a touchstone of our shared vocabulary.

That's Mets baseball to me. That's why it's so hard to not have it readily available during the All-Star break. We are winding down the first of 99 consecutive hours without a Mets game. I can feel the withdrawal pangs coming on. Chills…sweats…the need to see somebody caught off second or nailed at home. I think I'll go lie down and lose track of how many outs there are.