The National Funeral Directors Association called. They said they're considering filing suit. Seems one of our relievers is giving graves a bad name.

The makers of the Heath Bar called. They say candy revenue is down. Kids all of a sudden would rather eat cauliflower than have anything to do with their product. Bell sales are off, too.

Jason Phillips called. Asked “how's that trade working out?” Then he laughed hysterically and hung up.

The New York Cubans called. They want their uniforms back.

The president of Cuba called. He's extremely upset that the Cuban people are being besmirched by the temporary use of their nationality to identify “such a piss-poor, imperialist-dog baseball team,” and he's not too crazy that we have a guy named Castro “who can't score from second on a double which I could do even at my age while smoking a Cohiba and restricting freedom.”

The mayor of Pittsburgh called. Says the Mets can have any block of rooms in any hotel in the city. Just stay a little longer — you're great for business.

Such indignities visited upon a sub-.500 team yet again, one trying to do the right thing by honoring the Negro Leagues (the Pittsburgh Crawfords having been honored seven runs more Saturday night) and wondering what it has do to get on the good side of mediocrity.

Dave O'Brien said the Mets looked sheepish and embarrassed around the batting cage following Friday's fiasco. I look forward to the adjectives he brings to today's telecast. I would suggest ashamed, besotted, bewildered, hopeless, inept, morose, moronic, futile, pointless, overpaid, underachieving, unbelievably hopeless and, perhaps, no longer viable. He's a professional announcer, I'll leave it to him.

At 9:18 P.M. EDT, when Jack Wilson's grand slam cleared the left field wall, the bases and my head of any idea that the Mets could win the game, I'm almost certain the competitive portion of the Mets' season ended. Almost. You can never be too certain with baseball. I spent the summer of 2001 telling anybody and everybody to stop bringing up 1973, that this team, the '01s, could not make any kind of run. Then I spent late August and September being delightedly wrong. But if memory serves, we didn't actually win in 2001. We dug a hole. Holes have a way of getting deep. This one we're working on is growing cavernous.

Jack Wilson, huh? He's one of those guys who was good the year before who isn't having nearly the season now but when the Mets come to town it's the good old days all over again for him. Aren't the Mets always falling prey to guys like that? Jack-MF. Jack ripped us. Jack be quick and all that. Jack Wilson, as motel-registry a name as there is in baseball, checked us out of contention. Almost certainly.

I can't blame Jack Wilson or any of his little friends. This isn't the Pirates' fault. The Pirates don't get to do nothin' ever, so why shouldn't they have a few kicks at our expense? It's not like we did anything meaningful to prevent them.

It shouldn't be like this. Obviously we shouldn't be losing 11-4 to anybody, let alone a team that even after the last two games has the fourth-worst record in the National League. But it shouldn't be like this for the Pittsburgh Pirates in general. After the Pirates probably sweep us Sunday (our Sunday record is 3-11…our non-division, Eastern time zone record is 0-5…our record when my co-blogger leaves the state is 0-6…you do the math), they'll still be the Pirates. Regardless of their success against us in their cameo on our schedule, it's hard not to put some pity in Pittsburgh.

Man, the Pirates. I can't believe what's become of the Pirates. They were the Pirates, y'know? For the first decade and change of my baseball life, they were the one team in the National League I respected more than any other. They were the first team I ever saw slap the kibosh on the Mets, in 1970. Sure I rooted against them big-time then and throughout our extended run of competence in the early and mid-'70s, but geez, how could ya hate those Pirates? How could ya hate Roberto Clemente? How could ya hate Willie Stargell? I wanted us to beat the crap out of them in September of '73, and we did, but overall, they were so classy and so good.

Seems every time the Mets visit Pittsburgh (which isn't nearly enough for my taste; they could just place a camera up behind home plate and pan the PNC vista until the sun goes down and I could get the score later and call it a very satisfying evening), the telecast contains an homage to Roberto and an homage to Wilver and a nod to Ralph, of course, and a mention of Mazeroski. It's like this franchise ceased to exist as a going concern after 1979, and that they built this beautiful showcase — if you haven't been there, go there, it's by far the greatest ballpark in the National League, Wrigley included — just so there'd be an appropriate backdrop from which to reminisce.

There was another golden age of Pittsburgh baseball, the one in which the Pirates were good for yet another Mets-bonking. I don't have any warm feelings for the Bonds-Bonilla-Van Slyke group of 1987-1992. They were a real good team and deserved respect but, yeech. Leyland. Bonds. Bonilla. Especially Bonilla. I wasn't penning any paeans to them in the summer of 1988 when they wouldn't get off our heels. We were the big, bad Mets. They were the relentless Bucs who were undeniably on the rise but had to be kept at bay for at least one more season. There was a series that June when Three Rivers, which never sold out, was jammed with Mets-haters. Fans had to be ejected for what they were yelling and throwing at HoJo and Lenny (forebears, apparently, of the moron who spat at Cliff on Saturday night). Every time we played them, we somehow managed to trump them at just the right moment for us and the wrong moment for them. They got payback in 1990 and 1991 and 1992. It was a good rivalry two different times.

I guess that's what I miss. I miss the Pirates being the Pirates. I miss the National League East when it had Pittsburgh, St. Louis and Chicago to do battle against. As mentioned on occasion, I've disliked the Cubs since I was old enough to know enough to hate a baseball team. The Cardinals of 1985 and 1987 forever left a bad taste in my mouth where The World's Greatest Baseball Town is concerned. But those Midwestern clubs have gone on to forge major identities elsewhere and don't seem all that odd not to have around.

The Pirates, by contrast, couldn't afford to retain Bonds and never recovered. They haven't been remotely good since they were usurping our perceived prominence in the division. Pittsburgh may have been better than us by 1990 but they never seemed beyond human the way our Atlantan oppressors have been for far too long. The two of us should have kept it up but instead economics and realignment have kept us apart. I miss playing them on a regular basis.

This weekend, I mostly miss beating them every now and then.

It was a nice surprise to hear from you. You told me you didn't think you'd have online access while away, so your post this morning may have been a happy accident of string, tin cans and what not. If so, this is probably falling on deaf cyberears, but I have a small request for you if you can hear me:

Get your ass back to New York immediately. You're killin' us here.

I mean it. Turn the truck around. Never mind the Portland Sea Dogs. Whatever they've got up there, we can match it. Poland Spring is readily available and I could probably arrange to have a black bear wander by if you still a need a taste of Maine.

You left in May and the Mets lost every game in your absence. They lost last night. Your job as a Mets fan and the non-jinxy half of Metsdom's most vigilant blog (one hundred consecutive days of posting as of today) is to, at the very least, cross the New York state line by Saturday at 7:05 PM and stay on this side of it until whenever Sunday's game ends. Then you can go back and drink water and look at bears or whatever the hell it is they do in Maine.

The family will understand. If they've understood you this long, they'll understand this.

GO! NOW!

Hey, didja miss me?

[Jace ignores silence.]

Up here in Maine, I was behind the wheel of a big pig of a U-Haul truck as game time neared. Flipping around the AM dial, I was able to pick up the Portland Sea Dogs playing the New Hampshire Fisher Cats (at least I think that's who they were playing). Only they weren't really playing, they were in a rain delay and waiting for instructions. So they decided to replay a week-old Sea Dogs game until the real game's fate became clear. Fair enough — heck, I'd be pretty thrilled if next rain delay FAN replayed some game from the archives, the earlier the better. I'd only just started to warm to these anonymous players going through their week-old motions when the announcer came back on and said the Sea Dogs/Fisher Cats game (which sounds kind of like a kid's book, come to think of it) had been called, so goodnight and see you tomorrow for the first game of a double-header. And that was that. Kind of strange, but that's how they do it in Sea Dog Nation, I suppose.

I scanned over to WFAN, which by now was a sea of static, interrupted periodically by blasts of skull-cracking interference vaguely related to power lines and accelerating — a mess from which would sometimes emerge strings of barely intelligible words. But hey, it was 7:05, so you know perfectly welll what I did. The early innings went something like this: “Zambrano…faced the minimum…play Cameron didn't make….” I was able to sort of tell what had happened based on little scraps of Gary/Howie.

I didn't really mind this AM-radio archaeology — I've done this innumerable times while driving at the outer limits of radio range, and too many nights when I was living in D.C., aided by antennae made out of hangers, crackpot signal amplifiers and other desperate strategems. Reminders of simpler times and all that. (And driving a U-Haul in rural Maine doesn't present a smorgasbord of alternative entertainments.) When I finally got to my folks' house a little before eight, I flipped on their AM radio for more occasional snippets of Gary/Howie, but didn't pay very close attention. Besides wanting to be at least a vaguely good son, I knew the game would come in strongly enough to be readily understandable after the sun went down, which should give me the last couple of innings to hear.

Let the record show that it got dark enough for reception to become reliable at the exact moment Ramon Castro was chugging home too late to score from second on a double. In other words, I heard about 10% of the part of the game where Victor was masterful and we were a mighty team whose errors were worthy of the kangaroo court but not otherwise fatal. The part of the game where we fired shotgun blasts at our feet until Humberto Cota finally knocked over our bloody, expiring bulk? I heard 100% of that.

Goddamn Mets.

The Mets played in Pittsburgh Friday night versus the struggling Pirates.

The Mets played in Pittsburgh Friday night versus the struggling Pirates.

It was a beautiful night for baseball at glorious PNC Park.

It was a beautiful night for baseball at glorious PNC Park.

The Mets jumped out to an early lead.

The Mets jumped out to an early lead.

Victor Zambrano pitched eight brilliant innings.

Victor Zambrano pitched eight brilliant innings.

Despite some questionable baserunning, there was no stopping the Mets.

Bad baserunning was just the beginning of the Mets' troubles.

Ramon Castro had hit a big home run and contributed to some insurance tallies in the top of the ninth.

Ramon Castro got confused on a ball that hit off the wall and with some help from Manny Acta got himself thrown out at home to kill what should have been a bigger inning.

Aaron Heilman came in in the ninth to preserve the win for Zambrano.

Heilman didn't look at all sharp and managed to load the bases.

Braden Looper entered with the bases loaded and two outs. He had a four-run lead and needed to retire just a single batter, a simple task for such an accomplished closer.

Braden Looper couldn't get one fucking out.

Looper toyed with the overmatched Tike Redman.

Looper couldn't get his fastball past freaking Tike Redman who fouled off pitch after pitch until, on the twelfth pitch, he singled home two runs.

Up 5-3, Looper would close the game against ex-Met Matt Lawton.

Freaking Lawton, who never should've been a Met in the first place, drove a sinking liner into left.

Cliff Floyd, overlooked as an All-Star but playing great defense lately, moved in on the ball and ended the game with a neat catch.

Cliff Floyd, looking like a goddamn Little Leaguer out there, first seemed to lose sight of the ball then tried to dive for it and then let it go by him which allowed the tying run to score.

In the top of the tenth, the Mets took the measure of Jose Mesa and regained the lead off the shaky veteran reliever.

It took all of five pitches for Mesa to get the Mets in order.

Looper regained his composure when he started the bottom of the tenth.

Why the fuck was Looper on the mound to start the tenth? Ohmigod, it was like watching Byung-Hyun Kim out there!

With one out, Rob Mackowiak grounded out to second, Cairo to Offerman.

Cairo freaking rushed his throw and it sailed ten feet wide of Offerman who never should be allowed to play first base under any circumstances. It went into the camera box and Mackowiak wound up on second. Natch.

With two out, the Mets elected to walk Daryle Ward and pitch to the little-known Humberto Cota. The percentages said this was the correct move.

Humberto Cota, whoever the fuck he is, singled home the winning run. The Mets, having led 5-1 with two out in the ninth lost 6-5 in ten. According to ESPN, it was the first time the Mets had blown a lead of that size at that juncture of a game since Neil Allen gave up a game-winning grand slam to Bo Diaz in 1983.

The win sent the Mets on the roll many of their fans said was just a matter of time in coming, making the predictions of those who wanted to “throw in the towel” on 2005 seem premature.

Empty the freaking linen closet.

The baseball gods, capricious as they are, like to save their weirder displays for matinees which will be viewed on the sly by all those fans trapped in offices, reloading GameCast or peering furtively at TVs with the sound turned down. I was convinced of this a long time ago, and today's game certainly did nothing to make me think otherwise. It seemed like every time I looked at the screen something strange was going on.

For instance, what was Frank Robinson doing coming out of the dugout in the fifth to talk to Tony Armas? Armas couldn't seem to grasp the idea of getting a bunt down, that was clear. Frank was tired of the fact that his pitcher couldn't do this simple thing, that was clear too. Goodness knows there's been many a time I wished Torborg/Dallas/Bobby V./Art would pop out of the dugout and deliver a firm talking-to to whichever of our pitchers seemed nonplussed to find himself holding a piece of wood. (OK, not Torborg. Fucking Torborg.) But you can do that? Really? I suppose if the pitcher can go halfway up the third-base line to have to coach whisper “Hey stupid, you're bunting,” it makes sense for the manager to be able to have a tete-a-tete in the on-deck circle. But Lord knows I don't recall ever seeing one. If Bobby V. were still around, I'm sure he would have been out there citing 5.63.15b or somesuch. (And the umpires would have ignored him.)

Then there was Heath Bell warming up for the bottom of the 11th while Looper just happened to be making up for a late start getting loose in the pen. Funny how Willie then changed his mind and brought in the closer. Frank didn't seem to like that much — I think it was knowing Looper would get eight more warm-up pitches just to rub it in. Fortunately he didn't know Willie's next move, if that hadn't worked out, was to have Miguel Cairo spend five minutes looking for a contact lens. Par for the course in Earl Weaver's day, maybe — it reminded me, naturally, of Davey Johnson tormenting the Reds in the Ray Knight Fight Game by switching Orosco and McDowell between the mound and the outfield and having them get their warm-up pitches each time. Definitely another one to shake your head at.

I can't really blame Willie for not having Looper up in time, though, because I still can't quite process what I think happened to end the top of the 11th. So let me get this straight: With one out and Floyd on first and Beltran on second, Piazza blooped a hit to right field in front of crybaby Jose Guillen. Beltran scored just ahead of Brian Schneider's tag as Floyd headed for third. Piazza, moving at the approximate speed of continental drift, decided to break for second. Schneider threw the ball to Jamey Carroll, who tagged Piazza out, at which point Carroll realized Floyd was churning up dust on his way home. So Carroll threw the ball back to Schneider, who tagged out Cliff. Inning over! What the hell?! But wait, we have the lead! Whoo-hoo! But…what the hell just happened there?! Who cares, we have the lead! I know, but….

A 9-2-6-2 double play. Usually when you see one of those, there's a keg at second base.

Hey, I just found a towel lying around in here like somebody threw it. Let me just pick that up and drape it over in our corner where it belongs…there, that's better.

First place, despite the best efforts of Aaron Heilman (which were pretty darn good), likely remains a pipe dream but I'm not tossing out the Wild Card as fast as you did the terry cloth. I wouldn't bet Fred Wilpon's mortgage on us making it to October, but I don't think we're completely preposterous, not with the pitching we have and not with Carlos Beltran who, word has it, is quite the second-half player (and New York's gonna love Bill Pecota). While it's a pity that Atlanta, of all teams, is this week's leader in The House of the Wild Card — and I've noted more than once how perennially untenable our position is against them — five games doesn't seem impossible.

No, the world doesn't owe us a hot streak, but look around the Majors. Everybody seems to be getting one this year. Two teams that we, in our infinite wisdom, left for dead, Houston and Oakland, have made a major push to the edge of contention. Is it a coincidence that their rolls began against us? Could we get a few intrasquad games going and maybe take off versus ourselves? (Actually that would be perfect for these Mets: win one, lose one all at once.)

I think we've established here that this season, barring a collapse of Howeling proportions, is an improvement over what came before and that we can feel good about any number of platforms for 2006. But ya know what? It's not 2006 yet. This team has to play 2005 for at least another month before it can think that way. Too much has been poured into this edition before consigning it to the archives. We didn't sign Pedro to kill time and fill seats. We can't tell Wright and Reyes to get used to this sort of thing, that every August and September we start to look ahead, that it'll get better next year.

There are words for that sort of thinking: Tampa and Bay.

While I don't necessarily disagree strongly with any individual aspect of your plan for eventual world domination, I will caution against treating the trading deadline as a legal and binding contract to do something. Listen to offers for Cameron, Floyd or Piazza? Sure, why not? Stephen Hopkins, delegate to the Continental Congress from Rhode Island said (in 1776, the movie we watch every Fourth of July), “I've never seen, heard or smelled an issue that was so dangerous it couldn't be talked about.” He was referring to declaring independence. All we're talking about is fielding inquiries for outfielders. (God Bless America.)

I more or less trust Omar to do the right thing. I like the way he handled the Cameron-Sheffield bit, at least by most accounts. Cashman asked about Mike C. and Omar said, fine, how about Sheffield? From there it blew out of proportion and probably was never going to happen anyway, but he thought big. So if another GM wants to ask about one of our non-Beltran outfielders, listen. But don't rush to sign any papers.

Honestly, I'm in no hurry to trade either one of them. If we're building for 2006 (each has a year remaining on his contract), then we'll need a slugging left fielder and an athletic right fielder. Floyd and Cameron will both be 33 next Opening Day. The way they're playing this year, it feels as if they'll still be in some portion of their prime next year.

Their trade value will never be higher? Value for what? What are we going to get in a panicky, eleventh-hour deal? Who will be in just the right spot to give us X, Y and Z in order to have Cliff Floyd or Mike Cameron come to them and be the big difference in their lives? When does our team stop building for a future that never comes because we never break this cycle of midsummer groping for something better that's rarely if ever attainable in late July?

And how many questions in a row was that?

I know you're not preaching trades for trades' sake, but I'm wary of July 31 under the best of circumstances. It's one thing when you're a pure seller as we were in 2003 and just wanted to move merchandise. And it's another thing if you fancy yourself a true contender and you're shopping for playoff pieces. Sometimes you do well for yourself (Craig Paquette for Shawon Dunston), sometimes you shoot yourself in the foot (Melvin Mora for Mike Bordick). The Mets are neither here nor there, your towel-toss notwithstanding. When residing in that gray area, I vote for here over there. I vote for keeping Floyd and Cameron for the rest of 2005 and considering their future at a calmer, cooler time of year, like after the season. All things being equal, I just as soon return them to office in '06.

The Mets aren't the only local team that should think about standing pat on July 31, or so it says at Gotham Baseball. Don't worry, I'm plenty catty to them.

Time to start thinking about 2006.

This team ain't catching the Nationals, no matter what the Nats' run differential says their record should be. This team ain't closing 5.5 games worth of ground on the Braves either. I know, you could argue we haven't had a run, one of those where you win 14 of 17 and get some momentum going. But there's no law of baseball that every team gets one of those. Bad teams don't, and neither do plenty of .500 teams. And we're not going to get one either. Those October '05 plans you were holding off making? Get on the phone. You'll be free.

This isn't to say I'm down on the 2005 edition of the New York Mets. Not at all, in fact. We added a superstar center fielder, signing him to a rare long-term deal that makes sense, and will start reaping the dividends offensively once he settles in to his new, extraordinarily demanding city. We have a pair of 22-year-old infielders well worth building on, particularly now that/once they're hitting in the proper slots in the batting order. We've got two outfielders and an ace starter who may give us solid '06 seasons, and if not have already served as veteran leadership to help the next generation through its apprenticeship. We've got some promising young arms maturing at the big-league level or close to it, and can expect a least a couple of arms further down in the system to prove useful. We've got a manager who may move a little slowly for our tastes, but is a firm, respected hand in the clubhouse and a good teacher. We've got a pitching coach who may not always live up to his off-the-cuff boasts, but already has a string of successful or near-successful reclamation projects on his resume. We've got an ownership that's willing to spend and a new stadium and TV network on the way.

So 2006 looks good, and there's no reason the rest of 2005 shouldn't be fun and encouraging. In fact, I think it'll be more fun and more encouraging if we let go, if we accept. This club just has too far to go to play postseason baseball this year: Too many old players aging too fast, too many young players who won't be ready in time, too many declining or dead roster spots that can't be cleared in the next couple of weeks. It's not going to happen, and that's OK.

Since it's not going to happen, here's hoping Omar and Willie and the Wilpons do the smart things in the next few weeks. From my admittedly flawed, fannish perspective, here's my list:

ARMS

* It no longer matters that Ishii and Glavine are dragging down the starting rotation, so keep them in there with hopes of moving them at the deadline.

* Listen to any takers for Zambrano. He's certainly earned the chance to stay, but might be worth more in a trade.

* Figure out whether Seo, Heilman or both deserve starts in August and September, and make sure they get them.

* Move Looper and/or Roberto Hernandez if the right deal comes along.

* Solidify roles for Ring, Bell and Heilman (if he remains a reliever) so we know what we have.

* Continue the Danny Graves experiment, but cut the Dae-Sung Koo one short.

BATS

* Listen to any offers for Piazza, Floyd or Cameron. Don't trade Floyd and/or Cameron for the sake of trading them, but they may have more value now than they ever will again.

* Get rid of Matsui by the time pitchers and catchers report again. He's not a dog, but he needs a new start. We may never find out if he was hurt, couldn't change positions, couldn't adjust to natural grass, hated New York, or exactly what went wrong, but it doesn't matter anymore.

* Determine, as best one ever can, the right long-term place in the batting order for Reyes, Wright and Beltran and let them get 200+ at-bats there.

* Figure out which veterans can really be teachers in part-time roles, and give the other spots over to minor-leaguers who could use a taste of the Show.

Post-Script: Funny, but my reaction to the Nationals last night was the opposite of yours. I'm actually coming to like them. Sure, Jose Guillen seems like a jerk, but other than him it's hard not to root for them. They're a bunch of kids and journeymen you've barely heard of or forgot were still around, and yet they win one-run games and somehow do everything right, and they're unbeatable. In fact, I daresay they remind me a bit of the story of a hangdog squad that made good the year of the moon landing.

Hell, I hope we go 11-0 against them the rest of the way, but I wouldn't mind rooting for them come October. (I don't think they'll make it, but that's another post.) It's a great story for that franchise and for Washington, and I'm happy for both of them. And nope, even though you've chronicled our struggles and our frustrations with the Expos quite ably, I don't mind that tri-color M in their history. What I hated about the Expos was the turf and the dead air in the stadium and the weird mirror glass behind home plate and the air horns going BRAAAP! BRAAAP! all the time and Youppi and the acres of empty, jaundice-colored seats and the random road trips to Puerto Rico. All that's gone, and in my mind the Expos and their essential Exponess went with it. This is a new team, and I bear them no ill will beyond the fact that they're ahead of us in the standings. Which, as I said too many words ago, no longer matters. With 11 exceptions, Come October, what the hell: Go Nats!

XM Radio allows me to listen to the home broadcasts of every team in the Majors. It's ideal for tracking the competition in a five-team divisional race, and when that evaporates (I think I just heard it go pffffft), it will no doubt be useful for any Wild Card business as long as that lasts.

It also has had one unintended effect: It got me hooked on Washington Nationals games. Well, not the whole games, just the ends. Just the part where they emerge victorious at RFK and their announcer, ex-Met fill-in and long-ago Tidecaster Charlie Slowes, exclaims, “The Nationals win again! Bang Zoom go the fireworks!”

This phenomenon, looking forward to a grown man imitating the sound of a firecracker, is childish, I admit. I started tuning into these games to hear the Nationals lose because the Mets might pick up ground on them (hahahahaha). But as you also know, the Nationals rarely lose at home. So while my enemy-tracking via XM was failing miserably, I found myself anticipating Slowes' triumphant signature signoff. Sure it reads corny, but for some reason it's endearing on the air. I didn't want the first-place Nationals to keep winning, but I liked hearing what was said when they won.

What an unexpected dilemma. Cripes, I was actually disappointed last week when the Nationals beat Pittsburgh. No, not disappointed because of what it meant to the Mets' standing in the pennant race (hahahahaha) but because a rain delay forced the game past midnight. There's no doubt a local ordinance against setting off celebratory fireworks that late, so Slowes ended it with “Bang Zoom, the Nationals win again!”

Didn't have the same spark. I wanted my fireworks call. I knew and I know that it was wrong, that it was sick, that it was counterproductive and that the Washington Nationals, as much of a marvelous story as they are, are to be loathed as a National League East rival.

And I do loathe them. Tuesday night reminded me that this deceptively ragged band of Exponentials, from cantankerous Frank Robinson to volatile Jose Guillen to fossilized cleanup batter Carlos Baerga to Jose Vidro (who is a vicious adjective unto himself and thus requires no modifier) all the way to the disappointingly unlooperlike Chad Cordero, are despicable as opponents. I may have pitied them at the very end when they were Montreal but I wasn't terribly concerned that the likes of Jamey Carroll be given a good home (which RFK, the prison exercise yard of MLB, isn't) and a bat with which to club us.

But with the Mets down there in a last-gasp attempt to close the chasm on the division leaders (hahahahaha), I had to see if there was anything to this slight flirtation I'd indulged in with their play-by-play guy. I've had my passing other-team infatuations. They never wear well. I'm not cut out for summer flings. I'm a one-team man.

My first and probably most meaningful rendezvous came in 1978 when I ran around town in a Red Sox cap because I just knew they were going to inflict humiliation on the Yankees that they would never live down. There were people who assumed I was a Red Sox fan for real. That's how convincing I was. Then there were 1982 and 1991 with the Braves when they were feisty underdogs in another division, and 1993 and the nutcase Phillies of Lenny Dykstra who provided a font of amusement and a touch of inspiration while the Mets dedicated themselves to finishing eighth in a seven-team division. My previously copped-to distant — now dormant — thing for the Angels was more an October fancy, but I retained some nominal feeling for them post-2002.

You'll notice all of these little winks I made toward other teams came in years when the Mets stank on ice. My beloveds didn't give me a reason not to look around, and to be fair, I never strayed very far. I was just looking for a little action when I wasn't getting the good stuff at home. But the 2005 Mets are, at least for another week, contenders (haha…stop laughing already). Except for '93, which doesn't (or shouldn't) count, I've never flirted with an N.L. Easterner. Yet here I was, a little too into what Washington was up to. Even Stephanie noticed something was going on.

Could “Bang Zoom” really be that much of siren song to me? I tuned in to the Nationals' series against the Cubs from Chicago over the weekend. That meant it was Ron Santo and Pat Hughes doing the games. I found myself rooting for the Nationals even though not a single bang nor a solitary zoom would filter through the XM. Mind you, I viscerally hate the Cubs (you never forget your first hate) and they are, technically, part of the same Wild Card scramble we're in. But I didn't like that I was just a little happy for the team that beat the Cubs.

To see if there was anything serious to worry about, I turned XM to the Natscast of the Mets game Tuesday night. This would be the real test. If I were actually drawn to “Bang Zoom” after a Mets loss (which seemed inevitable, rally or not), then I knew I had a problem. Frankly, I was concerned.

When the teasealicious ninth inning was over on MSG, after Brian Drawback brought shame to uniform No. 13 (I swear that for about an eighth of a second after I saw those digits, I thought the next hitter would be…well, you know who), I checked in with XM, whose signal is about a minute shy of real time.

Drawback popped up to deep short on DC's Z-104 just like he did on MSG. “The Nationals win again!” proclaimed a hearty Charlie Slowes. “Bang Zoom go the fireworks!”

I heard no fireworks. The only sound I heard was me snapping out of it.

I was no longer charmed by Bang or taken with Zoom. I had no use whatsoever for the Washington announcer or his partner whose last name happens to be Shea (yet actually referred to the excitement of “Nationals basketball” during the dreary wrapup). Any slight attraction to the first-place Nationals — whose only appeal is that they are not the second-place Braves — ended right then and there. All I could do in the aftermath of a bitter Mets loss was channel the spirit of Tanner Boyle:

Hey Slowes! You can take your signature call and your fireworks and shove 'em straight up your ass!

C'mon Mets. Let's go home.