It was one of those days: Emily's birthday (yes, she shares it with George Steinbrenner and the Republic), a friend in town, outings planned for the birthday girl and Joshua. Lots to do, in other words — and in the middle of it, a suddenly not-so-appealing date with the Washington Nationals, the who'da-thunk-it kings of the National League East, and practically unbeatable at home. Faced with a critical juncture of the puzzling 2005 season in the form of a battle with a team 10 games ahead of us, Emily and I tacitly agreed we'd do the smart thing: Today was not going to be held hostage by a sub-.500 team, not a day after we spent well over $100 and an entire afternoon watching said mediocre team get three hits off Dontrelle Willis.

Only. Well. Except. Walking across town to Shake Shack, I became acutely aware that it was game time. Game time, and I didn't know what was happening. I couldn't have brought a radio? A few Shackburgers and a caramel shake pushed the vague sense of guilt away, but then the 60-something woman at the table behind us started chatting with a couple in line about the Mets. “I can't stand that Offerman,” she brayed in that inimitable New Yawk way. “Why'd they bring him up?” The couple said they had a radio, and there was no score early. “That Ishii,” the woman said in disgust before swiftly moving on to Looper, who was “no good.” They should have stuck with Benitez, and look how we used to complain about him?

Clearly one of us.

“Benitez is hurt,” Emily interjected. We asked the couple what was the score again. Now out-fanatic'ed on two fronts, they had started to look vaguely panicky. It wasn't a debacle, at least not yet. We were able to determine that much.

On the subway, Joshua expressed his certainty that when we got home, he was going to further plumb the subtleties of “Maisy,” the vaguely British cartoon mouse whose cheerfully mundane doings rule our TiVo.

“Mommy and Daddy are watching the game,” he was told.

We tuned in to see the replay of Wright in a rundown, Reyes moving by fits and starts to third, and Woodward (initially almost unnoticed) doing something bad to his leg — far too much to take in at a glance, let alone when you've just arrived and are trying to get the basics of score and inning.

Washington 2, New York 1. Top of the seventh. First and third. One out. Not as promising as things had been a moment before we turned on the TV, but not hopeless by any means. Then Daubach strikes out. Groans. They've saved the worst for us, of course: We're just in time to see the team fold, to learn later what colossally typical blunder led to the rundown. Eleven out, what does it matter how many to play.

Only Cameron breaks his bat and drops a little flare behind second base. All tied up. Jubilation. “Did the man hit a home run?” asks Joshua. “No, but good enough,” I tell him. He tries on his storm-cloud face. Complicated, this baseball stuff.

Can Roberto hold it? He can. Then the ninth: Wright gets rung up on an evil Sunny Kim pitch, but Reyes beats out an infield hit — speed never goes into a slump and all that. Reyes obviously isn't leading off — what's up with that? He has to steal here. Can he? Kim is keeping him close. Can Gary Bennett throw? He wasn't a Met long enough for me to remember. Jose swipes the bag. Can the other Jose — the elderly, butterfingered one who shouldn't be on this team — bring him home? He can! Perhaps the woman from Shake Shack should think better of him, at least for today. Perhaps so should we.

But Looper awaits, so 3-2 Mets isn't going to cut it. We need some insurance — like, say, batting around a time or two. That doesn't happen, but Cameron doubles and the resurgent Beltran singles him home for a 5-2 lead. By now, a brief Emily errand has caused a TiVo pause of a few minutes' duration, so when Looper climbs the hill to face Vinny Castilla I'm hoping the game is, in fact, already over. (And baseball gods please note I don't mean in the Opening-Day-in-Cincy way.)

It is! We win! And immediately I'm swept up in all the usual Met madness I'd dammed away for six unseen innings: Back to .500. Hey, nine out. Sweep these damn Nats and we're six out, that's not so bad. Jose finally got dropped in the lineup, Willie's getting it. But Wright's still hitting behind Anderson, what's up with that? Ohhh, it's the L/R/L/R thing again. Can that really be more important than getting a high-value hitter like Wright more at-bats? Maybe some sabermetrics genius can take it apart and issue a ruling. What did those damn Braves, Phils and Marlins do today? And hey, when the heck is tomorrow's game….

Happy Dependence Day, everybody!

It's that time again. No, not time to flail helplessly against Livan Hernandez, Chad Cordero and the powerhouse National pitching staff that is poised to bury us 14 games deep into last place. It's time for yet another installment of the Faith and Fear Short-Season Awards.

For those of you just tuning in, at the end of the first month or so of the season, we ripped off paid homage to Joe Gergen's old bit in Newsday and rushed to judge the Mets based on a limited body of work. It went over so well, we decided to make this a fractional tradition after the second-sixth of the season and honor the best and worst of the Mets during that particular 16.666666667% of the schedule.

Having just witnessed the Mets play games 55 (6/4) through 81 (7/3), we now present the Third Edition of the Sixthies.

Freude Mets

1. Cliff Floyd: Hey now, you're an All-Star to us.

2. Pedro Martinez: Hey now, you're the whole galaxy.

3a. Charlon Woonderson: He's great no matter where he plays.

3b. Mars Andward: Him, too.

4. Jose Reyes: It must be nice to outrun your flaws.

5. Victor Zambrano: Can you believe Tampa Bay traded a bulldog like him for an unproven minor leaguer?

Schaden Mets

1. Kaz Ishii: Norfolk's beautiful this time of year.

2. Tom Glavine: So is San Diego, big shot.

3. David Wright: Take a deep breath and try not to think when you field.

4. Braden Looper: You pick the worst times, I swear.

5. Gerald Williams: Granted, he hasn't done anything. And he never will.

Most Runyonesque* Episode

1. This is the way old “Marlon” Anderson ran last month, running his home run home. This is the way old “Marlon” Anderson ran running his home run home in a Met victory by a score of 5 to 3 in the second game of an interleague series in 2005. This is the way old “Marlon” Anderson ran, running his home run home, when there was one out in the ninth inning and the score was Angels 2 Mets 1 and the ball was still bounding inside the Met yard. This is the way —

2. His mouth wide open. His warped old legs bending beneath him at every stride. His arms flying back and forth like those of a man swimming with a crawl stroke. His flanks heaving, his breath whistling, his head far back.

3. Angel infielders, passed by old “Marlon” Anderson as he was running his home run home, say “Marlon” was muttering to himself, adjuring himself to greater speed as a jockey mutters to his horse in a race, that he was saying: “Go on, Marlon! Go on!” People generally laugh when they see old “Marlon” Anderson run, but they were not laughing when he was running his home run home last month. People — 34,000 of them, men and women — were standing in the Met stands and bleachers out there in Flushing roaring sympathetically, whether they were for or against the Mets. “Come on, Marlon!” The warped old legs, twisted and bent by many a year of baseball campaigns, just barely held out under “Marlon” Anderson until he reached the plate, running his home run home. Then they collapsed.

4. They gave out just as old “Marlon” Anderson slid over the plate in his awkward fashion with Jose Molina futilely reaching for him with the ball. “Larry” Young, the Major League umpire, poised over him in a set pose, arms spread wide to indicate that old “Marlon” was safe.

5. Half a dozen Mets rushed forward to help “Marlon” to his feet, to hammer him on the back, to bawl congratulations in his ears as he limped unsteadily, still panting furiously, to the bench where Willie L. Randolph, the chief of the Mets, relaxed his stern features to smile for the man who had tied the game. “Marlon” Anderson's warped old legs, neither of them broken not so long ago, wouldn't carry him out for the top half of the next inning when the Angels made a dying effort to undo the damage done by “Marlon.” His place in the lineup was taken by “Braden” Looper, whose legs are still unwarped, and “Marlon” sat on the bench with Willie Randolph.

Other Life-Affirming Moments

1. The CliffMonsta battles Brendan Donnelly for about an hour and wins.

2. Pedro throws a no-hitter against the Astros…except for the two hits he gives up (a mere technicality).

3. Call-and-response exercise wherein Gary Cohen says “Fly ball to center. Should be playable for Bernie Williams…” and I ask “or is it?”

4. Carlos Beltran blasts one out in Oakland when somebody not named Pedro has started.

5. Mike Cameron doesn't go to the Skanques for some jerk who doesn't want to be here and we don't want him no way no how, unless maybe…NO! Screw you, Sheffield.

Why Life Needs Affirming

1. 2-7 against the American League West.

2. Jose Offerman, first baseman.

3. Fucking Looper in the fucking ninth inning in the fucking Bronx. FUCK!

4. Except for the Sunday night half of the doubleheader against the Giants, we haven't won a home game all year on a Sunday. The “day of rest” thing isn't meant for you, fellas.

5. Upon closer inspection, the Times Piazza pin is a little blurry.

Key Transactions

1. ANNOUNCED: New York City will support an Olympic bid that will allow a new Mets ballpark to be built whether the Olympics come here or not. Or so they say now.

2. RELEASED: Aaron Heilman, from the mound at Safeco Field too soon when he could have done us some good.

3. DESIGNATED FOR ASSIGNMENT: More than half of the Opening Day bullpen. Woo-hoo!

4. RECALLED: Carlos Beltran's legs and his ability to use them.

5. INELIGIBLE TO PLAY: Mike Piazza's right arm, but it keeps insisting on making throws anyway.

Phrases I Thought I Might Get To Use But Didn't

1. I can't wait until they release him and turn him into Mike DeGone.

2. Abreu sliced through Manny like he was a stick of Hotel Aybar Butter.

3. With a name like Mientkiewicz, he must really know how to stretch.

4. Thankfully, Omar wasn't addled enough to sign Danny Graves.

5. It'll be a tough homestand, but at least we get four games in Washington after it's over.

*A classic play deserves a classic description. Damon Runyon penned this account of Casey Stengel's game-winning inside-the-park homer in the 1923 World Series when the Giants took on the Yankees. Eighty-two years hence, only the salient facts have been altered.

“Joshua, do you know you saw Dontrelle Willis pitch back before you even knew you loved baseball?”

“The D-Train? Really?”

“Yep. It was early in his career — we were still getting used to the D-Train thing then. That Reed Richards leg kick still made our eyes pop. And back then we hadn't gotten it through our heads that he could really hit, too.”

“Wow, Dad. How many wins did he have back then? Hey, did I see his 100th win?”

“Nope. He was just 23 years old. You saw … let's see. Win Number 37. You were more interested in ice cream and pushing the seat up and down and the bag of the woman in the row behind us, because it had giraffes and lions and birds on it. You were only two and a half. But Dontrelle beat us in just 2 hours and 20 minutes, so it was the first time you stayed for an entire big-league game. That was nice of him, at least.”

“It wasn't my first game?”

“No. You don't want to know about your first game, trust me. Ask Uncle Greg about it some time.”

“I was two? So this was at Shea, not Federated First Union Bankshares Field?”

“Yeah, it was at Shea. Boy, do I not miss that old rattletrap.”

“I know, I know. I've heard the stories. So how many did Dontrelle strike out?”

“Just seven. But it was a three-hit shutout. We barely touched him all day.”

“Not even David Wright got a hit?”

“Not even David Wright. He was young then too, you know. Lined out to end the game. It was kind of a crazy ninth inning — Dontrelle hit Mike Cameron, fanned Carlos Beltran, Mike Piazza hit a hard bouncer that Dontrelle snagged, and Wright lined out. But even though it was only 3-0, you knew we didn't have a chance.”

“That was Piazza's last year as a Met, right?”

“Right. Wish we could have gotten him a ring, but the Nationals just ran off and hid, and we yo-yo'ed around .500 all year. You know, come to think of it, Piazza was the first player you cheered for. The crowd was yelling 'Let's Go Mets' in the ninth and you looked out at the field and said, 'Get a hit, Mike!' Your mom and I were very proud of you.”

“Dad, if you get all Harry Chapin on me, I'm outta here. Shutout by the D-Train. You must have been booing like crazy.”

“Me? Boo Dontrelle? No way. Nobody could boo Dontrelle. Baseball could use a dozen more just like him.”

“Who started for us?”

“Victor Zambrano. Pitched pretty well, but got the loss.”

“The guy we traded Scott Kazmir for?”

“Yep.”

“Why do we always make these stupid trades?”

“That's a good question. Still, you have to understand Victor actually turned into a pretty good pitcher. He gets a bad rap.”

“Right, dad. And what's his name…Jim Fregosi was a great third baseman.”

“Broke his finger in spring — oh, never mind. You know, you saw a few great players that day. Here, look at the box score.”

“Reyes and Wright, that's pretty cool. And Miguel Cabrera! But wait…oh, I guess that was before he won the Triple Crown as a Yankee.”

“Yeah, goddamn it. I remember one day that summer we were watching the game on TV and you turned around and announced, 'We don't like the Yankees.' We figured you'd turn out OK after that.”

“What'd I tell you about getting all sentimental, Pop?”

“Sorry.”

“It's OK. Thanks for showing me that old box score. It was pretty cool to look at.”

“My pleasure. Hey, you realize you got a chance to see Jose Offerman and Gerald Williams play, too?”

“Who?”

“Nothing, kid. Bad joke.”

I'm tellin' ya, fellas, it'll be easy. They'll never even know we're not tryin'. Here's everybody's assignments.

Kris: We're gonna getcha a lead. Not too much a lead. First we'll have one'a those innings this team always has. Ya know, make a coupla outs, then get some guys on and then when it's time ta turn it into something…WHAMO! Nothin'! Goose eggs, I tell ya. So anyway, ya get a lead, but then ya give it away. How? We'll get ta that in a minute.

Carlos: Everybody's gonna be watchin' ya, pretty boy, because they're givin' away yer doll. And I don't mean Mrs. B, wink, wink. Hey, no offense, brother. You'se neither, Kris. This is what ya gotta do, CB. Give the folks a show, ya know what I mean? Go make a fancy catch. Get a coupla doubles. I know ya save yer dingers for Pedro, but ya can double a coupla times for our boy Kris, can'tcha? I knew that ya could. But here's the kicker. I wantcha ta make like that doll and pose with the bat. Yeah, that's it. Do that after ya pop the ball up towards first base. Don't move a muscle. Just stand there. The ball will be fair and everything will be taken care of.

Jose: You, kid — yer a good kid, but yer gonna have some bad things happen today, ya got me? Yer gonna drop a throw from the catcher. Don't gimme that look, the throw'll get ta ya, trust me. And yer gonna be on base when Carlos here makes like that statue a'his. We'll letcha get on in the middle'a that one inning where we score, but that's gonna be it. Okey-doke, maybe twice, but no more. Gotta make it look legit but we can't go overboard. If we do, we might actually win.

Mike: Yer gonna make that throw ta Jose over here. But otherwise, I wanna see balls flyin' every which way except ta second base or third base. Got me? Also, we fixed it so that knucklehead Mota comes in late. I wantcha ta get all hot and bothered that this is the same guy ya tried ta strangle within an inch'a his life a coupla spring trainings ago. And I want that frustration ta get the best'a ya. No gettin' even with him, capesh?

Other Mike: Out in center. Make an error or somethin'. The first Mike can't keep throwin' balls yer way all day. After ya do that, that'll be the signal for Kris — ya payin' attention? — ta mishandle a ball hit ta yer right. Pick it up if ya want, but don't do nothin' with it. Ya got make sure the bases get loaded for that Encarnacion character. When he comes up, ya don't get in his way. Are we clear, Kris?

Miguel: Yer lookin' pretty anxious ta help. That gives me a brilliant idea. When ya come in, no matter the situation, yer job is ta swing right away. First pitch. Don't even think about it. No usin' yer noodle. Just swing. The cards will fall where the cards will fall.

Danny: Ya've done enough just by showin' up, but I like yer initiative. Hit Encarnacion with the bases loaded. That'll be plenty. We don't wanna be too obvious. What? How do I know the bases'll be loaded? Let's just say I know.

OK, everybody got their assignment? Lessee…there's seven'a ya on board, and for this ta work without any screwups, we're gonna need eight men out there who know what ta do.

Yeah, definitely eight men out. So I'll be the eighth. What'll I do? Obviously you'se guys don't know me very well yet.

I already got Willie ta start me at first today. Believe you'se me, I'll take it from there.

Well, it was fun. Now here we are in more-familiar confines: Last place, .500 record.

We were heading out to dinner and wound up behind a gaggle of depressed Brooklyn Heights Met fans who'd obviously just returned from the game: They'd stripped off their gear and were holding their Beltran bobbleheads glumly, like they wanted to discard them but were still holding out hopes of making the ticket price back on eBay. Kind of said it all.

What a nasty sixth inning. Bobble by Cameron. Benson has to put a ball in his pocket. Horrifying error by Offerman. (How many times did Red Sox fans get to say that? Why is he on this team?) Reyes doesn't get the tag down on a rare good throw by Piazza.

Come to think of it, the ninth wasn't a lot of fun either: Graves hit Encarnacion (whom we can't get out no matter what we do) and Anderson failed to execute an ill-advised behind-the-back flip. (I may be wrong, but to me it looked like he had time to turn and fire a conventional throw.)

In our half of the ninth, I officially gave up hope when Offerman strode to the plate and Gerald Williams moved into the on-deck circle. If you told me in March I'd see that combination in July, I would have assumed I'd be watching an old-timers game out of boredom. Nope, just the Mets letting the rotting corpses of last millennium's average players clog up roster spots that might otherwise be used to evaluate players under 30 who might actually have some use beyond this summer. (Such a shame Brian Daubach didn't get a chance to hit, while we're on the subject.)

We're nine behind the Nationals. It's getting harder and harder to say they can be caught. Though maybe if we bring up Benito Santiago and coax Mike Sharperson out of retirement….

Hope you get an enjoyable visit today — we'll be there tomorrow for Joshua's second-ever Mets game. He's very excited, though I'm not sure how we're going to handle the fact that he's somehow gotten it into his head that he's going to play. (Perhaps I've been telling him too many tales of the 2003 Mets.) Between Victor's statue act on the mound and the D-Train poised to blow through us, Mommy and Daddy may inadvertently teach him some new words.

Last night we had friends from out of town over and so I watched our heroics and anti-heroics with the sound off, a tacit compromise that seemed to please everyone. It made for somewhat odd watching toward the end, though — Woonderson's double/go-ahead single seemed to come out of nowhere without crowd noise to ratchet up the tension, and it was eerie to watch Looper's great escape in silence. Still, I had no trouble imagining the boos as Delgado cruised into second, and Emily's growl of disgust was a perfectly serviceable stand-in.

On the other hand, Mike Lowell's misery needed no additional senses to grasp. I really do feel sorry for Lowell. Or rather, I will be happy to shake my head in sympathy come Monday.

THB Update: Dae-Sung Koo got a card in Upper Deck Series 2. I'm sure it will be the most-cherished possession of every schoolboy in America. So much for the card of him in Orix Blue Wave togs that I acquired with considerable difficulty. (Actually it was fall-off-a-log easy thanks to eBay, but it seems like it should have been hard.) That card's back is mostly in another language, but I imagine it says things like this:

• Once assaulted a man for mispronouncing his name and prefers to be referred to with honorfics

• Struck long double as Daejeon Prefecture School No. 45 defeated Rural Junior Academy No. 12, 5/3/77, and dreams of doing so again

• He is better than Mike DeJean, so stop whining

They're one person, I've decided. It's just easier that way. Charlon Woonderson is the best darn IF/OF/PH we've had since I don't know when. Wearing No. 184 (or sometimes 418), he comes in wherever and whenever required and gets the job done.

• Need to get a guy on? Woonderson!

• Need someone to drive him in? Woonderson!

• All out of second basemen? Woonderson!

• Is a great play in order? You know who to call.

Rando's Commandoes, who first reared their beautiful heads in mid-April, are still at it halfway through the season. Willie's bench has not let him down, certainly not Charlon Woonderson, the personification of versatility…squared. He has made us forget about ol' whatshisname, not to mention that other one who disappeared though I hear he's coming back Saturday.

This team ain't flawless — sometimes it's downright flawful — but you can't blame the reserves, particularly the ones (I mean one) who have (has) been playing with regularity lately and accomplishing things with assuring consistency. The Marlins learned about all the manager's men Friday night, particularly in the eighth when Woonderson, with an assist from co-commando Ramon Castro, manufactured the winning run. With Beltran and Martinez around, the inclination is to follow the money, but where would the Mets be without their afterthoughts?

Woonderson is terrific. Castro, even if he doesn't have the cachet of a Tank, gets timely hits and receives the ball competently. Jose Offerman, though his being here seems like a gag, hasn't been retired yet (two hits, one hit by pitch). Brian Daubach bears a striking resemblance to Vince Vaughn and he was the only who looked remotely like a swinger on the West Coast. I hear Gerald Williams likes children and animals and is a friend to everybody even if he isn't a shortstop.

Not a bad group considering they've been pressed into service in unexpected spots and practically none of them was as much as a slow roller in our collective consciousness when the swallows returned to Port St. Lucie in February. We were all about McEwing and Phillips and Valent and Galarraga and Ron Calloway and Kerry Robinson and maybe even Luis Garcia (I just found out he opted for free agency at the beginning of June, satisfying my curiosity over why he wasn't called up to play some first).

Oh…and Cairo. I keep forgetting about Cairo, returning from witness protection at last. That reminds me:

Go down Victor

Way down in Norfolk land

Tell Omar Minaya

Let me play first

Regarding other precincts, it's imperative that we thrash the Fish the rest of the weekend. They're allegedly the team to beat in this division. I don't think so but why take chances? I feared them after they peeled themselves off the Soilmaster at True Playa and took two from the Braves. Might that have been the big turnaround the Baseball Tonight types have been telling us has been on its way since April? Not to read too much into two games, but our winning or, better yet, sweeping (as if we ever win on Sunday afternoon at home) this series would go a long way toward keeping that from happening.

They're a talented bunch but they don't seem that deep. I'll take Woonderson over the 99th Greatest Met of the First Forty Years and whoever he's waving a towel with these days. In any event, we have, for at least a night and a morning, pawed our way above the Phillies. Would be nice to hit the Fourth in third. We're getting to the point where it's beginning to matter.

Not to look ahead (“Today is our most important game of the season because it's the one we play today” or words to that effect –B. Valentine) or too far off to either side, but the Nationals are presenting a problem. I listened to them play the Cubs Friday afternoon. If they lost, we could've been at that moment 7-1/2 games out of first. But if the Cubs lost, we'd pick up ground on them, the only non-East Wild Card contender. This is getting complicated, but it beats the simplicity of being, say, 30-49.

Anyway, the Nationals won as they tend to do often, something beyond our control until Monday. But there are Fish to filet in the meantime. I'll be in the mezzanine Saturday afternoon cradling my Carlos Beltran bobblehead doll. Actually, we get most of the doll when we pass through the turnstiles, and then they'll mail out the missing 5% of his right bobblequad when it's completely healed.

On the evening of May 31st, fresh from not playing a baseball game on Memorial Day, we were 26-26. In June, we went 13-13. It's July 1 and our record stands at 39-39. (This is my version of sabermetrics.)

In the New York Times, Lee Jenkins can't seem to stand the sight of us, starting his description of our sixth win in nine games this way: “Four out of five days, the Mets are easy to ignore, a quintessential .500 club that is last in its division and stuck in a summer malaise.”

Huh? Did the boys play the three-man-lift trick on poor Lee before yesterday's game? First of all, there's no such thing as a quintessential .500 team — compare the moods in say, the camps of the Yankees (39-38) and the A's (38-40). Or the Phillies (40-39) and us. .500 can feel like an accomplishment or a debacle — and if you're a team that yo-yos above and below it all spring, you can get acquainted with both feelings multiple times. We've learned something about that: By my count (more sabermetrics) we've hit .500 on the rise 10 times this year, and touched it on the decline seven times.

Seriously, how are we anything like the Yankees, Blue Jays, A's, Phillies or Tigers, to pick a few other corks bobbing on the surface? The Yankees are on the verge of panic, caught between trying to jump-start an old, flawed team with more money or tear it down and rebuild. The A's and Tigers are jubilant, enjoying the sight of their young players finally clicking. The Phillies are in habitual disarray, for the umpteenth season in a row seeking a psychological explanation for how such a talented roster can produce so little. Between the AL thing and the Canada thing I couldn't tell you Thing One about the Blue Jays, but I'm sure there's something unique going on there too.

Nor do I see a summer malaise. Not when I look at a team that's won three series in a row — if we do that through the finish line, I'll keep my October schedule clear. And not when I look at the current roster. I see a team still in transition and overdue for some moves, but not one going down the drain or doomed to ride out the schedule in mediocrity.

I see David Wright having a terrific offensive year and showing signs that he's calming down and beating a case of the youthful yips at third. I see Jose Reyes maturing dramatically in the field and developing good baseball instincts to go with his considerable talent. I see Carlos Beltran's speed coming back. I see Mike Cameron quietly becoming a better-rounded hitter while losing nary a thing in switching from center to right. I see Cliff Floyd enjoying a hard-won, much-deserved career year.

I see Pedro Martinez becoming everything his champions thought he'd be and more. I see Victor Zambrano taking Rick Peterson's lessons to heart, even if putting them into practice needs a bit more work. I see Kris Benson making people talk about his pitching and not his wife. I see Aaron Heilman with better stuff and more faith in that stuff, a couple of recent blips notwithstanding. I see Heath Bell continuing to do a terrific job stranding inherited runners. I see Royce Ring showing signs that he could be deadly on lefties. I see Roberto Hernandez still enjoying a renaissance.

I see Willie Randolph commanding the roster and the clubhouse with a firm, patient hand. (Maybe a little too patient, but that's better than not patient enough.) I don't see Omar Minaya, but that's because I assume he's working the phones somewhere. I have seen him thinking big without selling off crucial young talent, which is the way to go — even if the thought of Gary Sheffield made us nervous/angry/sick.

Do we have flaws beyond the bad luck (in our case, injuries and poor performances at first and second) that happens to every team? Indeed we do: Some of our young guys are too young and some of our old guys are too old, and some games it feels like the two are pulling in opposite, equally bad directions. Do we have problems that are hard to fix? Yes — Mike Piazza's decline needs to be managed (though he's still an awfully potent bat for a catcher), we're stuck with Tom Glavine in the rotation and there's little chance of fixing the Kaz Matsui disaster in-season. Have Willie and Omar been a little too patient at times? I think so: It's past time to drop Kaz Ishii from the rotation, move Wright up in the lineup, stop wasting roster spots on Dae-Sung Koo and Victor Diaz and see what Jae Seo would add.

But as for the rest, let's hang in there. The Nats aren't going to go 20-6 with an 0.00 ERA from their closer every month. We're just 3.5 out of the wild card. I think this 39-39, .500 team as of July 1 is better-constructed and stronger than the 0-0, .500 team of April 4. And I have faith that Willie and Omar will do the right things to keep us on the upward path, and make some of those overdue decisions soonest. The cliche is you find out what you have in April and May, get what you need in June and July, and go for it in August and September. We're a little behind the curve on phase two of that operation, perhaps, but not too late by any means.

Our glass of Metdom? Definitely half-full.

Because the ninth belongs to us…

Hey, Braden Looper isn't permanently damaged by his world-ending implosion Sunday night. All saves aren't created equal, but all saves have their place in the course of a season, and it's good to see Loop ain't dead yet.

Maybe we are, maybe we aren't, but there was fun today. Pedro as ever. Jose was three times the fun with another triple. Woody had the lumber at bat and didn't splinter when playing first. Carlos rediscovered his missing tool and stole two bags in the same inning. Let's just say we do OK against the Phillies, having taken two of three in two consecutive series against them and four of six in other configurations early in the season.

We don't see them again until very late August, so it's probably OK to mention this: Bobby Abreu didn't bother us at all.

There. I said it. DUCK!

That's all right. He's got lots of talented, scary friends. And there are still teams in Miami and Washington with the ability to hurt us. But you say Abreu, I say boo.

I'm a big man when the best player in the division is suddenly two months away from reappearing in our shaky midst.

In the bottom of the second, with Mike Piazza at bat, Phillies' catcher Todd Pratt didn't like Alfonso Marquez calling a ball on what Tank was sure was strike three. An instant after expressing his displeasure, he was ejected.

“Todd Pratt,” judged Fran Healy, “must've said the magic words.”

Shoot, take the magic words out of Todd Pratt's vocabulary and he has nothing to say.

Maybe he didn't much care for being Piazza's caddy after all.