There are 115 games of baseball straight ahead. Tell us that on a windy, wintry Wednesday afternoon and we'd sign up for them, right? If we were told that more than a thousand innings of baseball lie right in front of us, starting tonight and going on for five months and change, we wouldn't ask questions. We'd take 'em. We'd bring a suitcase to carry 'em all home.

And we should do that as May ends, too. We should enjoy every pitch, starting with the first one Frank Castillo throws in Miami Thursday night. It's baseball. Better yet, it's Mets baseball.

I'm laying out the obvious here because no matter what happens this weekend, there will still be a thousand innings left. A thousand innings of our favorite thing in the world. A thousand innings of balls and strikes and runs and hits and errors and irritation and jubilation and wins and losses. It won't be all good, but it's, you know, all good.

But as certain as the schedule is, as sure as we can be that there will be, give or take for rain and extras, a thousand innings remaining, we can be pretty certain about something else:

If the Mets play in Florida like they played in Atlanta, the competitive portion of the season is probably over.

This isn't talk-radio panic. It's not panic at all. It's just a tentative conclusion based on observation, 47 games' worth of evidence and, most importantly, the 115 games that remain. Particularly the first four.

Getting swept by the Braves was the wrong thing to do at this juncture. No need to recite all the historical antecedents that you and I can recite backward and forward. We've seen this act before and we've seen the spike it can drive into the heart of a season. What makes it different in 2005 is the Braves can't disappear us by themselves. That's where this weekend comes in.

We're five back of the Marlins and about to play them four times. Treat Aquatic Mammal Stadium as if it's Turner Field and that's the ballgame. That's nine out with 111 to play. Then it's over before it really started. No kidding. I don't think we recover if we don't get it together ASAP. Yeah, there's always the Wild Card and nobody who figures to fight for it figures to run away with it, but if we're 23-28 by Sunday night, what right will we have to expect the turnaround of what would have to be fairly epic proportions to keep us in something resembling a race?

What a shame it would be to reach that nadir so soon. Paid advertising aside, the New Mets seemed really promising for most of April. Opening Day (the home version) and Pedro's Shea debut were so much fun given that they promised so much more to come. The hunger in the air was palpable because those crowds, those sellout crowds, could taste the possibilities. Who would have dreamed that the season may have peaked then and there?

The quality of our play is enough of a cause for concern. Beyond that, the schedule has a little party up its sleeve for us. Look around, partner, because it's gonna go down where you stand. We have struggled (and thus far failed) to maintain mediocrity without facing a single game west of Addison Street. There are three trips pending that carry the Mets into Pacific Daylight and Mountain Standard: OAK-SEA in June; SD-LA in August; ARZ-SF slightly thereafter. The American League entrants are awful but they are awful far away, too. Long distance has always been enough of an excuse to scramble the Mets' equilibrium. The N.L. West teams are all sorting themselves out but none appears to be cake.

That's nineteen dates due to cause us trouble. Toss in a week of COL-HOU, both weak sisters, but both on the road. Now it's 26 games that are lurking in the wilds of the west. Oh, and four in St. Louis in September when it may not matter anymore. That's 30 geographically unfriendly stops in our future.

There's no rule saying the Mets have to go, say, 10-20 out in the great wide open. But would you bet on much better having seen how this team plays away from Shea and knowing what they do as a rule when they travel that far? Without looking up everybody's docket, I know Atlanta has already been to San Diego. Washington has played in San Francisco. Florida's seen Chavez Ravine. Our divisional rivals have already had to take at least a little bite out of their western obligations. We haven't. That's what worries me.

That and the continually erratic starting, unpredictable relieving, airloose defense and that old chestnut, lack of hitting. Bet we didn't realize just how well Carlos Beltran was doing when he was quietly — with one quad not quite right — doing it. The lineup, especially with Cameron batting third, suddenly looks like something out of a year ago. It's no coincidence that we're 0-4 since Beltran last started. (It is probably a coincidence that we're 0-3 since Mike went gooey for Rush Limbaugh, but no good can possibly come of that, either.)

We're not riding high into South Florida. Carlos isn't back. David isn't looking balls into his glove, at least not all of them. Jose keeps finding new ways to ground into double plays. Cliff and Mike come to the plate with bags over their heads. Marlon Anderson is playing way too much. The Marlins are flawed, but this isn't the best time to try to reel them in.

So if the numbers begin to conspire against us, is there anything to look forward to? Sure, there's Mets baseball, a thousand innings of it. Carlos will be back. David will keep getting better. Jose will find his holes. Cliff and Mike won't be done forever. Marlon can stick to pinch-hitting. The Mets will have their good days. They have a lot of games left at home where they can play with anyone.

In December, that would sound great. Nearing June, I don't know if that's enough to sate us. But it might have to.

Jeez Louise, Greg. Can't I trust you to safeguard this team for four lousy days? Sheesh!

P.S. I walked by a bar in a grotty section of San Francisco and it had a giant neon Yankees logo in the window. I don't think I've ever seen a piece of Giants anything in New York. What's wrong with people?

ATLANTA (FAF) — The New York Mets continued to be mired in an endless morass against their archrivals, the Braves, [day that game was played], losing [final score] at Turner Field.

Tom Glavine was

_ his usual effective self in pinning another defeat on the Mets.

_ beaten badly yet again by his old team.

X pitching pretty well until his old team finally got to him.

The Mets seemed to be catching a break in that they were facing

_ journeyman Andy Ashby,

_ a slumping Mike Hampton,

X Tim Hudson, unaccustomed to going on three days’ rest,

but were stymied nonetheless by a pitcher who rose to the occasion by throwing [number] strong innings in picking up the win.

New York had a big chance to get on the board in the [number] inning, but

_ was doomed by a questionable umpire’s call.

_ couldn’t cash in despite its manager’s use of several pinch-hitters and pinch-runners.

X left men on base when Cliff Floyd and Mike Piazza failed to deliver the key hit.

While the Braves’ starter certainly performed admirably, the visitors’ offense wasn’t helped by the continued hitting woes of the mysteriously slumping

_ Brian McRae.

_ Roberto Alomar.

X Doug Mientkiewicz.

The Mets’ frustration was best expressed by their skipper.

_ “I don’t really care what you thought,” said a testy Bobby Valentine. “They were the right moves when I made them and I’d make every one of them again tomorrow if they’re the right moves then.”

_ “My guys battled,” said a resigned Art Howe. “We’ll go out and try to get ’em tomorrow.”

X “If you are against a good pitcher like that, you have to take advantage of every opportunity you get,” said an increasingly exasperated Willie Randolph. “You’ve got to get on him early.”

Though the Mets are used to suffering at the hands of Atlanta stalwarts like Chipper Jones and Brian Jordan, the Braves who stuck the daggers in the Mets’ heart were little-used

_ Keith Lockhart and Eddie Perez.

_ Henry Blanco and Mark DeRosa.

X Wilson Betemit and Ryan Langerhans.

The loss leaves the Mets

_ gasping for air in their bid for the National League Wild Card.

_ all but eliminated in their late rush for a division title.

X suddenly five games behind the surging first-place Marlins.

In the series finale, the Mets will attempt to

_ break the Turner Field jinx that has haunted them for the first few years of the ballpark’s existence.

_ break the Turner Field curse that has conspired against them for the first half-dozen years that the ballpark’s been open for business.

X break the Turner Field hex that has been all too real to them for almost a decade since the ballpark began operations.

A's for Atlanta

Where Coke makes its Fanta

And the Mets gift the Braves

As if they were Santa

B is for Beltran

He's not a well man

His quad's day-to-day, what can ya say?

He's probably got a good health plan

C is for Cameron

And a bat that's been hammerin'

Trotted to first, the count three and two

“W-W-What?” was what we were stammerin'

D's for Disaster

The Mets are a master

More games like last night's

We'll wind up in last, sir

E is for E-Six

On a ball that normally he picks

A tack-on run, a little less fun

Say Jose, won't you please fix?

F is for Floyd

Whom righties avoid

He's like three for a hundred

And now I'm annoyed

G is for Giles

He wipes off our smiles

Makes no meaningful outs

And homers that carry for miles

H is for Horacio

No better than Astacio

His early RBI forgotten

By the time they aired the post-game show

I is for Ishii

His control is all quichey

Egg's on his face with runners on base

He oughta try pitching in Vichy

J is for Jordan

And Brian is hoardin'

New ways to milk our misery

Like the cows who're workin' for Borden

K is for Kill

Which the Braves do at will

What happens next?

The same old thing still

L is for Lose

That's hardly news

Keep your damn grits

Would y'all pass the booze?

M is for Mink

Fields as good as we think

But at .197

His average doth stink

N is for Nearly

How we beat them — yearly

The frequency of which

Feels familiar — eer'ly

O is for Out

Though Wright didn't pout

Don't throw your helmet

You're entitled to shout

P's for Piazza

Career hits? He's got lotsa

In a pinch in the ninth

He crumbled like matzoh

Q is for Queens

Where the Mets make their scenes

Their home record's amazin'

Their road mark's for beans

R's for Rafael

Furcal, you can tell

Will keep tormenting the Mets

Until he rots in hell

S is for Slide

But you can't veer too wide

Break up the play — have a nice day!

You'll watch the rest of the game from inside

T's for the Ted

Roll over, play dead

Turner Field refuses to yield

I feel this has often been said

U is for Ump

From the rulebook he'll jump

To inconsistent interference conclusions

And prove the man in blue is a hump

V's for Valent

Wonder where he went

In 2004, he was pretty darn good

His bat is apparently spent

W's for Willie

Not to blame if he's chilly

Ask him a lot why his team lost

After a while, it's you who'll feel silly

X is for X

Mets, cross out this hex

Delete these bad innings

Quit playing like wrecks

Y is for Yowl

Against the Braves I howl

I liked them much better

With Oddibe McDowell

Z's for Zambrano

Who pitches like guano

He's gonna follow Glavine

Not too soon to say “ah…no!”

So this afternoon (California time) I straggle back to my hotel room after a long day about equally divided between work and technical problems trying to prevent me from work, plop down on the bed, look at the clock and do the away-from-home math. Whoa, I think to myself, it's like 8:30 in New York. The boys are on.

A while back I'd signed up for MLB.TV as the opening gambit of a bid to evade the Cablevision blackout, a plan that happily never had to be put to a real-world test. I realize that, of course, I haven't remembered to cancel MLB.TV. Woo-hoo! Saved by my own disorganization! Time to see some baseball! And indeed, after a bit of fiddling, there's FSNY on my computer screen. It's 4-3 Braves, but with me supplying karmic power, surely that will soon change. Ain't technology from the decade of the 2000s wonderful?

And then, just as quickly, I'm looking at a still picture of Rafael Furcal frozen in mid-walk toward home plate from the on-deck circle. BUFFERING, the computer tells me. Now Furcal is standing at the plate. Then he's standing there but it seems no one is throwing a ball toward him. (Such a distinction is sometimes lost on those of us who've endured the Era of Trachsel.) Still picture. BUFFERING. Being stubborn, I start an ultimately vain battle with MLB.TV. Marcus Giles's home run makes it 7-3, but the full import of this doesn't sink in — I'm dealing with so many technical problems that this just seems like one more. BUFFERING. TRYING TO RE-ESTABLISH CONTACT WITH SERVER. I THREW A FLAT FASTBALL AND IT GOT HIT OVER A FENCE. BUFFERING.

It's only after I give up on MLB.TV that the pilot light that burns fitfully in my brain emits a feeble glow: This game is probably on TBS, dumbass. I flip around the hotel channels and whaddya know — there's beady-eyed Manny Aybar pitching well at garbage time. Ain't technology from the 1950s wonderful?

Only here's the thing. By now it's a bit after 6. I've only played some mild hooky at the end of a day so far, so no big whoop. But I have a dinner to go to at 7, and it can't be missed. What the hey, I'll watch the boys until 6:30 and then get ready. 6:30 turns into 6:45, and by now the game is interesting. Wright's single makes it 7-4. Then he makes an eye-popping play at third to keep me interested. Now it's the 8th, and really slightly past the time I should be heading for the lobby to meet my party, as they say in airports. But Reyes singles off some Anonybrave name of Adam Bernero, Pete Orr makes a fairly grotesque error, and we're making some noise. It's like 6:48. What the heck, I can walk fast. Mike Cameron has a long at-bat, which normally would be saluted by me but now makes me agitated. He walks. 6:51 or so. I can walk really fast sometimes. Cliff Floyd pops out, and I'd be angry, except Cliff is angrier than I am anyway. Hang with 'em, Cliff. 6:52 or so. I'll run. Or fly, or figure out how to teleport myself, but I'm not leaving, because David Wright is hotter than lava, and my favorite Met, and clearly something wonderful is about to happen. 6:53. No one is ever on time for these things — 7:01 won't kill me. Wright walks — see Cameron, above. 6:55. You've got to be kidding me, they're changing pitchers. Once again Bobby Cox is determined to kill me. 6:57. Mientkiewicz's in danger of falling below the Mendoza line, but I have faith. He hit .300 not so long ago. He's due. He's overdue. It gets to 2-2 and I think, This is the first pitch of the rest of your life, Minky. Jack one and send me sprinting to dinner mildly apologetic but wildly happy.

Smack! Uh-oh. That one's tailor-made. Except Wright takes out Furcal! And the ball is thrown away! That means it's 7-6! No, wait! It's 7-7! Yes! 6:59. Time to run like hell.

What the…? Hold up with that remote finger. Wright is arguing. Willie's on the field. The Braves are leaving. Oh no. No. They never call that. It can't be. Wow, Wright is furious. I've never seen Wright furious. He's out. That means it's just 7-6. Oh wait, no. It's 7-5. 7:00. I'm officially late. But what the hell? What just happened?

TBS shows the replay. I feel my fury wither into grumpiness. Wright pretty clearly deserves an interference call.

7-5. 7-5 and I'm late. I slink out the door grumbling. And when I finally get to check on things, much later, the final outcome seems preordained.

Note to our readers: Appropriately enough, technical difficulties took Faith and Fear in Flushing underground for the duration of the Subway Series. All posts relating to Friday's disaster and Saturday's epiphany are now available for your scrolling, gleaning, perusing and absorption. We apologize for the protracted disappearance. The problem can be attributed to QuesTec; the poor condition of the Shea infield; the relentless wind blowing in from center; a nagging quad; failure to cover home; Congress sticking its nose into drug-testing policy; and the undermanned, inexperienced RFK Stadium grounds crew. In any event, it's somebody else's fault.

They were physical errors. But it was mental torture.

Don't cry for me, San Francisco, or wherever you are. Save your tears for my buddy Jim the Illustrator, my surprise accompaniment for the third game of the Subway Series. He went to two of these things: Friday night and Sunday afternoon. Talk about being the parentheses on the wrong sides of history. We were having such a nice time yesterday, each of us about to break personal losing streaks against Evil Inc. that it was easy to ignore the signs around us.

Baseball is all about signs. Signs on the scoreboard. Signs on the outfield fence. Signs from the coaching box. Those were the signs Joe Torre had in mind Saturday morning when he called a quick meeting to change the signs fearing that some combination of Willie Randolph and Miguel Cairo might be wise to them from their tenure over there. Everybody denied everything, but nobody denied the importance of signs.

I didn't want to ruin Jim's good time yesterday. I didn't want to ruin mine either. But I could sense there were signs that a game the Mets led rather handily 3-1 through seven innings wasn't really going all that well. Those are the signs baseball displays in spades — the signs that you know in your bones are looming. They're usually not good signs.

Sign No. 1: Too Much Heaven

The whole bit's a little too festive to begin with. We're not blasé enough to pretend it's just another game, but it does creep me out some that the Mets and their fans (myself included) all but unfurl banners reading YOU COMPLETE US when the Subway Series rolls around, as if the other 78 home games just aren't valid enough. You can't deny a Mets-Yankees game is unlike a Mets-Diamondbacks game, but it's dangerous to vest it with too much authority. Despite the exploits of the Koos and the Esteses and the Mlickis through the years, we never get as much tangible back in return considering all the emotion we put in.

I was excited when I heard the rotation had been tinkered with to allow Pedro to face the Skanques. Then I caught myself. I can't worry about their storylines. I don't care what he said when he was a Red Sock. He's a Met. I was just glad he was pitching for us and was hoping this hip business wasn't serious.

On the actual subway to the Subway Series, I found three college-age guys wearing Pedro wigs and Pedro t-shirts and bearing K-dro Korner placards. Like I said, very festive. It's nice to be into it. But would K'dro be getting his own Korner if the opponents were the Pirates? These guys got off at 90th Street. Somebody yelled to them “this isn't Shea!” They responded, “We know. We gotta go buy beer.” (They did and reappeared in the mezzanine and even on DiamondVision later.)

Not everybody wore a wig, but everybody was excited beyond what the fourth Sunday in May would usually engender. That's not a bad thing. I guess.

Sign No. 2: Yes, Yes, A-Rod Sucks

I went to the very first Yankees @ Mets game in 1998. It was an overwhelming experience. Just seeing so many of Them approaching Our house was jarring. What were They doing here? It was the loudest night I ever spent in a ballpark. Nobody would give any ground to anybody else. When the actual game started, Al Leiter threw a strike to Chuck Knoblauch. A roar went up. He then threw a ball. A roar went up. There were few roarless intervals because something was always happening that was to the liking of some large portion of the large crowd (though ultimately, there was little to like after Paul O'Neill stuck it to Mel Rojas). It was very much like that (but with better results) in 1999, a little less so over the following three seasons.

You may recall the last time we went through one of these crucibles together in 2002 — you, me, the Human Fight, Armandblow Blownitez in the ninth, Komiyama giving it up to the wrongly clad Ventura in the tenth, me stalking off the 7 at Fifth Ave. in a sizzling-since-Shea rage and you and the HF pulling me back on board because we were a stop shy of Times Square. I was too blinded by disgust to notice my surroundings. After that, I took a sensible hiatus from the wars.

Yesterday, the festiveness was missing something. It was the roar. There was not the back-and-forth that made the Subway Series famous. Part of it was the Mets Marketing Dept. doing its job, apparently. Sure, there were Skanque fans, but from where I sat and looked, not in disturbingly high numbers. Maybe a quarter of the crowd was bastardly. Maybe less. They were outnumbered by Us. Outnumbered, outyelled and, most importantly, outmotivated. I don't think I was the only one among 55,953 (where do they keep finding the additional seats?) monitoring the Collapse-O-Meter.

So when this game got going and matters started going badly for the visitors, the euphoria was tangible. Pedro walks to the pen to warm up. A few boos but mostly a ROAR! Pedro gets into a jam. A little audible, roarless smirking. Pedro works out of it. Total ROAR!

Then A-Rod bobbles a simple grounder from Pedro. ROOOOOOAR!

ROOOOOOAR! And more! The E-5 unleashed the Subway passions in a way I've never felt before. This was it. Even the Matt Franco pinch-hit, a moment I conjure when I need a lift, wasn't this because that was a game-winner at the end of long, searing battle. That proved something. This, A-Rod not handling a ball in the second inning, proved something else.

This was the cows coming home, the chickens returning to roost, a heaping helping of proof pudding. It was A-Rod — $252 million to play in Texas but get me out of here after three years anyway 'cause I want a ring A-Rod; buy my $400 autographed ball after one good night A-Rod; use my smarmy deodorant A-Rod; slap-happy baserunning A-Rod; not a Real Yankee A-Rod; nobody on his own team speaks up for him A-Rod; 24-plus-1 when all is said and done A-Rod.

We were ready for A-Rod's miscue. Our row was enhanced by a couple of guys in particular who anticipated this. One wore a garden-variety black on white JETER SUCKS A-ROD t-shirt. Swell. His companion backed up his YANKEES SUCK garment with A-HOLE 13 on the flip side. Fantastic. Thanks to their leadership, Section 23 led the entire edifice in a chorus of A-ROD SUCKS! A-ROD SUCKS! A-ROD SUCKS!

It felt like it would never end. It felt like A-Rod would never stop sucking. It was fun. It was a lotta fun. And as we built on his bobble and eventually took a 3-0 lead, it was worth repeating intermittently for the next several innings.

A-ROD SUCKS! A-ROD SUCKS! A-ROD SUCKS!

In the top of the sixth, A-Rod, despite being the sucks object of the chant du jour, drove home the first Yankee run.

All right, fellas. Alex Rodriguez does suck. We all agree on it. Now let's keep it to ourselves until we win this baby. We will win this baby, after all. I mean I thought we would. Damn pencil! Yes, I was beginning to pencil this in as a win in my head and had to erase it immediately. I could tell Jim and all the boys in Row J had done the same. Bad move, everybody. ERASE!

Sign No. 3: Say, Our Run Total Is Rather Stagnant

Daddies, schmaddies. Pedro was gemming it. The Skanques couldn't touch him. I don't care how many pitches he threw in the first. After that, he was mostly untouchable. The run in the sixth was the only blemish. In the seventh, Giambi, Flaherty and Repulsive Rey Sanchez (nobody booed him harder than I, thank you very much) went down meekly.

Pedro Martinez was pitching beautifully. But so was Carl Pavano. Couldn't help but notice he'd stopped giving up runs since Cliff's Monsta shot in the third. Once it was 3-1, I muttered that we could sure use another score or two to salt this chess match away. Damn Carl Pavano. He was here in 1998, too. Not the Subway Series, but something far worse. Last home game, a Wednesday night. The Wild Card hangs in the balance. And Carl Pavano, an Expo because the Expos couldn't afford to keep Pedro Martinez, shut us down. Three hits in six innings. It was the second of five season-ending losses. Wild Card? No, as in Pava-No. (Four days later, he was gleefully giving up McGwire's 70th home run. Prick.)

Seven years later, and suddenly Tony Phillips is our leadoff hitter again. Lenny Harris is starting in right. Ralph Milliard would be pinch-running except we weren't exactly getting within 90 feet of home. Carl Pavano had caught up to Pedro Martinez. That's not a good thing, I guessed.

Sign No. 4: Koo Much Heaven

Look, who's coming out to start the eighth! It's our hero, Dae-Sung Koo! Hey Skanques! Look! It's your worst nightmare! Somebody cover the plate! You suck! A-Rod sucks!

Nobody actually expressed any of those exact sentiments, but it did seem like a big eff-you to the Yankees. I'm certain that wasn't Willie's intent. He has one lefty reliever and it is Koo. Nevertheless, it felt like bringing in Shawn Estes to pinch-hit the night after he took Clemens deep. We had all the Koo karma we were going to get for one series. Leave it alone, Willie. Leave it alone.

Goodness knows what happened next wasn't Mister Koo's fault. He was Lord of the Manor, King of the County, Master of His Domain. He took care of Russ Johnson (Russ Johnson? The guy we got for Ordoñez who didn't make the 2003 Mets? Rey Sanchez, Russ Johnson, Mike Stanton…no wonder they suck so badly). He teased a simple grounder from Tony Womack. Another from Ruben Sierra.

It wasn't His Kooness's doing that Wright and Reyes pulled A-Rods on those last two balls. But there they were, runners on first and second, one out and a bunch of Skanques with portfolio heading to the dish. Everything that happened thereafter in whatever form it took place was essentially predictable.

Sign No. 5: Oh, We're Here

With the double-steal (Jeter on the back end, just where he likes it), H. Matsui's ugly single (everything about him is ugly) and ancient Bernie Williams coming out of retirement to further demythologize Roberto Hernandez's resurgence, Jim sank into a blue and orange funk. “Not again,” he grumbled while affecting a thousand-yard stare. “Not Friday night and now this. Not again!”

Yeah, again, Jim. You and me until yesterday, we were unbeatable. I don't mean as editor and art director (though we were pretty good in our day) but as fan and fan. I hesitated to bring it up before it was over for the same reason I hesitate to bring up anything before it's over — because it usually backfires — but the Mets had never lost a game you and I attended together: 7-0 since 2002.

But whatever each of us brought to Shea on those occasions dissipated in the toxicity that's developed around our respective presences at Subway Series time. Jim's been groaning since the Estes game, figuring everything worthwhile he was ever gonna extricate versus the Skanques was extricated then. Me, I haven't left one of these things happy since the last century, specifically Matt Franco's two-RBI single off Rivera. That includes one wayward sojourn to Mets @ Yankees, which I don't wanna talk about right now.

Only two positives came out of Sunday when all the signs had been read:

1) Even when the loss became a loss, the Skanque fans were relatively tame. Tame for them. No ROOOOOOAR! was heard, not really. The commute home, to be dreaded post-Subway Series past, wasn't so bad in terms of reminders of what had just happened. Maybe it was the outnumbering factor. Maybe it was the Skanqueophiles no longer being terribly surprised that they beat the Mets late. Maybe it was the voices in my head drowning out what I'd otherwise be aware of.

2) Chevy Cap Trade was a success. I exchanged a misbegotten, fitted Astros cap for the adjustable Mets model they were offering. It's pretty sharp. Every time I wear it, I'll wear it with the pride of someone who, despite all he knows, never learns.

It's 3:30 Pacific time and I'm blasting up I-5 in a rental car, topping 80 in a valiant (and basically successful) effort to get to the conference I'm attending in time for a 4 p.m. meeting with a tech bigwig. I'm driving with one hand, flipping up and down the AM dial with the other, and periodically interrupting one or the other to jab at my cellphone. (Thank God I don't smoke.)

Why? So I can see what our stupid team did. I listened impatiently to the dregs of an Angels-Dodgers game and finally got Emily on the phone.

“Did they win?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Was it bad?” I said.

Well, yes, it was. Pedro seems to have done a pretty good job showing the Yankees they ain't his daddy anymore, but Daddy Willie might want to sit Wright and Reyes down for a loving but firm talk. I mean, Holy Kaz Mientkiewicz! We can't make a habit of these things.

So after all that Sturm and Drang, we wind up with the same record as Those Guys. Whatever. I don't want to hear that we should have swept, not after a double double error and some crappy relief pitching to seal the deal. Even if those twin tragedies did bookend a satisfying drama of the now-Medium Unit.

Young players on young teams do these things. They also learn from them if those young teams are going to turn into good teams. Atlanta and Florida await. Time for some learnin'.

Dear Mom and Dad,

Hi and sorry it has been so long since I have written. The Major League schedule is pretty hectic and even within that context, it has been a very eventful week for your son the pitcher.

I speculate you may have heard by now something of my exploits here in the United States. I do not mean that to be boastful, but I appear to have become pretty big news in this country. Imagine that. Here the U.S. is fighting a war and its petrol prices are through the roof but at least in New York the only thing anybody wants to talk about is me, Dae-Sung Koo. Like I said, imagine that.

It all started last Monday night. We were winning very big over the team we played at the beginning of the season, the Cincinnati Reds. Since we last played them, they have apparently refiled for amateur status. In any case, the manager Mister Randolph put me in the game when we were far ahead in the score. I was pitching well enough that when it came my turn to bat, I was told to in fact take a bat and go somewhere near home plate.

You must understand what a foreign concept this was for me, having signed with the one league in which they expect the pitcher to hit on occasion. I could not disobey the order. That would be embarrassing. As would be explaining that I have never hit in a professional game, nor even one against semi-professional competition such as that of the Cincinnati Reds. So I took my bat and stood in the batter's box.

And I stood three times until I was out. My teammates good-naturedly derided me for my non-aggressive approach to batting. That is when I had to confess this was all news to me. It was a great source of amusement to all considering that we emerged victorious by a large margin.

I am here to pitch, so I was relieved (no pun intended; they use a lot of puns here, which I will attempt to explain later) when the manager Mister Randolph called on me to pitch and not hit the next night. My pitching since coming to the New York Mets has not been as consistent as I would prefer but I am getting the hang of it, I think. That childhood injury that had the effect of switching me from a right-hander to a left-hander is the root cause of why I am here. I am here to face left-handed batters and Cincinnati, even in its amateurish state, has several.

Thus, the manager Mister Randolph brought me in to start the ninth and final inning against some of the Reds' best lefties, including Ken Griffey who is so famous we had even heard of him in Korea. This is called here playing the percentages. Well, I did one-third of my job well, retiring one left-handed batter but allowing two others to reach base. The manager Mister Randolph then replaced me with Mister Looper, the “closer,” as he is called.

To tell you the truth, I did not think much about it. My job is to pitch when the high command of the ballclub tells me to. Apparently, everybody in this country is more sensitive to “roles” and pitching. Mister Looper seemed distraught that he did not begin the ninth inning. A week or two earlier, my teammate Mister Hernandez seemed very conscious of when the manager used him, particularly as regards the ninth inning. I do not quite understand all the fuss. I may be fourth on the all-time Korean League saves list, but I pitched when I was told to pitch. However, I meant to cause no hurt feelings. On the other hand, I do not remember complaining in any language on Opening Day when I pitched well in the eighth inning, but was replaced by Mister Looper because it was his “role” to pitch the ninth inning. He lost that day, you probably remember, but I did not say a word, not even to my interpreter.

I am very grateful for the opportunity to pitch in the United States and in New York and for the New York Mets. But I would be less than truthful if I did say it has not been difficult. The pitching is an obvious challenge. I am facing the world's greatest hitters every instance in which I am called. That is a given. And the spectators are very, very demanding, which is understandable, given the high price of admission for these contests. (For the first month of the season, it seemed they were calling my name every time one of our batters made an out, but I found out that “Koo” sounds a lot like a word that is commonly used to express displeasure.)

But at the risk of whining, nobody seems to realize that this is a very awkward situation for me, 35 years old but a rookie all over again in every sense of the word. There are very few Koreans in Major League Baseball. Come to think of it, I do not believe I have seen any since Jae-Weong Seo was shipped back to the minor leagues (a league more minor than the one with the Cincinnati Reds). There is Mister Seo and Mister Park with Texas and after that, it seems, I am on my own. Sure, they gave me an interpreter, which I appreciate, but I literally do not understand what is going on around here. The only thing that anybody seems to know about me are my name and that in English it apparently lends itself to countless plays on words. My teammates for the most part are gregarious and outgoing, and I try to return the favor (I will have to show you the game Texas Hold 'Em I have learned) but at the end of the day, as they say in America, I am alone.

Yet you are never very much alone in New York, especially on a weekend like this one. This is the weekend of the Subway Series, when the New York Mets play the New York Yankees. Mom and Dad, you would not believe the commotion that is made over these three games that are not part of a championship tournament. It is way bigger than when I helped Korea beat Japan in the 2000 Olympics for the bronze medal. Heck, it may be bigger than the Republic of Korea versus North Korea (just kidding, but I wanted to give you a sense of the enormity of the situation; and honestly, they are like a team filled with Kim Jong Ils.).

I did not pitch in our first game against those devil Yankees, but I was asked by the manager Mister Randolph to help beat our geographic rivals. I was brought in to retire batters and did so. I was quite pleased to have achieved my mission.

Usually, that would be enough. We were winning 2-0 in the bottom of the seventh and my turn in the batting order approached. I assumed Mister Randolph would send up one of our fine pinch-hitters. After all, the devil Yankees' pitcher was Randy Johnson. While I do not quite comprehend the overblown reputation of the Yankees based on their recent performance, certainly I have heard of Randy Johnson. He is indeed a very big unit, especially in person. Lest you have forgotten, Randy Johnson is a left-handed pitcher and I am a left-handed batter. That is not what is called playing the percentages from our perspective.

But Mister Randolph wished I remain in the game to begin the eighth as pitcher, so he allowed me to remain in the game to continue in the seventh as batter. This was cause for more good-natured derision from my teammates and even the paying customers in the stands. Everybody seemed to remember that earlier in the week I was not particularly aggressive in my approach to batting. I was determined to proceed differently this time around.

First of all, I stood closer to home plate than I did previously. I watched Randy Johnson throw me a ball, then a strike. I got a sense of what it is like to be a batter against Randy Johnson. That is when I decided to be a hitter against Randy Johnson.

I swung at his third pitch, a low fastball from the big man. Well, you will never guess what happened next unless it has made the news back home. My bat connected with the ball and the ball traveled to very deep centerfield, over the devil Yankee centerfielder's head. For somebody who has stood on the mound and have it had happen to me, I knew what to do next.

I ran. I ran to first base and kept running. I landed on second base. There was much cheering, more cheering than I have heard for doing anything relating to my pitching thus far in my rookie Major League season, which is odd, considering I am a pitcher and my job is to pitch. Apparently, even though pitchers are expected to hit in the league I am in, they are not expected to hit too well. As a reward for succeeding in this regard, I was handed my jacket, which must be a great honor because most baserunners are not entitled to wear one while on the basepaths. I believe it has something to do with the sacred nature of the baseball diamond.

No matter how you add it up, I was on second base with nobody out. The next batter was our shortstop Mister Reyes. It was his task to sacrifice me to third base. He bunted the ball fair and I ran to third. It was a good bunt, but not one so artful that it should have confused a team that has the high and mighty reputation these devil Yankees carry. But somehow it must have, because as their catcher fielded the bunt, their whole team of nine men left home plate uncovered.

I may not make a habit of being a baserunner, but I recognize an uncovered base as well as anyone. While the devil Yankees were throwing out Mister Reyes at first, I had advanced to third and noticed the uncovered state of home. Shoot, I thought to myself, there is no reason to stop here at third base. Shoot, I will run all the way home. With the ceremonial jacket on, it was not easy (and my experience at doing so is not all that practiced) but I kept running. Their catcher got the ball back and lunged at me but it was late according to the wisdom of the umpire. I was called safe and we led 3-0.

From what I understand, the New York Mets have had sporadic success through their history. They fly four flags beyond center field to signify their championships. I do not know what it was like here when they won those championships but I hesitate to imagine the bedlam because when all I did was score the third run of what had become a 3-0 game in the eighth inning, the reception was raucous. You might have thought I had accomplished a less expensive way to retail petrol for all of New York, perhaps all of the United States.

The spectators were jubilant and my teammates were beside themselves, yelling all sorts of apparently encouraging things at me. I did not understand any of it specifically but I could decipher happiness as easily as I could an uncovered base. Some of them even bowed to me which was quite a gesture, since over here there is little bowing.

My teammates went onto score some more runs and I was allowed to remain in the game to do my actual job, pitching to left-handed devil Yankees. I succeeded until the manager Mister Randolph decided I had had enough. We finished the game with a large win, 7-1, over the devil Yankees. Several of our Mets did very well in the game, but I garnered all the attention whether I felt I deserved it or not. The starting pitcher Mister Benson looked very good for most of his nearly seven innings. Mister Cairo hit a home run. Mister Reyes tripled again. Mister Wright drove the ball hard.

Yet with all of that, everybody wanted to interview me when the game was completed. It was a little embarrassing, but I would be lying to you if I did not tell you that it was somewhat gratifying. Although I have pitched fairly decently of late, much of my early-season performing was subpar and I certainly want to contribute to making the New York Mets a winner. If I have to do it with my bat, so be it. I will do it with my bat.

Mom and Dad, I am sorry to have gone on for so long about myself, but it has been a very unusual week. I hope I have given you an accurate sense of it from my perspective. May you and the whole family be well, and I plan to write at more frequent intervals as the Major League schedule permits.

Your son,

Mister Koo

OK, Dae-Sung Koo can have his name back.

In fact, after today it seems overly familiar to address him that way, since he's said he'd like to be known as Mister Koo. So be it. In fact, why stop there? After his ambush of Randy Johnson and the Yankees, he's Sir Koo to me if he likes. Lord Koo. King Koo. Koo Kahn.

Watch faithfully and baseball will show you things you've never seen before fairly regularly, but I haven't ever seen anything like Koo vs. the Bombers. When they brought poor Mientkiewicz in having never faced the Big Unit, I was remarking to Emily what an incredible hate mission that must be. To review things we both know but can still lose track of amid the hurlyburly, hype and hubbub:

* Randy Johnson is an extremely large man — nearly seven feet tall.

* He is standing on a hill that makes him nearly eight feet tall.

* He is throwing a ball from above his head — we're now talking nearly nine feet.

* If you're a left-handed hitter, his release point appears to be behind your head.

* He throws a ball very fast — not as fast as he used to, granted, but still very fast.

* He has been known to hit people with that fast-moving baseball that appears to be launched from behind their heads. He killed a dove that way once. You could look it up.

In the All-Star Game, John Kruk took his hacks against the Unit while practically standing in the dugout. Larry Walker turned around and batted right. Hitting a baseball period is tough; hitting Randy Johnson is tougher; hitting Randy Johnson from the left side is among the toughest things to do in the game — tough enough that Minky and Floyd weren't initially asked to attempt it.

Now, consider that Mister Koo's only other major-league at-bat came on Monday, and it really was the kind of thing you and I could do. He stood practically in the on-deck circle and watched three go by for strikes. That pitcher? Todd Coffey, a strapping young man, to be sure, but not Randy Johnson. Heck, he ain't even a lefty.

So for Mister Koo to make a better showing than he did against Todd Coffey seemed vanishingly unlikely. For Dae-Sung Koo to foul one off against the Unit was to have your vanishingly unlikelies compounded. Heck, a slow roller to Robinson Cano (wonderful name; too bad he's a Yankee) would have earned him high praise in his home dugout. For Mister Koo to smash a ball over Bernie's head? Ludicrous, ridiculous, impossible — and utterly wonderful.

It's probably a good thing he didn't know about the dove.

Oddly, though, for Mister Koo to then come around from second on a sacrifice isn't so impossible. I don't think I've seen the pitcher vapor-lock covering home like that enough times to fill one hand's worth of fingers, but two of those fingers are reserved for Yankees facing us: The Antichrist, famously, committed this same blunder in the famed Estes Semi-Revenge Game, still the game that boiled up the strangest brew of emotions in me — the oil and water of humiliation and triumph are no closer to mixing now than they were three years ago.

Oh, and three batters faced, three strikeouts was pretty cool too.

Mister Koo's at-bat is the kind of crazy thing that will now ensure I actually watch the next 100 ridiculous spectacles of a middle reliever putting on a batting helmet and staring at the bat like he's making sure he's holding on to the right end. The overwhelming likelihood is that none of those at-bats — not a single blessed one — will result in a double to the gap. But that's OK. At some point during each and every one of them, I'll think of Mister Koo and smile.

Victor Zambrano is slower than slow death. In fact, the slow death store called to tell Victor Zambrano that they're out of him.

It occurred to me Friday night that for just about every one of Vaporous Victor's starts this year, I've been busy doing something else — working, traveling, napping (especially napping) — and that I haven't noticed what a slow SOB he is. Or maybe I just found other things to do (especially napping) because he failed to hold my interest. His torpor is beyond Trachselian. Gosh, back when Steve Trachsel would stare at his shoelaces for twenty minutes between pitches, at least matters resolved themselves once he released.

Trachsel stares in for the shoes. And stares in for the sign. And stares in for the shoes. And then the sign. And then the shoes. And the pitch. It's a deep fly ball…

Eventually, like my cats, Trachsel got fixed and he was OK. When are they gonna take Zambrano in for his procedure? 'Cause until they do, he's just gonna spray baserunners all over the place.

Yet with all that, as anybody who watched the sinister sixth unfold knows by now, he could've escaped. Like a very deliberate Houdini locked in a chest submerged under the sea and reading a novel, he was inches from escaping his own mess. Then Matsui, our Matsui, played javelin catcher instead of second. Even after that, though he didn't deserve to, Zamby the Magnificent still almost wriggled off the hook almost unscathed. We could've called him Ty Wriggleton. Then Mientkiewicz, our Mientkiewicz, played jai-alai instead of first.

One can debate, chicken-egg style, whether the somnambulant, high-and-outside, low-and-inside style of pitching lulled the defense to sleep or whether the gloves just weren't there when the pitching was, but one also has to notice that the Mets forgot to score much in the way of runs, legitimate or otherwise. By the time it was over, all that harrumphing we've been doing under our collective breath for the last two weeks over the quality of the Yankee winning streak (harrumph…it's only Oakland and Seattle) would have to be amended to include us as another pitiful opponent. We looked no better than any garden-variety A.L. West chump.

If this had been one of those glorious Subway Series victories, you can bet I'd have stayed up for hours absorbing every syllable on-air and online about it. Instead, after listening to Gary and Eddie remind caller after caller that you liked Kaz just fine when he was whacking the Reds a few days ago, I stayed up for hours absorbing the first five episodes of our just-arrived third-season DVD of Six Feet Under. It's a show that takes place in a funeral home.

It was the most cheerful thing I watched all night.