The No. 11 Greatest Met of the First Forty Years somehow disappeared from the entry that was originally posted March 30. So did half of the No. 12 Greatest Met. Don't know why it happened, but for all the Greatest Mets completists out there, we reoffer the full rundown of Nos. 20 through 11.

20. John Olerud: Catch the breeze and the winter chills in colors on the snowy linen land. On December 20, 1996, the Mets traded Robert Person to the Toronto Blue Jays for John Olerud, allegedly on the downside of his career, supposedly too fragile of psyche for New York. Look out on a summer's day with eyes that know the darkness in my soul. In three seasons that didn't last nearly long enough, Oly batted .315, including the eternally untoppable .354 of 1998. While almost every other Met froze down that pitiful stretch, John sizzled. Fourteen plate appearances, fourteen straight trips to first or beyond. Spent virtually all of the late '90s on base. Caught everything everybody threw him or hit toward him. Started a triple play against the Giants in '98 — got two assists and a putout. Entered the final week of 1997 with 88 RBIs and finished with 102. Hit for the cycle against Montreal earlier that September, a cycle that, like every other cycle, required a triple. It was the only triple he hit that entire season because John Olerud ran with two packs of freshly chewed Bazooka stuck to the bottom of each spike. Weathered faces lined in pain are soothed beneath the artist's loving hand. His one Mets post-season went like this: .349; first homer by a lefty off of Randy Johnson in two years; deep fly that Tony Womack couldn't catch; homer off Smoltz, then, when no hope was left in sight on that starry, starry night, the perfectly placed bouncer between Ozzie Guillen and Bret Boone to win Game Four; homer off Greg Maddux to start Game Five, providing the entirety of the Mets' offense for fourteen innings. Colors changing hue, morning fields of amber grain. In a game that is all but forgotten because both the protagonists and the antagonist went on to do so many more interesting things, John Olerud lifted the 1999 Mets to perhaps the most thrilling May victory in franchise history, driving home the tying and winning runs off a stubborn, faltering, previously infallible Curt Schilling in the ninth at Shea. It was a sign of good things to come. Swirling clouds in violet haze reflect in Vincent's eyes of China blue. Unlike, say, Kevin McReynolds, Olerud's quietude actually enhanced his personality. His muteness along with his omnipresent hard hat were shown off as signatures in those hilarious Nike Subway Series stickball commercials. The other players swore by him. Flaming flowers that brightly blaze. Cataloguing all the good baseball John Olerud committed in three short seasons should have been enough to earn him at least five more as a Met. They would not listen, they're not list'ning still, perhaps they never will. Instead, Steve Phillips turned his back on him. John didn't go on the open market, though. He and his wife headed home for Seattle, where his parents and in-laws could regularly babysit the Oleruds' infant son. I could've told you, Oly. This team was never meant for one as beautiful as you.

19. Rusty Staub: While M. Donald Grant is rightly pilloried for a trade he made in June 1977, he should've gotten the effigy treatment in December 1975 when he sent Rusty Staub and Bill Laxton to Detroit for Mickey Lolich and Billy Baldwin. Rusty had just gotten done being the Mets' best player for four years, not nearly inoculation enough against his tendency to speak his mind and his impending status as a 10-and-5 man. Before Rusty could veto a trade, Grant vetoed Rusty. Never mind effigy — where was the rope when it was needed in earnest? Rusty was a New York Met waiting to happen all those years in Houston and Montreal. Rusty was a sophisticate. He could barbecue the classiest ribs. He was opening a restaurant. He was a bon vivant. How many of those have we had? And how many guys were worth Ken Singleton, Tim Foli and Mike Jorgensen all at once, all while they were young? Who led the Mets into first in '72 where they stayed until he took one off the hand from George Stone? Who was determined to outhit the Reds all by his redheaded self (three homers in the first four games) until he literally hit a wall saving Game Four in the eleventh inning? Who suffered a bum shoulder but batted .423 in the World Series anyway? Who was the first 100-RBI man the Mets ever had? It was Rusty's second Met tour of duty, when he refined the pinch-hitting role as few others had (eight straight at one point to tie a Major League record) and became an icon for what would have to be termed his Rustyness: homering to join Cobb in the 40/19 club; switching back and forth between right and left in the eighteen-inning marathon against the Pirates to avoid having him try to make any catch; catching Rick Rhoden's looper down the RF line despite Davey's best-laid plans; driving Keith and other Manhattan Mets to the park in the Rusty's van; finishing up in a Mets uniform, too rare a phenomenon among the Greatest Mets. It was being Rusty circa 1981-85 that won him his own Day (remember the orange fright wigs?) and the sinecure behind the mike, but it was the Rusty of 1972 through 1975 who really earned it.

18. Jesse Orosco: In 1983, Jesse Orosco was probably the most awesome relief pitcher the Mets ever had. In eleven consecutive appearances between July 31 and August 21, he won six games and saved five. The first two wins came in both ends of a doubleheader. The first one was earned with four shutout innings of relief. In fact, this stretch encompassed 21-1/3 innings and Orosco didn't give up a single earned run. Those wins weren't vultured, those saves weren't Eckersleyed — as an All-Star in his first year as closer, the lefty pitched more than one inning in seven of the eleven aforementioned appearances. Jesse Orosco could throw fastballs and sliders then. By the end of 1983, Orosco was 13-7 with 17 saves and an ERA of 1.47 over 87 innings, finishing third in the Cy Young balloting. If George Bamberger and Frank Howard deserve credit for anything as managers, it was the establishment of Jesse as a top-notch late-inning man. Jesse Orosco's Mets legacy would be pretty strong based solely on 1983 and 1984. when he saved 31. It's important to know that Jesse Orosco did something besides throw his glove in the air twice. Not that those weren't extremely wonderful deals unto themselves.

17. Howard Johnson: As his best seasons came amid major disappointments for the team as a whole, one can debate whether Howard Johnson was a true impact player. The power-speed combo that made him a 30-30 man in '87, '89 and '91 was all the more stunning because he preceded each of those years (which were all better for the Mets than the seasons that followed them) with relatively wan performances. Taken another way, Howard Johnson carried the Mets on his back in three years when nobody else was playing up to their full potential. HoJo exceeded everything that was expected of him on three separate occasions. For shock value, his 1987 was the most spectacularly surprising single season by any Met: 36 HRs, 32 SBs as an infielder and switch-hitter, both firsts, one RBI shy of a hundred. He could already turn on a fastball (especially Todd Worrell's) like nobody's business but now he was catching up to the slower stuff. Bettered his numbers two years later when he led the league in runs scored (104) and stole 41. And two years after that, he wore the NL homer and RBI crowns, with 38 and 117, respectively. He never completely nailed down the third base job — Davey's mouth watered at the vision of all that offense at short and Buddy shoved him into the outfield toward the end — but he wound up playing more games than any Met at that mythical minefield and burial ground. His name figures prominently among all-time Met leaders: third in homers and ribbies, second in steals and total bases, all the more noteworthy considering he was never the marquee player around here. More than a decade removed from his last Met at-bat, Howard Johnson's success remains at least a little bit of a surprise.

16. Tommie Agee: Who needed Bobby Bonds? Heck, who needed Wilie Mays in 1969 and 1970 when Tommie Agee was setting the world on fire from center field at Shea Stadium? Though his numbers for the two seasons (50 homers combined, 31 steals in '70) were good the way Mets' numbers were good, his real-time performance was world-class. Shaking off his miserable, headachy 1968, Tommie Agee became, in 1969, the leadoff guy and centerfielder the Mets had always craved. In August, he hit a homer off Juan Marichal in the fourteenth (yes, the fourteenth) to beat the Giants, 1-0. In September, he avenged Bill Hands' first-inning headhunting with a two-run dinger in the third and a beautiful slide home under Randy Hundley's tag in the sixth to accelerate the Cubs' decline, 3-2. In October…well, after batting .357 in the NLCS, Tommie Agee owned an entire World Series game, the third one: Two deservedly legendary catches (the snow-cone and the dive) warded off five Orioles runs, and a leadoff Agee shot gave the Mets the immediate upper hand. Without Agee, it's Orioles 5 Mets 4. A horrifying thought. With Agee, it was Mets 5 Orioles 0. Much better. Tommie rode '69 into a Gold Glove season (only Met OF to win one) in '70, by which time he was probably the most popular baseball player among elementary-school children in the Metropolitan Area. Sometimes, kids know best.

15. Cleon Jones: Between October 17, 1960 (National League awards expansion franchise to New York) and June 3, 1980 (Darryl Strawberry selected as first pick in amateur draft), the best all-around, everyday player signed and developed by the Mets was Cleon Jones. It is not clear anybody was ever second. Cleon was the Mets' offense or certainly a significant chunk of it for a decade or so. He was huge (six HRs in the final ten games) in September '73 and placed in the Top Ten in the league in average in '68 and '71. Cleon Jones' entire Mets career wasn't 1969. But if it were, nobody would've complained. His .340 was the team standard for nearly thirty years, placing him third in the National League. Nobody'd ever heard of it, but his OPS was a staggering (for then) .904. And despite the touchstone image of Gil escorting him to the dugout for not hustling, he led NL left fielders with a .991 fielding percentage. Of course as it is with all Great Mets, it was symbolism as much as accomplishment that defined Jones. Cleon's shoes were polished generously before Game Five, which let the manager prove beyond the shadow of a smudge that he had been hit by a Dave McNally pitch, sending him to first base and positioning him to score the first Met run. Plus he caught Dave Johnson's fly ball for the final out in the ninth, the lovely last image of that most Amazin' season. What is generally overlooked is Cleon Jones started the rally that won the damn thing in the eighth, doubling to lead it off and scoring the winning run. See, there was a lot of pixie dust sprinkled over Shea in 1969, but Cleon Jones could actually play ball anytime.

14. Jerry Grote: Crank. Sourpuss. Ornery cuss. Beyond his station as the best defensive catcher of his time, beyond his nurturing of a fistful of some of the era's greatest pitchers, beyond a bat that showed steady, solid improvement between the mid-'60s (when he was stolen for Tom Parsons) and the mid-'70s, there was what Jerry Grote was said to be like: not pleasant. Maybe the beat guys minded, but for the fans, he remained, in his way, endearing. He caught, he threw, he prevailed. We knew less about our heroes then and maybe that wasn't so bad. Of course his longstanding bristle would explain why it was Sharon and not Jerry Grote who fronted those commercials for Gulden's Spicy Brown Mustard. It must've been all he could do to look happy biting into a bologna sandwich after 22 takes.

13. Jerry Koosman: Nineteen wins as a rookie, seventeen as a sophomore and — after arm problems interrupted what could have been a borderline Hall of Fame career — 21 wins in 1976 underscored the likable Jerry Koosman's undisputed place as the best lefthanded starter in team history. No responsible Mets fan would argue the designation. But his regular-season numbers, even his most impressive (his total of 140 wins is third among all Mets pitchers), weren't what made him great. It was the post-season. Push came to shove? Kooz came to pitch. Jerry Koosman started six games in the 1969 and 1973 tournaments. The Mets won all six. He was 4-0, which was swell for him, but the 6-0 was awesome for everybody. Kooz is recalled accurately as the quintessential good guy, but he was bad news for the other team when it really, really counted.

12. John Franco: For the entire decade of the 1990s, John Franco registered 268 saves. All but perhaps five felt worthless. He'd pass milestone after milestone and the Mets would hold ceremonies in his honor, but it all came off as very hollow given the state of the team most of the time. By the end of 1999, once he was no longer closer, the main goal of the Mets' playoff push seemed to be Get Johnny In. He'd been pitching since 1984 and missed the post-season every one of his first fifteen years. He was killer effective for the Reds in the '80s, but they didn't win anything until he left…for the Mets. That was when the Mets crumbled, despite all those Franco saves. On October 3, 1999, when Melvin Mora duckwalked across home plate with the run that guaranteed no worse than a one-game playoff for the National League Wild Card, just about every set of eyes turned toward John Franco as he led the charge from the dugout. For maybe a half-minute, the collective consciousness of Shea Stadium thought, “John Franco is finally going to get his chance.” DiamondVision found him and the crowd erupted for someone who had been, at best, a Rorschach Test for most Mets fans. I see a reliever who saves loads of games. Well, I see a choke artist. That Cincinnati, of all teams, would still have to be vanquished for the diminutive homeboy lefty to finally break into post-season wasn't immediately grasped. But in the sudden team-of-destiny blitz of emotions, the Reds were a formality. The Mets beat Cincy and delivered Franco to the promised land. The winning pitcher in Game Four against Arizona was John Franco, an afterthought while Todd Pratt rounded the bases, but a sweet one. He hadn't won any game since 1997. In 2000, when he struck out Barry Bonds with Game Two of the NLDS on the line — his finest moment — it was obvious that John Franco had been an October pitcher his whole life.

11. Mookie Wilson: Mookie Wilson could score from second on a grounder to short under the right circumstances. Mookie Wilson stole 58 bases in 1982. Mookie Wilson hit a game-winning homer off Bruce Sutter late in 1981 to keep the Mets' split-season hopes alive another day. Mookie Wilson was a fine centerfielder. He didn't catch everything, but he hustled. Always hustled, at least from the time in his rookie season, '81, when a single fell in front of him in a game against the Cubs. A single's a single, he thought, so with nobody on, he could just trot over to where the ball landed, pick it up and toss it in to the infield. No biggie. Thing was the guy who hit it took nothing for granted. The Cub batter, a veteran, saw Mookie playing it casual just long enough to allow him to try to stretch that single into a double. This guy didn't have Mookie's speed, but he was going to use every bit he had to take the extra base, especially if this kid wasn't going to go full-tilt. The Cub made it into second. Mookie was embarrassed and swore he would never, ever let up again. From that faux pas on, Mookie said after he'd been retired for a while, he ran his heart out on every play in the field or on the basepaths because of what happened that day. That Cub batter who taught him the lesson of assuming nothing might have appreciated Mookie's careerlong mission to avenge that fleeting episode of malingering had it not manifested itself in the bottom of the tenth inning of the sixth game of the 1986 World Series when Wilson sent a ball trickling barely fair down the first base line. That Cub from 1981 had a unique view of Mookie Wilson's hustle at this critical juncture. He was playing first for the Red Sox.

Welcome back to these parts. And thanks for bringing home whatever victory dust they were selling on the coast. We needed all the help we could get.

Leave Rusty alone, man. Let him go. You've gotten more Rusty than most people will ever have in a lifetime, though I understand that if you hang around the Upper East Side enough, you'll see him fairly frequently. I have a buddy who shares a dry cleaner with Rusty. He saw his suit hanging behind the counter once and it was almost as thrilling as your many chance meetings. He saw Rusty in a diner, too. Rusty was enjoying a chicken. A whole chicken. On a Super Bowl Sunday. Don't know which Super Bowl it was but the chicken didn't cover the point spread. Never had a chance against Rusty. He moves quickly for a big man.

I had a Rusty encounter once, though it was a little more sanctioned. It was that MLB Alumni Dinner I've mentioned here before, the one that I lucked into given a relationship I had with one of the sponsors. The driving force behind the event was Le Grand Orange (it is a requirement of all anecdotes regarding Daniel Joseph Staub that he be referred to as Le Grand Orange at least once). Laurie and I had just gotten through pestering Tug McGraw and Keith Hernandez for autographs when out of the blue (and Orange) appeared Rusty. As the unofficial host, Rusty's attention was divided six ways, but we grabbed just enough of it to garner his signature. Hank Aaron, Yogi Berra, Frank Robinson and Brooks Robinson among many other greats were also on hand, but once I got those three Mets lefties on one ball, that was enough for me.

Not much of a Rusty story per se, but the kicker was his coming around to our table to say hello a little later. It was like he was the father of the Bar Mitzvah boy checking on everybody, making sure they were having a good time. “Well, Rus', the roast beef's a little dry, but earlier I was telling Tug McGraw how I used his autobiography Screwball for three separate book reports when I was a kid, and Tug McGraw told me, 'you're scarin' me, man,' so I'm gonna let it go.”

I didn't say that to Rusty but Tug did say that to me, so yes, we were having a very good time.

As we were in Florida Thursday night, I guess. The rain delay lulled me into dreamland. When I woke up, we were playing and winning by a lot. If the Mets need me to resort to a rally nap every night for the rest of the season, I'll start popping melatonin every afternoon.

So I knew we'd be fine tonight. No, not when it was 43-3. Earlier. Not when Benson singled up the middle. Earlier. Not when it stopped raining in Florida. Earlier.

No, I knew all would be well at around 10:30 am PDT, about a minute after I cleared security in the San Francisco airport. For who appeared to my wondering Met fan eyes but Daniel Joseph Staub. Le Grand Orange, the King of New Orleans, Keith Hernandez's conscience, and my favorite player when I was a boy.

It's a sign! Time to beat some Marlins like drums!

I then thought that this was my chance to tell Rusty the story of the Rusty Staub signature baseball glove my parents made for me, something I hadn't managed to do when I shook his hand last year after the Tunnel to Towers run, a farcical episode told here in late March. Apparently Rusty's Spidey senses were tingling: Moving quickly for a big man (as it's inevitably said), he darted into the men's room, where my vestigal sense of shame prevented me from following. Exit Staub stage right, exit losing streak, all's well.

I know it's greedy, but 12-4 wasn't enough, not after this horror show of a week.

Incidentally, it's probably good that Shea doesn't offer Bring Your Dog to the Stadium night. I can just see hundreds of pit bulls tearing each other apart while our crack security forces huff their way up the stalled escalators. Though Manny Aybar did mess on the rug. Bad Manny! Time to take him to the vet. Honey, Manny wasn't happy here in the city, so Mommy and Daddy, um, sent him to a farm. He's happy there. Um, he's running around in a field with Mike M. and Felix and his other friends. That sounds nice, doesn't it, honey?

OK, I've officially demonstrated that I'm out of material. Going to bed. Nice to be back.

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'.