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.

I should feel more disappointed. What's wrong with me?

I dunno. Is it that we all figured that between Brown and Zambrano, we and they would take turns cringing at the sight of our starter? Was it that while we played horrible baseball, they played only slightly less horrible baseball? Was it the momentary cheer from Heath Bell making like Jaime Cerda? (Heath, please let the comparison end there.) Was it accepting that Roberto Hernandez was due for a bum note again? Was it thinking that, what the hey, now we've got the same record and we can get this thing on in earnest?

Maybe. But I think it's that we've done this every year for a good long time now, and it's just hard to get up for it the way I once did — which means (luckily right now) that it's also hard to get down the way I once did. (Gotta get up to get down. I think George Michael said that. Let's just move along.) I think it's that while we don't look like shoo-ins for the division or even an 82-win season, we also look nothing like the walking disaster of the last two seasons — while at the same time, the Collapse-o-Meter may or may not toll for them, but they're clearly not the same how-dare-you-get-blood-on-my-wheels juggernaut they've been. It's a three-game series in May. I'm a lot more worried about those Braves and Marlins next week.

Or maybe it's that when your scuffling, infuriating but persevering starter gets into trouble in the 6th and gets the perfect, tailormade, kiss-your-sweetheart-and-pump-your-fist one-hop grounder he needs for the double play, and then it clanks off the second baseman's glove, some of the fight goes out of you. And when on the next play, your now slightly perturbed-looking starter gets a one-hopper to a Gold Glove first baseman who's ready to throw home, and then it clanks off his glove, you know that God's turned His back, and while you can come back and play tomorrow, tonight's not ending well.

Proper perspective on things, left numb…. Hmm. Proper perspective on things, left numb…. Ah hell. Ask me tomorrow.

Does it seem to you that every “innovation” baseball has come up with over the past decade or so has done us very little good? They realigned divisions in time to give us the endless Braves (who would've made for better company pre-1991 than the Cubs, Cards or Bucs did at precisely the wrong moments); they instituted a Wild Card that we were, granted, able to benefit from twice, but think how many we could've used in the '80s; and they concocted Interleague play right after the other New York team won its first World Series in a generation, making the other New York team seem like far more than it really was.

Not that 1986 needed any enhancement, but in retrospect, it would have been sweet to have seen this particular circus covered back then as it is covered now except with the tables turned. The local tapeheads could have gone to Yankee Stadium and pestered Mike Pagliarulo and Dennis Rasmussen about the pressure of going up against the mighty Mets. Dan Pasqua could've talked dreamily about what a dream come true it was to go to an exciting place like Shea where the fans are world-renowned and every pitch is an event. The Mattingly crowd could have sputtered on about how their man would finally get some recognition now that he'd be able, at long last, to share the big stage for a few days with the larger-than-life likes of Carter, Hernandez and Strawberry.

Meanwhile, Davey Johnson could have scoffed at the whole thing, reminding reporters that our big rival is St. Louis, this thing is a nuisance. Doc Gooden would go on regular rest against the Expos because the Yankees wouldn't present reason enough to mess with our rotation (hell, use Rick Anderson — it's only the Yankees). Mex would've said one game is like the next. And Wally Backman would've added something insulting and dismissive and then backed it up. When it would be over and the Mets had taken their usual four or five of six, the storyline would be “same old, same old, the Yankees are forever trying to measure up to the Mets but they never quite manage to do so.” And Steinbrenner would fire Piniella and dig up Alvin Dark.

But no, we didn't get that. Instead, we know what we've gotten since 1997. We know the tone. We know the condescension and patronization directed toward our little major market ballclub. We know that every year, at least one newbie on our end will cop to being impressed-to-awed with the opposition or at least the opposing ballpark and its (genuflect) monuments. We know that it will be treated by everybody official on this side of the ledger as a milestone in the schedule just as we know that the participants in the other dugout will do no more than yawn for public consumption. And we know that no matter what we do in the actual series of games — even if we win most of them as we did last year — it will be belittled and diminished in hindsight because, well, we're the Mets and they're the Yankees.

Nevertheless, I'll be up for this when it starts. I can't help it. I watch lots of baseball, but the only things that I can depend on to rev my motor every single time are the chances that the Mets will win and that the Yankees will lose. To have a dual opportunity for both present itself in the course of a single game that counts is too good to dismiss.

It's been this way since Andy Pettitte faced Lance Johnson to start the very first of these games. I was on my way home from work, listening on my Walkman and jumping out of my skin with every pitch. The Mets were playing the Yankees…for real! That we beat them rather easily that night (All Hail Mlicki) codified that it wasn't such a bad idea.

And by the way, this had nothing, not a damn thing to do with the “little brother” myth that's been perpetrated by the brain-dead baseball media in this town over the past ten years. Little brother, my ass. When I came along, there was only one baseball team that mattered in New York and it was the Mets. That's how it looked to me in 1969 and anything that's happened more recently is something I see as a brief aberration from the way things are supposed to be and, deep down, truly are. In any case, we don't have a big brother in the Bronx, just a drunken, boorish lout of a distant relative twice removed.

Since June 16-18, 1997, each series and each game has at the very least grabbed my attention and usually kept it. Maybe I should be cooler about it. Maybe I should be cynical by now. Maybe I should be downtrodden. Going into tonight, after all, it's 16-26. But there have been too many good moments that have followed Mlicki — M. Franco vs. Rivera; J. Franco vs. Posada; M. Piazza going deep vs. Rat Bastard Clemens, Ramiro Mendoza and some poor sap named Carlos Almanzar to name three; Shane Spencer going short vs. Tanyon Sturtze; Mo Vaughn practically redeeming his sorry tenure by shredding David Wells; Al's cutters frustrating the whole lot of them; Roger Cedeño stealing home; even Estes' home run despite his lousy aim at an ample, vile target — to write off the Subway Series as a gimmick or to find it irredeemably futile. As bad as the 26 losses were, the 16 wins were that much better.

Sure, Interleague still feels a little unnatural on rhythms attuned to a National League schedule, but no matter how others may frame it, it boils down to the team we love the most versus the team we hate the most. If you can't get up for that, then geez, what's the point of loving and hating in baseball?

I wish you could've been inside my head last Saturday afternoon. For the first four innings before I left the house, I made so many in-game deals with the gods and censored so many between-pitches thoughts that you would've assumed I was carrying the fate of the free world in my consciousness. Or that the doctor called — the news was not good, and I said, “Get me to a New York Hospital.”

It wasn't either of those things. It was just the Cardinals. I wanted the Mets to beat them. But I was afraid, genuinely fearful, that if I rooted too hard for this pitch to land here or that ball to go there, I'd be asking for too much. I wanted the Mets to win on Saturday, but I also wanted them to win on Sunday. Thus, I didn't want to be ostentatious in my victory desires on Saturday.

There was nobody around. I had no pipeline to the ghost of Kenesaw Mountain Landis. None of the umps owed me a solid. It wasn't like I could do anything about anything. It appeared that no matter what I was thinking, the Mets were on their own.

My thoughts don't have much practical impact in general let alone on baseball. For example, I'll sometimes think, “I shouldn't eat that.” But then I do. “I should really get to work on that thing.” But then I don't. I can barely control myself, so I know it is folly to believe I can control a baseball game going on in another area code. But that doesn't stop me from trying.

I tell you all of this so you understand that I understand the way things work. That you don't disturb baseball karma. That you go through a sequence, a batter, a series, a season, a lifetime very, very carefully if you want or don't want certain things to occur on a diamond that you are not on or necessarily near.

Think I'm kidding? I once sat in my living room during a playoff game against the Braves telling my wife in extremely grave tones that Chipper Jones was a splendid humanitarian because I knew saying anything remotely unkind about him would just piss him off and result in a rain of extra bases. That Chipper and I were separated by seven states and the District of Columbia at the time was completely irrelevant.

And he didn't get a hit.

So I know what I'm doing even if the results don't always reflect that. Last weekend, the Mets won neither Saturday nor Sunday. It had nothing to do with what I was thinking early Saturday. It would be illogical to believe that. No, the Mets came up empty because I failed to include Grudzielanek and Mabry in my spiteful scouting report Friday. There was a shortfall of preparedness on my part, and I apologize for it.

When it comes to baseball and the aspects therein that we hold most dear — the Mets winning and the Yankees losing — I absolutely acknowledge that there are consequences to my thoughts, my actions and yes, my blogging. I am aware of them. I take them seriously. And as long as I know in my heart of hearts that I do the right thing or, just as importantly, don't do the wrong thing, I sleep fine.

In other words, pull the tarp off and plug that sucker in. This weekend, I'm prepared.

NEW YORK YANKEE COLLAPSE-O-METER

BIG PICTURE EDITION

YEAR GAMES PLAYED RECORD FINAL RECORD

476* 41 40-1 FELL

1965 41 17-24 77-85

1982 41 21-20 79-83

2005 41 21-20 ??-???

*Roman Empire, but close enough

Remember: Not long ago, the Reds were unbeatable…by us, no less.

Remember, too: You gotta play this game with fear and arrogance. Fear and arrogance.

May the Force be with us.

People ask me what I do on an off-day when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for later in the spring. *

Off-days suck. They suck anytime. You've lost three of five, you've lost nine straight, you've finished the season having lost 90+ games and nobody particularly wanted the caps thrown into the stands, doesn't matter: An off-day is still howlingly empty, a void that's never full no matter how much fidgeting and resentment you pour into it. But off-days suck even more when you're playing well: When you're getting the bounces and the calls, the big hits and the little hits and the shouldn't-be-hits, an off-day is like someone pinching you and yanking you out of a sweet, gentle dream. And most of the time that nice dream isn't reclaimable when you smack back into the pillow.

So an off-day when we've just steamrolled the Cincinnati Reds? With the Yankees coming to visit? Thanks, schedule makers. It sucks on so many levels. It sucks to have an entire day of fretting about the Yankees, who are hotter than Newsweek's e-mail right now, without even the decent distraction of an old-fashioned National League game. It sucks to have a deep-breath day before a 10-day stretch that'll tell us something about this team and 2005 — better to stay unconscious and keep taking the field than pause for unhelpful reflection. It sucks to have to fill a day with worries about our marquee free agent, lightning rod, spiritual leader, and newly beloved el jefe — I don't wanna talk about Pedro's hip or the cortisone shot la la la I'm not listening to you. And most basically and perhaps even most importantly, it sucks to know a warm spring night is going to roll around with no baseball game to cradle, consume and consider. What am I supposed to do, go see Revenge of the Sith? Oh yeah, I'm also a Star Wars geek, I probably should go see Revenge of the Sith.

(Speaking of Revenge of the Sith, the only reason I haven't chastised you for the karmic poking of a wasps' nest that was the Collapse-o-Meter is that I know you've been lying awake nights regretting it on your own. Well, that and the fact that I was enjoying it too much. We Yankee haters are like sleepaway-camp counselors in a slasher movie — we see the escaped lunatic plunge into the old well with a pitchfork bisecting him and we head back to our cabins for a night of hard-earned rest. And then … NOOOOOO!!!!!! Will we never learn?)

By the way, the Reds are terrible. They're pathetic in the old sense of the word, “arousing or capable of arousing sympathetic sadness and compassion.” Right now they're the knobby-kneed nine-year-old in right field praying the ball won't get hit to him, then closing his eyes when it inevitably is. (I know of what I speak: One horrible evening in 1978 I floundered after a ball hit over my head in right field, grabbed it, wheeled, fired, fell down and extracted my face from the clover to see I'd thrown it kind of near the bewildered center fielder. I wish I were exaggerating even a little bit. Ich bin ein Red.) The Reds make physical mistakes, mental mistakes, get screwed on calls, the whole bad-team shebang. They look like us after The Trade. And Dave Miley is, like, so fired — he's already doing that drowning-manager thing of alternately flying into scary rages and staring out at the field in numb disbelief. Don't worry Dave, it'll be over soon.

Of course, I wish we played them again tomorrow, instead of not again until 2006. I wish we played anybody tomorrow. Let's play one!

* Apologies to 1962 New York Mets coach Rogers Hornsby. I hear he also played for the Cardinals or something.

Didja see the Mets game Tuesday night?

Yeah.

Who won?

Mets did.

Great! Who pitched?

Kaz…

Cuz I wanna know. Who pitched?

Kaz…

Like I said, cuz I wanna know.

You're not listening closely. Kaz!

Cuz I wanna know!

Kaz…he pitched.

Cuz who pitched?

Kaz!

Cuz without knowing who pitched, I don't really know what happened.

I know this is a stretch, but the pitcher's name was Kaz. Kaz Ishii.

Oh. How'd he do?

Kaz?

Yeah.

He pitched well.

Did he pitch long?

Yeah.

Did he pitch in the ninth?

No.

Who pitched in the ninth?

Koo.

I'm asking you as nicely as I can.

Koo.

I'll whisper softly: Who pitched in the ninth?

And I'm telling you who!

Who?

Koo.

You sure?

Yeah. Koo.

OK, I'll try to be a little more breathy. Mmmmm, baby, who pitched in the ninth? Ooooh, you're so sexy.

What the hell are you talking about?

I'm talking about you. You're sweet. Mmmmm…say, is this really necessary?

No!

Then why do I have to coo?

I don't want you to coo!

So why did you tell me to coo?

I didn't!

You said coo!

I said Koo!

Yeah!

I was telling you the pitcher was Koo!

Koo?

The pitcher's name was Koo. Dae-Sung Koo.

Oh. How'd he do?

Koo?

Yeah.

He ran into a little bit of trouble.

Did he finish the game?

No.

Who did?

Loop.

Loop?

Loop.

If you insist.

Yeah, I do.

Didja see the Mets game Tuesday night?

Yeah.

Who won?

Mets did.

Great! Who pitched?

Kaz…

Cuz I wanna know. Who pitched?

Kaz…wait a second!

What?

I already told you all that.

I know.

Then why did you go back the beginning of this conversation?

Because you said loop.

I know I said Loop.

OK. Didja see the Mets game Tuesday night?

Yeah.

Who won?

Mets did.

Great! Who pitched?

Kaz…WHAT ARE YOU DOING?

I asked you who finished the game and you told me loop.

Yeah.

You acknowledge that?

Yeah.

Absolutely sure?

Yeah!

Fine. Then can I ask you something?

Go ahead.

Who finished the game?

Loop.

Here we go again…Didja see the Mets game Tuesday night?

Look, I don't know what your problem is, but I'm going to tell you everything you need to know right now, so pay attention: Kaz Ishii started for the Mets. He pitched well and he pitched long, but he didn't finish the game. Dae-Sung Koo came on to start the ninth but allowed two Reds to reach base. He was relieved by Braden Looper and Loop finished the game and recorded a save.

Oh. Why didn't you say so?

He didn't pitch.

Who didn't pitch?

Seo.

What?

You asked why I didn't say Seo.

Yeah.

And I'm telling you.

What are you telling me?

That he didn't pitch.

Who?

Seo.

That's rather dismissive.

Seo…he didn't pitch.

And, between you and me, a little rude.

Listen, Seo didn't pitch.

Who so didn't pitch?

I think you're confused.

Well, you're not helping.

Help me help you. What do you want to know?

Just that what you're telling me is the truth.

Of course it is.

Then, truthfully, who were those pitchers who you said pitched in the game?

Kaz, Koo and Loop…not Seo.

Then why did you say they pitched?

They did.

But you said not so.

That's right, not Seo.

Can you be honest with me for once?

I am being honest.

You are?

Yeah.

Kaz pitched?

Yeah.

Koo pitched?

Yeah.

Loop pitched?

Yeah.

That's what I wanted to know.

Well, that's what you should know. Those guys pitched.

Those guys pitched?

Not Seo.

Then who did pitch?

I'll spell it out for you one more time.

Please.

Kaz Ishii started.

Got it.

Dae-Sung Koo pitched in the ninth.

Got it.

Braden Looper finished the game.

Got it.

Not Seo.

Why are you in such denial?

Denial? The only thing I want to deny is that I know you. What's wrong with you?

Wrong with me? I asked you who pitched, you name three pitchers for me and then you tell me not so.

Yeah.

Then what am I supposed to do?

What's the big deal? Jae Seo didn't pitch for the Mets Tuesday night.

Jae Seo?

Yeah. Jae Seo's not even on the 25-man roster.

Aaaah! I think I understand.

Good. Why don't you tell me what happened in the game?

You sure?

Yeah.

You really sure?

Yeah.

You absolutely sure?

I'm absolutely sure. Go ahead already.

OK. Kaz started.

Uh-huh…

He pitched well but didn't finish the game.

Uh-huh…

Koo came on in the ninth.

Uh-huh…

But Koo couldn't get the final outs.

Uh-huh…

That meant Loop had to.

Uh-huh…

And he did.

Uh-huh…

Plus, Jae Seo wasn't involved in the least little bit.

I think you've finally grasped it.

In fact, Jae Seo was entirely superfluous to this little dialogue of ours.

Perhaps, but the important thing is you nailed it.

I did?

That you did.

At long last, I am accurate?

That you are.

And I am correct?

That you are as well.

So, all in all, you would have to say I am right.

No, he's on third.