Maybe this kangaroo court thing is apropos after all. Justice Glavine ruled in favor of targeting and hitting the inside corner for once and then sentenced the Cardinals to an hour-and-a-half of futile flailing, with no time off for good behavior. It was gratifying to watch, even though I still find myself desperately rooting for 24 Mets and simply trying to not root against the one who held court Friday night. Old story, but he's still Glavine. He and us, though, we're in business together, so for the good of the corporation, way to go, your, uh, honor.

I get cranky when I have to go more than 48 hours without a game, especially if the last one was a loss; imagine what I'm like all winter. I was still in low-seethe from Derrek Lee, and it was just a matter of when before distaste for the Cubs morphed into detest for the Cards. No offense to Will who sounds like a stand-up (and get-pelted) guy, especially with the Ankiel homage. Warn me if you ever plan to introduce us and I'll dig out ROJAS 51.

For a game I love so much, I do spend a lot of time hating. Catch me on some stray afternoon when the Cardinals are two months away on the schedule and I'll be like, yeah, Stan Musial, what a history, et al. This wasn't one of those afternoons. I hate the Cardinals. I hate the Cubs. I hate the Braves (stop telling me they're not so bad). I stick up for the National League at every turn, yet I despise 15 of its 16 franchises. And there are days I'm not so crazy about us.

As for the Junior Circuit, Chokeland and Seattle are conspiring to ruin a good bit. The Collapse-O-Meter is rusting from disuse, but I have faith. And hate. Oh, lots of it where grumble, grumble is concerned.

I'll tell ya what I do like. I like a night like Friday night when not only do the Mets win in record time (I dozed off after the first Floydian rip and was shocked that it got so late so soon), but the rest of the National League East cooperates as well and technology allows me to enjoy it as it happens.

I began to watch the Braves and Dodgers on TBS when it occurred to me that I could turn on XM and instead indulge in Vin Scully for a few innings. Man, that guy can do baseball. I didn't love him on NBC in the '80s but on the radio he's everything he's cracked up to be. He works alone, you know. Seeing as how the other Dodger voice belongs to Charlie Steiner, you can hear why. Anyway, Vin told pleasant stories about Horacio Ramirez and Bobby Cox (which is tough to do), gave updates on Eric Gagne's rehab and made the early innings sail by all too quickly.

Then he left to work the TV side which left me to fiddle with the dials and skip among West Coast transmissions, settling eventually on the Padres and Marlins. The San Diego announcer — Jerry Coleman's homer of a partner — kept promising us Hell's Bells and Trevor Time, and Trevor didn't disappoint. Marlins lose!

Back on TBS, the Brave booth was bursting with self-congratulation for having suggested Adam LaRoche hit a grand slam right before he actually did it. This gave the Braves a 4-2 lead in the eighth which looked solid…until Milton Bradley, unofficial spokesperson for MLB's Mental Health Awareness Month, hit his own grand slam. The Bravescasters went quiet. Braves lose! Combined with the Nationals' loss, we picked up ground on everybody, moved into third, and sit only 2-1/2 from the lead.

That's what I like.

Gee. A bit of hostility here!

I returned from the shortest game in recent memory (130 minutes — they hadn't even sent all the 7 trains home for the night yet), attended in the company of a visiting dignitary, my pal Will. (Who lives in Manhattan, but we're talking the heart here, not the mailing address.) Dedicated Redbird fan. He keeps score. You'd like him. After Matsui's (second) grotesque error, he stood up in his ANKIEL 66 Cardinals jersey and let out an escaped-the-jaws-of-death cheer of glee — and got pegged with a peanut, which landed in my lap.

“I've never had anyone throw anything at me before,” he said, sounding faintly amazed and a little pleased.

“Mmm-hmm,” I said, because I was busy eating the peanut.

Tom Glavine, well, he really was masterful. I'm operating with the usual actually-in-the-park information deficit, but he looked good from the get-go, and his body language was clearly different — working quickly, striding off the mound instead of trudging. And (again, information deficit) it certainly didn't seem like an oversized strike zone — Marquis was a mess in the early innings, with what seemed like very poor location. I'm surprised he gave up as few hits as he did, though maybe they all just got added together to make up Floyd's two dingers. Those were quite something — you knew they were gone from the sound alone, and even the casual observers who are always a few seconds behind each play were on their feet instantly.

By the way, Albert Pujols' bat speed is just sick. I don't think I'd ever seen him live, or if I had I sure hadn't appreciated him. I'm surprised there aren't whip cracks or little sonic booms when he makes contact. Pedro and Heilman better beware.

By the way, please tell me Pedro is just being dramatic, and wasn't really hesitant about telling Glavine he'd seen a glitch in his delivery. I mean, goodness me. We're all in this together, fellas. If I'm tipping my blogging and getting teed off on in the Comments field, I expect you to tell me posthaste, pal.

SERIES PREVIEW

Opponent: St. Louis Cardinals

Annoyance Level: High

Why: Because the St. Louis Cardinals used to be a divisional rival, a hot one. Now they're like visiting dignitaries with their one trip a year and all their good press.

Reputation: Oooh, it's the Cardinals. Oooh, they play in the best place ever. Oooh, they're so good.

Reality: They're very good. They've developed a nasty habit of kicking our ass a little much of late. But screw you, standing-ovation-giving fans and all that “it's so nice to play here” nonsense. This is the same demographic that threw beer on Lenny Dykstra.

Irritants: Mark McGwire, for one. He's the one who took them from relatively anonymous Midwestern franchise to The Happiest Place on Earth. And now look how they've turned on him. “Let's name a highway after him and then let's unname it because that stuff he was doing to make us so happy, we don't approve of it anymore.” Tony LaRussa, for another. Does that need explaining? And Jim Edmonds. May he make a great diving catch heading to the wall and keep going…dropping the ball in the process (Matsui will still manage to get thrown out at a random base). Oh yeah — David Eckstein. Just a hunch.

Likely: Albert Pujols will take Glavine very deep. Heilman, too. Maybe Pedro. Pujols turns Shea into the Royal Albert Hall. Man, he's good.

Possibly: Larry Walker will take Glavine very deep if he cares to face a lefty. Hey Walker: Be a man for once and stop taking bows. Otherwise, he'll simply spank Heilman. Pujols is a given. Whoever's filling in for Rolen will make like twelve great plays. Some punk reliever will whack Floyd on the wrist causing all of us to wince. LaRussa will be all, “Huh? Who me?” Screw you, LaRussa. Go win a World Series or two.

Definitely: A few too many Cardinals fans will show up at Shea because they “travel well”. The last Cardinal game I went to there was a double-whammy: Itinerant St. Louisians and misplaced Tino Martinez lovers. Yeech on both counts.

New Guy To Hate: Mark Mulder. Duel Pedro? Go beat the Yankees in 2000 or 2001, big-shot. Screw you, Mulder.

Fawn Factor: Tom Seaver will tell the world that the Cardinals are a highly professional organization. Dave O'Brien will nod. On the other hand, Gary Cohen will barely disguise his contempt for the whole, red lot of them. I love you, Gary Cohen.

Reminders: They lay down for the Red Sox. We handled them with ease the last time it mattered, in 2000. They barely beat us the last weekend of 1964. Keith Hernandez for Neil Allen and Rick Ownbey is still a scream. The 1985 Royals and the 1987 Twins were world champions.

They Are: Pond Scum, now and forever.

Been thinking about Mets-Cubs games. Yesterday's was indeed typical of the type of game we tend to lose against them. But we do have our share that we tend to win, there and here.

This one really works better for an off-day.

or this one…

or this one…

or this one (if you like broken windows)…

or this one (a lot was on the line)…

or this one (which kind of changed everything)…

or this one (the cat's meow)…

and, of course, this one. It was almost perfect.

A season is composed of the third you're gonna win, the third you're gonna lose and the other third. Wednesday's game had a real shot at being an avatar of where this season was going, stealing victory from defeat, sending the flight home via a higher strata of clouds. It was gonna be from the other third.

Instead it was just one of those things that couldn't be helped, one of the Fated 54 that wasn't going to go our way no matter what we did. We were gonna lose it anyway, so tip your cap and try not to think about it too much.

Try not to think about the one inning when Zambrano was insufferable and think happy thoughts over the five in which he didn't give up anything.

Try not to think about leaving runners on second and third in the top of that inning and instead be glad that Diaz lived up to his dreams of driving in runs in sweet home Chicago.

Try not to think about Diaz not getting the big hit in the ninth, but be overjoyed that Eric Valent came out of dry dock to deliver it. Good for E.V.! I missed him.

Try not to think about DeJean not quite getting the job done and Koo immensely not getting the job done. Think about how Heath Bell (Heathie! as he's become known from the couch) wriggled out of the ninth.

And try not to think about that eleventh pitch to Derrek Lee or the fact that he found a way to sync up with the prevailing winds or that every blow Mike struck blew back in that breeze. Forget that Bell vs. Lee wasn't a whole lot different from all those Franco vs. Sosa situations. Remember that there's almost always a game like this in every series we play at Wrigley.

If it helps, remember this one…

or this one…

or this one…

or this one…

or this one.

It happens. It's Wrigley. It's part of the third of the season that's condemned to L. You're gonna lose one third of your games, and one of them was this one. Tip your cap and try not to dwell on a loss like this for years and years and years, let alone 23 hours.

Good game. Not the way we would have wanted it to turn out, of course, but good game. In many ways a tenser, less goofy version of the first game of the series, down to the crummy umpiring and the absurd weather.

That bottom of the second, though? Ugh. Hit by pitch. Absurd pop-fly single in the howling wind. Balk. Walk the pitcher. Wild pitch. A should've-been double play that went awry when Minky, his fingers undoubtedly frozen, alligator-armed Piazza, who came up empty on the scoop. Single. Cubs 3, Mets 2, death by a thousand little cuts.

Sure, we fought back, showed life, even (ulp) battled. That hideous inning aside, Zambrano wasn't too bad — infuriating, sure, but not bad. Heath Bell was terrific…in the 9th. Piazza kept smashing balls that unfortunately went right at Cubs. Eric Valent kept himself on the roster with a jump-out-of-the-coffin single. The Nameless Koo provided more evidence that he's not capable of doing the extremely specific job he was brought here to do, and we didn't lose a game for it. That short-arm of Piazza was just about the only play Marvelous Minky didn't make all day. But it wasn't enough, leaving us to confront that age-old baseball question: Which makes the stomach burn more, falling short in the ninth or tying it and saving the death rattle for extra innings?

Still, whatcha gonna do? Derrek Lee fouled off ball after ball in an 11-pitch at-bat, finally slamming one that was mightier than the mightiest Wrigley wind. Sure, he got a call in the sequence — good hitters get calls, and he's hitting .383. It's only fair that sometimes the other guys play well and get a little lucky. Even if they are Cubs.

From the Daily News:

Tom Glavine presided over kangaroo court before yesterday's game. The camaraderie-building tradition of fining players for generally humorous indiscretions had been absent in the Mets' clubhouse since Darryl Boston* served as judge in the early 1990s.

Tom Glavine? TOM GLAVINE?

I wasn't aware he was even familiar with those 24 guys who aren't on his mound. Since he apparently is, I've got an idea for some indiscretions to put on the books, with suggested fines:

Constant alibis in analyzing yet another bad start = Trade to some other team for Double-A scrubs

Whining about Questec, the strike zone, etc. = Trade to some other team for Double-A scrubs

Consistently spitting the bit against biggest division rival = Trade to some other team for Double-A scrubs

Refusing to change approach despite ample evidence that it's no longer working = Trade to some other team for Double-A scrubs

Chronic injuries to throats of booing onlookers = Trade to some other team for Double-A scrubs

General suckage = Trade to some other team for Double-A scrubs

Seriously: How on earth did Mike Cameron not get this gig?

* The Faith and Fear Court rules Adam Rubin has to eat three soggy and/or rock-hard pretzels in one half-inning for his own misdeed. It's Daryl Boston.

Apparently there was something filtering through the air vents of the East School library in the early 1970s that infiltrated the kids' grudge receptors. As demonstrated the other day, I can still hold one that's more than thirty years old. And so can somebody else.

Since this has been a night for opposing viewpoints, it is my privilege to present unedited, as received via faithandfear@gmail.com, the other side of the Harry Truman's 88th Birthday story. Ladies and gentlemen, the first “arrogant, argumentative, generally didn't know what he was talking about” Yankees fan I ever knew and my best friend from third grade…

Here's something to add to your blog:

P.S. To complete the historical record, I feel it's important to note that in 1979 you stole my review of Led Zeppelin's “In Through the Out Door” from Lindauer's The Tide inbox.

Good to hear from Jon for the first time in many a year. I appreciate his knocking one WS title off the Yankees' post-1972 tally, presumably 2000's. Did I mention he always had a terrific generosity of spirit?

Mets fans hate losing to Greg Maddux. All of us, right?

Wait a second…is that a smile I see in the crowd? Why, there's a traitor to the ranks. There she is! String 'er up!

Wait another second, it's Laurie. I'll vouch for her. She's one of us, just a little more skewed in her priorities. While most of your orange & blue bleeders were shaking their heads and fists Tuesday night, Laurie was thrilled.

Because Laurie loves Greg Maddux. Loves him as a pitcher. Not respects. Not admires. Not appreciates an all-time great but still wishes an anvil would fall on his head when he faces the Mets (my default position). She thinks Mike Maddux's brother is the bee's knees.

When it comes to the scope of his long and distinguished career, she's right. We don't have enough living legends floating by, and we should be able to applaud them when they cross our radar screen. Then we should, you know, kick their ass.

But Laurie doesn't think this way about Greg Maddux. She doesn't mind when he paints his corners on nights when the other team is ours. She thinks it's swell that Mad Dog's stuff still has its bite. Needless to say, we've parted company on this matter a number of times over the years. But we remain friends somehow.

She's not a Cubs fan. Far from it. We still celebrate Brant Brown Humiliation Day every September 23. She used to be a Mets/Braves fan until that got sticky and she peeled away all the Atlantaness from her being. She's down to only one Brave now and that Brave happens to pitch for Chicago and happened to have pitched yet another gem against us.

Like you, I'm in no mood to relive this debacle. So I'll let somebody who found some value in all of this explain herself. (And no, I didn't lose a bet or my mind.)

Laurie, it's all yours tonight:

Greg Maddux is so far past the point of idolization now that you don't even want to know how far. Now it's like watching Michael Jordan at the end of his career…every time I watch him I try to sear every pitch into my brain because I know it won't be long before it's all just a memory. He just thrills me. I know he shouldn't because he was a Brave and now he's a (UGH) Cub…I know it's disloyal, and I know you get mad at me for it, but I can't help it. He's the classiest, most incredible pitcher ever. I get physically ill when he gets hit. Actually nauseous.

Now, I doubt you'll want to print any of that… but it felt good to get it out.

Well, that stank.

On Day Two of the Return of MSG/FSNY, I bailed out early, tired of watching Kris Benson's neck snap back and Greg Maddux go through the lineup like a combine. Not that things were much less painful on the radio. Fortunately, there's a day game tomorrow. Hopefully we can flush the memory of this one away by 5:30 or so. (Hopefully it won't rain.)

Ed Coleman just had Bam Bam Burnitz on Mets Whatever. I had forgotten his unmistakable voice. My Lord. He sounds like a guy who read for Floyd in “True Romance” but lost out to Brad Pitt's much more nuanced, subtle performance. Somebody get Jeromy some beer and cleaning products — I'm not sticking around to hear the highlights of this one.