If Jae Seo had pitched his last two games in newfangled bandboxes instead of RFK and Shea, it wouldn't seem unfair to deport him to Norfolk. Balls rocketed off Nats' bats in D.C., most of them dying in the alleys, but enough finding express lanes down the line to put him in a hole. Wednesday night, Shea held Phillie flies just long and far enough to turn Jae into a Jaenius. Had he made one of these starts in Philadelphia's Legal Immigrants Bank Park, he'd have been detained by the INS for entering the country under false pretenses. (“This line on your green card says you're a pitcher, but the line on the scoreboard gives us reason to suspect you're lying.”)

Still, it's one of those decisions you want to argue with because he was the Weong guy in the right place when the Mets needed him. Seo sure has pitched well in spurts since 2003. He could be on the cover of Spurts Illustrated and there'd be no jinx because he also pitches horrendously in spurts. He's the perfect sixth starter in a five-man rotation.

Braden Looper hates leads. Hates 'em. I was wondering why Roberto Hernandez had to come out after a sparkling eighth. Just because? To get a saver a save? But having thought about it, I found a rationale. Benson isn't likely to go more than five Thursday afternoon. We'll need a bullpen. If we can save our best reliever for a key situation, that's not an altogether bad thing. Gosh, it's strange to admit the manager may know a thing or two more about baseball than I do.

Does Cliff Floyd have a nickname? A real one? In his wonderful The Old Ball Game, Frank Deford suggests “perhaps the greatest loss to television, to the utter visualization of sport at the expense of imagination, is the disappearance of the nickname.” Bully! Let's get our leftfielder a proper sobriquet.

God? Blasphemous…to our guy. Reasonable people can debate the existence of God. Who doesn't believe in Cliff at this point?

King Floyd? Groove me, baby…to the tune of twenty consecutive games thus far.

Uncle Floyd? Remember the faux kiddie-show host who ran a low-budget daily hootfest out of Channel 68 in Jersey? I loved Uncle Floyd, but Cliff is high-priced talent and suddenly worth it.

Floyd the Barber? Ooooohhhh…Randy…I think I extended my hitting streak off you… And Cliff's not cutting it close either.

Cliff the Mailman? Here's a little-known fact: If Cliff Floyd were a planet, he'd be the third-hottest planet in the solar system, and I have it on good authority that he may just pass Uranus before the season is over.

Don Cornelius? Indeed, Cornelius Clifford Floyd makes one pitcher after another an offer he can't refuse.

Death to Flying Things? Roll over Robert Ferguson and tell Jack Chapman the news. After Cliff's Leapin' Lizards! catch of Jason Michaels' sure-goner in the seventh, could any nickname be more utterly visual?

As a public service, we will present from time to time as schadenfreude permits the New York Yankee Collapse-O-Meter, tracking 2005 vis-à-vis two other Yankee campaigns that followed crushing post-season defeats.

NEW YORK YANKEE COLLAPSE-O-METER

Through 28 Games

1965: 12-16 (Final Record: 77-85)

1982: 12-16 (Final Record: 79-83)

2005: 11-17 (Final Record: ??-???)

Remember: The New York Yankees are baseball.

One of my favorite moments from last year's ALCS (The Mets were out of it! It was against the Yankees! It was just postseason baseball — It didn't MEAN anything!) came after Keith Foulke preserved a decidedly shaky save in Game 6. As he lined up to slap hands with his teammates, who looked a little weak in the knees, he grinned broadly and announced, “Well, that got interesting.”

Tonight got interesting.

This sounds ungrateful, but while Jae Seo's much-improved location, better smarts around the strike zone and apparent decision to accept coaching are all wonderful things, that sounded like somewhat sketchy one-hit ball. Balls that got hit awful hard just stayed in and unlikely fielders made really good plays — except for the small matter of the results, it didn't seem night and day removed from his lackluster start in D.C. So don't count me among those ready to take to the barricades because Seo is going back to Norfolk. (Of course I'd send Glavine and/or Zambrano there instead if that were possible.) Nor would I have been that up in arms if Victor Diaz were Virginia-bound. (He's not — Royce Ring got his walking papers.) Victor has some more fielding lessons to learn, not to mention getting a fair amount better at staying up to date on what's going on around him. Granted, it seems questionable that he has anything to learn at the plate in AAA — pitchers have adjusted to him and one hopes tonight was him starting to adjust back — but playing every day in AAA seems more conducive to learning than riding the bench in the Show.

Unless, of course, we trade Cameron. It's kind of nice to think that the Yankees desperately need a center fielder and we're about to have two of them, including the one they should have employed. Sorry Cash, we'd love to help you out, but this farm system of yours looks like the Island of Misfit Toys. Call us in a few drafts — if you're still around.

The dessert accompanying tonight's game was various Mets being quotable. (Oh, and watching YES.) First was Floyd admitting that his jog to the fence on Jason Michaels' non-homer was “a courtesy run-back” for Seo on a ball he thought was gone, after which Clifford thought to himself, “Oh crap, I'm going to have to jump and try to catch that.” Seo (through a translator) said all the right things about helping the team, blah blah blah, and Randolph got in a not-bad crack about Seo's demotion: “Maybe if he threw a no-hitter, I might have had second thoughts. Certainly a perfect game, that's really impressive.”

In my baseball universe, all these zingers would be worth at least a game in the standings.

The social ramble done passed us by years ago. Shoot, out to sup with other people on a Tuesday night? You crazy kids. Back here in suburbia, it was the microwave and the Mets.

More or less how Brett Myers prepared things.

Mrs. Paul's just introduced a grilled salmon dinner with the oddest directions. Cook on high for four minutes and then take a fork, split the fish in half and “check for doneness”. It's a real word, according to Merriam-Webster — “the condition of being cooked to the desired degree” — but I'd never seen it. And I've read a lot of frozen entrée boxes.

It barely took four minutes to check for doneness where Tom Glavine serving up meatballs was concerned. It took four batters. Pat Burrell stuck the fork of confirmation in him. The rest was Phillie gravy. Glavine's now had six starts. Four of them have come out of the oven ice-cold.

Allowing for all the caveats (it's early; you're never as bad or as good as you look; he's considered by some a future Hall of Famer), is Tom Glavine done as in the Big Done?

Does Mrs. Paul's use only whole fillets?

Fortunately, there was another way to check to see if a pitcher was done Tuesday night: Is he Brown? If he is, then he is cooked.

I have to admit that I've been ordering off the YES menu more than I ever dreamed I would. If we're gonna lose an unwatchable 10-3 main course, the least I deserve is a sample of the 11-4 salad bar the Devil Rays opened on the Yankees' ample behinds.

Who am I kidding? This was one of those deli salad bars where you go right for the treats. Kevin Brown giving up six runs in the first inning is a meal unto itself. Junk food? Well, technically it's not part of the Mets Diet, but with all the conflicting research out there, who's to say chowing down on Yankee misery isn't good for us? Especially in May when it's so rarely in season. It's one thing for the Yankees to turn sour in October. It's become as delightfully dependable an autumnal event as pumpkin pie. But to taste the possibility that the Yankees won't even be invited to the harvest ball that is post-season is to drool unapologetically.

Ooh, I know I should lay off the sweets, but I gotta have another bite of that creamy thought. Tomorrow, I'll eat my blue and orange veggies. I promise.

So tonight seemed like one of those unfortunate evenings in which baseball must be sacrificed on the altar of a well-rounded life, alias the social ramble. Which a certain wise pitcher once noted ain't restful, and which also can't be good for one's fan karma.

Ordinarily I would have felt guilty that I shut off my little radio and pulled the earpiece out of my ear at approximately 7:33 as Emily tugged on my sleeve to indicate that the old friend we were meeting was already at the restaurant. Ordinarily I would have spent the evening shifting from one side to the other in my chair, making polite noises about the food and whatever it was people had done with their lives since last we caught up while trying to figure out if it had been long enough that I could run off to the bathroom or the front door again to check the score. Ordinarily I would have been scouring the faces of waiters and patrons for some hint that someone had heard a bit of the game in the kitchen or the coatroom — a contest of interest to millions played just a few miles away must leave some trace, right? The waiter brought my pork loin first — that must mean we're ahead or tied!

Ordinarily. Alas, tonight by 7:33 it was 3-0 Phils, the boos were rising from the stands, and Gary and Howie were practically elbowing each other aside to announce their disgust with Tom Glavine, aka The Manchurian Brave. So I shut the radio off with a certain guilty relief, went inside and ate very well and chatted amiably. And when I did slip away to actually use the facilities, I turned on the FAN to find out it was 10-1, which isn't exactly the kind of thing that makes one feel guilty for a dereliction of duty. I'm glad Cliff's streak is alive and I'm sure Reyes' first walk was greeted memorably, but I'm not exactly kicking myself for having spent this one asleep at my post.

Tom Glavine's ERA is 7.04. Ordinary would be a considerable step up right now.

If you win twenty in the Show, you can let the fungus grow back on your shower shoes and the press'll think you're colorful. Until you win twenty in The Show, however, it means you're a slob.

–Crash Davis

Thirteen of Beltran's seventeen RBIs have come in games started by Martinez. Wait 'til the Los Mets conspiracy theorists gnaw on that one.

Your long lost Fran Healy saluted the New York baseball fans for their knowledge of the game when Jose approached his unfinished four-ball symphony. It was an unknowing echo of Bob Murphy's long-retired line about the most knowledgeable baseball fans being right here in our town (at our place). That was also back in the day when Bob, Lindsey and Ralph cast a skewed tone toward cities like Houston that ordered their patrons to clap and make noise. We never had to be told that.

It was a long time ago.

I'll admit the bases-on-balls…not-so-fast-there bit was cute, but to be a wet blanket on a damp night, why is it funny that we have a leadoff hitter who can't draw a walk? It's reached absurd proportions, and we have a rich tradition as Team Surreal, but geez, be professionals. At 15-1, OK, maybe. But at 5-1, it's not like these were gimme plate appearances. Any opponent that brings Burrell, Abreu and Thome (in whatever shape he's in) to the ballpark is not to be trifled with. Ya wanna walk? Walk already.

If I haven't made it clear, Jose Reyes is my favorite Met. I love the kid. I have faith in him. The four hits and his baserunning derring-do and his hard liner on the last pitch he saw speaks to a night that should be beyond reproach. He's a serious player. He's not Rey Ordoñez hitting an annual dinger and getting the silly silent treatment. So why come down with the giggles for even a pitch? He's too good for that.

Kill me now, but I'm going to quote Bleepin' Joe DiMaggio for saying he went all out all the time because there was always somebody who hadn't seen him play before. Kill me again for citing Pete Rose and his obsession with turning a four-hit night into a five-hit night. And absolutely put me on a bus to New Mexico for this one, but the single thing a certain weasely shortstop in the other league does that I cannot find a way to mock or despise is run out every two-bit grounder because you never know how far you'll get if you run hard.

It is told of another beauty, Ty Cobb, that a young pitcher struck him out three times one afternoon. A teammate asked the hurler if he remembered what he got the great hitter out with. “Nah, why should I?” the cocky kid said. Because, came the reply, Cobb will, and he'll never swing at that stuff again.

DiMaggio…Rose…Jeter…Cobb…they're all disgusting, so never mind them. Think about Gil Hodges instead.

Gil Hodges wouldn't have found any humor in not competing to the fullest of one's ability. Half these Mets would be leaving a crisp c-note on The Man's desk every other day for violating some rule or another. If Gil Hodges wasn't who he was and didn't manage like he did, 1969 would be just some year that somebody walked on the moon. Heck, even the teams run by the notoriously loose-shipped Davey Johnson kept their antics confined to rally caps, masks and hotfeet on the bench while the games were in progress.

The 2005 Mets are fun but they're also .500. They'll be less irritating and more colorful once they start winning more than they lose. They've yet to prove they can do that and until they do, they should take no liberties. Willie should worry more about how they play than how they look.

This is a very appealing ballclub we've got. Part of its charm is its inherent goofiness. But they're also reasonably close to being a truly good club. Don't lose your chance to move on up toward your destination. Play hard and play smart, fellas. Give the rain-delayed minyan that stuck around until close to midnight its bronze-ticket money's worth.

New rules:

* Pitchers, you get a turn at bat. Use it like it matters. Leiter's gone; everybody else has to swing like a man.

* Everybody stop patting Piazza on the head every time he throws out a runner. He'll think it's the eve of a national holiday…especially if it's the night before Pedro pitches.

* Matsui — you're allowed more than one base if the placement of the ball dictates your advancement from first. You could look it up.

* It's ninety feet between bases. All of you, pretend you're getting paid to run the full distance.

* Winning isn't everything, but it is the most fun you can have on a baseball field. It's even more fun than not walking.

Tonight's game was one of those contests with a crowd that heartily deserved a reward: Anytime a bunch of people have to hang around two extra hours in 45-degree weather, there's nobody left but the diehards by the time the grounds crew pulls the tarp. And it certainly sounded that way: The crowd pointedly but good-naturedly chanting “WALK! WALK! WALK! WALK!” when Reyes looked at ball three is one of the funnier things I've heard in some time. Go on, tell me they do that in any other baseball town. I refuse to believe it. I can only hope Fran was in full cry about the electricity at Shea — tonight I wouldn't even have made fun of him.

All those hardy crazies got a good one: This was one of those neatly scripted little thrillers that may not be remembered next year or even come September, but is the kind of game baseball fans deeply appreciate on any night on the calendar (and appreciate somewhat more shallowly should they wind up on the short end of things).

Continuing storylines? Intrigue? Take your pick:

* Beltran's theatrically timed rescue of Pedro from No Decision Land, courtesy of the three-run homer — note that Pedro departed having thrown exactly 100 pitches, which must have had some Red Sox fans out there revisiting the urge to scrape something dead off the street and FedEx it to Grady Little;

* Clifford's stuntman catch and delivered-with-an-exclamation-point notice that yes, he was going to extend that hitting streak;

* another masterful night for Pedro, cool as the other side of the pillow in dissecting an NL lineup;

* Reyes pulling a Lance Johnson to silence all the OBP nuts in Met Land for a night (and only a night, since it's awful hard to go 4-for-5 162 times);

* the continuing struggles of Victor Diaz, with Mike Cameron's footfalls now audible;

* Personalcatchergate continues — by Memorial Day Willie's going to have to start reusing reasons that Mike not catching Pedro is a coincidence; and

* the latest chapter in The Enigma of Kaz Matsui, one of very few men to drive in a man from first and end the play on first himself. That took doing, Kaz. Please don't do it again.

Much as it's a delight to watch (OK, hear) Reyes frisking around Shea (“Whoo! Look at the spring in his step as he waves at that 1-2 outside slider!”), it makes me happier to hear a healthy Cliff Floyd. Yep, this is indeed the player we feared when he was the Man of Teal. His body is finally doing what he tells it to do without a lot of 15-day backtalk, and what he's telling that body to do is carry this baseball team through Beltran's adjustment and Piazza's last hurrah and Wright's sophomore season and Kaz's growing pains and Victor and Reyes learning on the job. Who knows how long all Cliff's parts will hold together (sound of frantic wood knocking, salt whistling over shoulders and what-not) — while they do, you can practically hear his delight at just being able to play all-out again.

Truth be told, I think most of us wrote off Floyd sometime in the middle of last year: We admired his gutting it out and appreciated his blunt take on things, but had quietly abandoned the idea that he'd ever again be more than a gritty third-tier player. That's one of the nice things about being a habitually pessimistic Met fan: It sure is wonderful being wrong.

There's no such thing as an idea too good to “adapt” (you know, the way Rickey Henderson would “adapt” bases). In 1980, when a baseball strike loomed, Joe Gergen of Newsday started the Short-Season Awards, honoring the best players in the game from Opening Day to late May. A strike was averted, but he brought back the SSAs in '81 as play was halted. He kept it going for several springs thereafter.

Great idea, Joe. In your honor, we are rushing to judgment and honoring the Mets who have defined the first four weeks of the 2005 season. The rules are simple: We react/overreact to what we've seen over the first 25 games. We try to be so fair that it hurts. And we make no guarantees that anything we've seen will carry over to the next 25 games or 25 minutes.

Besides, around here, it's never too early to reminisce.

Mets Valuable Players

1) Cliff Floyd: Has anybody noticed this is the guy we used to fear when he was a Marlin? We haven't had anybody this hot since, well, Cliff Floyd in August '03, but that almost didn't count since he was taking some farewell swings before going in for more surgery. He's healthy and he's spectacular.

2) Pedro Martinez: Turned the season around in his second start. Turned the franchise around the same day.

3) Victor Diaz: Eight miles high and falling fast, but what a ride while it lasted. (We rush to judge, so we've already put him in the past-tense; we can be dissuaded.)

4) Doug Mientkiewicz: How many errors do the second baseman, shortstop and third baseman have? How many would they have without Minky? Bonus points for the way the “Z” on the back of his road uniform is practically shaking hands with the “N” on the front.

5) Roberto Hernandez: He is what stands between this being an adequate bullpen and a fire hazard.

Not So Much Valuable Players

1) Victor Zambrano: Nobody's done more to advance the cause of On-Base Percentage.

2) Kaz Matsui: He was considered one of the best infielders in Japan. Turns out infielder is a very unimportant position in Japan.

3) Tom Glavine: It's not the strike zone, Tom. It's you.

4) Mike Piazza: There used to be an all-star here.

5) Jose Reyes: Nobody's done less to advance the cause of On-Base Percentage.

The Season's Still Young (Cy)

1) Pedro in Atlanta.

2) Pedro in Atlanta (it was that good).

3) Heilman's one-hitter, particularly for the 99% of Mets fans who fret their pants over the “matchup” with Josh Beckett.

4) Ishii matching zeroes with Clemens, the Hall of Fame jerk.

5) Seo cruising in his first game back (to think it was almost Manny Aybar taking the start).

The Season's Still Young (Anthony)

1) Looper Opening Day; he's still not quite forgiven.

2) Any Zambrano start. Any.

3) Tom Glavine is The Manchurian Brave.

Short-Term Memory Memorial

1) Willie Randolph can't double-switch.

2) Heath Bell is being held hostage.

3) Mike Cameron will be ready for Opening Day.

4) David Wright can't get out of his slump.

5) Jose Reyes has to keep being aggressive.

Trend of the World As We Knew It

1) Mets Can't Win (0-5 start).

2) Mets Can't Lose (6-0 response).

3) Mets Can't Be Gotten Out (second game in Philly).

4) Mets Can't Score (particularly in Washington).

5) Al Leiter Won't Shut Up (but we don't care anymore).

Suspiciously Absent From Conversation

1) Carlos Beltran, but he'll be loud enough in due time.

2) Mike DeJean.

3) Eric Valent.

These Are A Few Of My Favorite Things

1) Leaving the Basia concert at Westbury to learn Aaron Heilman one-hit the Marlins.

2) Leaving Shea after the Pedro-Al hookup and joining in a mass wave-and-shout at the first 7 train we saw.

3) Leaving John Franco talking to himself after giving him a nice hand.

4) All the new bench guys: Anderson, Castro, Cairo, Woodward; they rock.

5) Those eighth-inning rallies which briefly became habit-forming.

These Are Not

1) Those Subway commercials.

2) Looper Opening Day (nope, still not forgiven).

2) That tease of a ninth-inning uprising against Kolb and the Braves.

3) Finally realizing just how much Shea blows, even if RFK is worse.

4) No starts from Trachsel or Benson.

5) We're still paying Art Howe.

OK, I've officially had it with the cable blackout. This was my first chance to see a full game in a week, and it brought home how many things I've missed and how many things you can't tell from the radio, even when you're in good hands with Gary and Howie. Like except for his wheels-fell-off inning, Aaron Heilman's stuff looked good — life, movement, mixing fastball and change effectively, hitting spots, and most importantly he didn't seem scared of his own repertoire. And watching David Wright suddenly snapped him back into focus for me — I love the way he holds his bat vertically before him, like a knight with a broadsword, and seems to commune with it before stepping back into the box. I should be used to that sight by now, and filing it away in my mind as the thing that identifies Wright as Wright, letting me know him from even a split-second glance. Fricking Dolans.

And, of course, it was nice to see the team show some fight beyond indignation amid the death throes. They hung tough, pounced and won, and something told me they would once Heilman rebounded. It was nice to watch a game with some confidence. (It'd be nicer to put .500 solidly below us, of course.)

Semi-random observations:

* Joe Morgan is even more of a dolt than I'd remembered. I thought his defense of Reyes was nonsensical, and suspect it's one of his reflexive I-hate-stats-geeks bloviations. (The great irony about his hating Billy Beane's Michael Lewis' book is that Morgan was a terrific “Moneyball” player, but that's well-trodden ground, so I'll simply register my disapproval and move on.) Don't tell me insisting Jose Reyes learn the strike zone and get the most out of his considerable talent will somehow ruin him by “taking away his aggressiveness.” Somebody better take away some of his aggressiveness — he's popping up 0-1 sliders two feet off the plate and seeing a Ryan Thompsonesque number of pitches. This team isn't going anywhere with a leadoff hitter with a .265 OBA. Time to rein him in, preferably by hitting him eighth. And Ol' Joe apparently doesn't look at the monitor, either: Cristian Guzman's infield single didn't happen because Mientkiewicz slipped and Roberto Hernandez had to slow down to take the throw. It happened because Hernandez got caught spectating on the mound and broke for the bag late — even if Minky fields it cleanly, Guzman gets to the bag first. I think the long-dormant portions of Joe Morgan's brain are swelling up and scrambling the signals traveling along his optic nerves. Maybe that elbow pump was an early sign of some kind of neural trouble.

* Speaking of Cristian Guzman, he plays this game like the drunk guy on the company softball team. He'll get the most heat for his attempted steal of third with one out in the seventh (apparently Guzman missed a sign — what's the Nats' signal for “Don't do anything dimwitted”?) but going for the triple in the ninth was silly too. Tiny upside, basically infinite downside. It's like some mean teammate told him there are cookies hidden under third base.

Your good wishes for my wife's well-being (and your total lack of concern for mine) notwithstanding, RFK Stadium ain't much when it's dry either. To paraphrase Billy Martin regarding the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome, it's a shame they named a great man after a place like this.

Our game was Friday night when there was just the lightest of light sprinkles, resulting in about as many raindrops as Met runs. When did we go from never say die to never say score? I think I liked it better the old way.

We did indeed spend Saturday afternoon pursuing culture, lingering at the Museum of American History where the Smithsonian had just put Victor Diaz's last hit on display. Tourists from all over the world oohed and aahed.

* “How did they ever get ahold of something so ancient?”

* “Are you sure an artifact that old can be exposed to light?”

* “I'm from the Audubon Society and I thought discovering the first Ivory-Billed Woodpecker since 1944 was big. I now realize my life is a sham.”

It was part of the Smithsonian's very popular “Rarities” exhibition. They're expecting quite a crush for the Collected Walks of Jose Reyes.

As Mets fans, we were not alone in Washington. There was friendly apparel dotting the District when we arrived, mine among it. “You going to the game tonight?” was something I heard repeatedly. I even heard it as we arrived at Union Station for our train back to New York (which is when I stopped thinking it was a stupid question). If Nats Fever and its companion malady, Visiting Team Recognition Syndrome, aren't at epidemic proportions, there seems to be plenty of baseball going around. Whether it's heartfelt or simply trendy, there was a full lid of Nationals headgear in evidence everywhere. The Friday night Metro was full of it, topping the per-Met-capita average on your standard Sheabound 7.

It was definitely intriguing mingling with folks who decided to cast their fate with 25 total strangers just because those guys wear white uniforms in Washington and not Montreal. This wasn't a Rockies thing where they knew a team was coming and had years to prepare for the birth. The Nationals were dropped by MLB on the capital's steps, deposited in a basket with a note attached: whoever finds this unwanted franchise, please give it a temporary home — we're not particular what kind.

Imagine Shea. Then imagine Shea not as good as Shea was to begin with. Then imagine Shea neglected for decade upon decade. Then imagine Shea in a less grand setting. Then imagine something far drearier than all of that put together.

Now you're at RFK.

Whenever I visit a ballpark I haven't seen before, I like to go through an elaborate process of ranking it versus its peers. I like to look at amenities and presentation and flourishes. I didn't do that for RFK because there were no amenities, there was no presentation, and it's hard to imagine anything will flourish there except airsickness brought on by the instant National tradition of fans jumping up and down to make the stadium sway just because they can. Their seventh-inning stretch version of “Lazy Mary” is House of Pain's “Jump Around”. Boy do they ever.

Slack, and lots of it, is in order for the facility because prior to April 14, RFK hadn't hosted a regulation baseball game since Denny McLain was the home side's ace. Yet when you look at nothing but the field and the fence, it's reasonably big league…assuming it's not raining. All the rest is window dressing whose dismal state is best left for passersthrough like myself to ponder. The Natbackers won't care for quite a while. When you've just completed 34 years in deprivation, you're entitled to jump around a little, no matter how unsafe the structure.

The nascent Nationalists are still in that smitten stage. They were told they had a team and that they should like it, and these people were like, “OK!” Those who are into it are really into it, literally shaking the rafters and totally comprehending the beauty of their starting pitcher going deep as a hitter (and as a pitcher, damn it). They're also not shy about reminding those of us who pilgrimaged down from New York in quest of a successful road trip that we didn't get what we came for. I heard “hey, we beat you” almost as much as “you going to the game tonight?”

Those who aren't into it are another story. No doubt there's a novelty factor that's drawn a stream of customers. When there's a lull in the action, they have no old days to bandy about. They can't react to the Major League debut of a Royce Ring with stories of a Rich Sauveur. The only Rich Sauveurs in their past are in their future, which is to say in their present, but they don't know it yet. So one overhears conversations about school and work and dating and commuting and whatever people who don't quite know what they're doing at a baseball game talk about instead of baseball. I only had to endure it for nine innings. As we were using the season tickets of a lovely man named Frank, I only hope the dilettantes in his section aren't regulars.

Then again, what do I know about baseball? I traveled 250 miles expecting to see the Mets score runs. That's “runs” with an “s,” something they didn't accomplish until the dirt turned to mud and we returned to Long Island.

Compadre Greg, the most-oft-heard sentence in our house during the last hour has been, “I hope to God poor Stephanie isn't out in this.”

I know, we're not worrying about you, and that's wrong. But, hey, if you are there, you're the guy whose emotional compass just swung the other direction when Cliff sent one through the raindrops and made it a game again. From “Please end this torment” to “We've scored two runs in an inning thousands of times, what's one more?” So there's a separate reason for worrying about you, and the outcome is yet to be determined.

But still, we hope you're not there. We hope last night was the night for checking out RFK (not that that was so great) and tonight was the night for dinner and culture and whatever else D.C. has to offer that doesn't involve a tarp when the weather turns foul.

Last night was one of those games you can fool yourself about if you try hard enough. I kept thinking, man, Valent's drive hits the grass, a bit of luck elsewhere, and we win that game. But then you realize that on any non-April night, Jae Seo would have trudged off the mound having given up five or six home runs, and no, we would not have won that game.

As for tonight, true confessions: We were out to dinner with my parents, and arrived home to find the babysitter watching the game. (She hates the Yankee, which is reason enough to let her care for our child.) “What's going on?” we asked. “Nothing good,” she replied. Indeed. Then the rain came down and we started worrying about Stephanie.

I could go on and on about our starting pitcher, but what would I be telling anyone that they don't know. Victor Zambrano stinks. It's increasingly hard to imagine that he'll ever harness that fabled stuff of his. Meanwhile, memo to the front office: Unless Scott Kazmir's arm flies off tomorrow or it turns out he's a member of Al Qaeda, no serious fan of this team is going to stop being pissed about the trade in the next several years. So whatever decision is made about Zambrano, justifying the Kazmir trade shouldn't be part of it. If Zambrano's released tomorrow (not that I'm advocating that — that would be silly, in fact), Met fans won't be any more ticked than they already are. If Zambrano wins 20, a small but vocal percentage of Met fans won't be any less pissed. How Zambrano got here shouldn't make any difference in what's done with him now that he is here.

Man, now they called it. We lose. That seems vaguely unfair. But I guess if you suck as thoroughly as we just finished sucking (Cliff excepted), you can't complain too much.