Derby Day is in the rearview mirror, the apartment remains standing, it didn't rain, the guests seemed reasonably entertained, and Steinbrenner's horse lost. (Though the bipeds he owns are looking a little better, darn it all). Which isn't to say that my blog silence reflected an information blackout: The Pedro 'N' Carlos Show was on as Derby Day wound down last night, with yours truly pausing for an update whenever hosting duties and drunken errands took me by the set. Weirdly, the first two times I stopped long enough to watch an actual bit of the game, Beltran promptly hit home runs. (Later, Emily hollered at me to get my ass upstairs because Carlos was back at the plate. I was late and she was PO'ed at me because he settled for a bunt single.) My weird timing had the effect of minimizing awareness of how perilous Saturday's game actually was — heck, everything I saw seemed to be going just fine.

Today, of course, I got to watch the whole thing. And it was my 36th birthday. So what did Tom Glavine give me for a present? An ordinary performance, shot through with bad luck. Thanks, Tommy! Sad that this was actually a step up for the Manchurian Brave. As I watched bloopers fall in and bleeders trickle through, I worked myself into a mildly hungover fury (in other words, muttery pique) imagining just how Glavine would subtly distance himself from the whole thing. As indeed he did: “I don't know that I have given up that many bloopers and broken bats and whatever else in one game in my career, but that's kind of the way things go when things aren't going your way personally.” Sounds reasonable and properly philosophical, but still has a faint bad smell, a whiff of excuse-making and an instinctual attempt to suggest that Tom Glavine isn't really an actor in this whole drama, but some poor bystander caught up in the chaos when things got messy.

In other words, it's the kind of thing he always seems to say.

“He's a solid hitter, but I don't think you expect him to hit two homers and have all the RBI he has. He's not a guy you look at and equate a lot of power with.” (That was his first start — he's talking about Joe Randa. Subtext: Joe Randa got lucky. Woe is me.)

“Well, there's a couple plays that were tough plays to make. That's the way it goes. It's not like those plays today were easy plays, but they're the kind of plays, obviously, if you make them, they're spectacular plays and they go a long way towards me being more comfortable and more confident out there, and maybe the outcome of the game is different.” (That was after A.J. Burnett and the Marlins mauled us, and it's probably the ultimate Glavine quote: Sounds diplomatic, but shot through with alibis at every turn. Subtext: If Matsui wasn't such a frickin' butcher, I would have been great and we would have won. Woe is me.)

I'm sure I could find more, but I'm too tired to get more pissed about it. Anyway, it's a representative sample: bloodless, aloof, subtly uninvolved. Yep, that's our boy. Sorry we're the spots of tarnish on your Cooperstown plaque, Glav.

As for the non-Glavine portion of the game, poor Chris Woodward had a hell of a day. With his shortstop instincts firing from the wrong side of the diamond, he was like a guy trying to play while looking in a mirror. Victor Diaz looked a bit baffled at being on the opposite side of the outfield as well, and David Wright seemed slow-legged on those fatal plays to his left in the ninth.

Oh, and Spivey sure looked out to me. I'd carp about that more, but you know what? They had 17 hits. Seventeen! When the other guys score 17 hits, seeing a backup infielder on the mound isn't out of the question. And anytime you walk off the field after giving up 17 hits, you don't get to bitch that you got jobbed.

Roberto Hernandez was practically in tears after saving Saturday night's win over the Brewers. That's not a snide read on his emotions. He told Ed Coleman that he thought he was going to cry since it was his first save in three years. His reputation, you see, was built on collecting saves. He's had as many as 43 in one year and entered 2005 with 320.

I wanted to be happy for him. But I wound up thinking, save it, Roberto. That goes for all of you closers, used-to-be closers and would-be closers.

The world has sure come a long way from the days of Ball Four when reliever Jim Bouton worried that there wasn't a stat that adequately reflected how well bullpen guys were doing their jobs. Of course that was back then a player needed all the ammunition he could get to negotiate a bump from $10,500 to $12,500. It was also the year the save became an officially recognized statistic.

Look what the save has wrought. Relief pitchers trip over each other for the opportunity to close out games. It's great to see competitors show the fire to be firemen. Of course you should want the ball with the game on the line. But it's not as simple as “I wanna help the team.”

No, it's about money. At a time when $12,500 is earned for a few pitches (or a few warmup tosses), every reliever wants in on the saves because the saves are where the big payday is. Closers make more than set-up men. Set-up men make more than middle relievers. Middle relievers make more than long men. If you're going to be a long man, you may as well be a starter — where the real money is.

And if it's not money, it's pride. Marsellus Wallace told Butch Coolidge in Pulp Fiction, “Pride only hurts. It never helps.” That may be an exaggeration (Marsellus wanted Butch to throw his next fight, after all), but pride of saves has rattled many a capable reliever's mind and skewed the corps' priorities well out of whack.

Roberto Hernandez Saturday night is only the latest example. There was Roberto Hernandez Friday night, when he stomped off the mound angry to be taken out for Koo in a lefty-lefty situation in the ninth. I might have left Roberto in, but his ire didn't really stem from “dang, I left the team down,” but rather “there goes my save opportunity.”

So what? Who cares? Saves are — and this isn't an original thought — one of the least definitive stats in the game. Look at Braden Looper's save against Philly this past Wednesday. He entered the ninth with a 3-0 lead and departed with a 3-2 win. That's saving something? That's a demerit in any other inning.

It's easy to blame Tony LaRussa and his patented Eckersleyism for skewing the equation. That was the manifestation of role-definition for relievers. He set it up in Oakland so Dennis Eckersley would enter at the start of the ninth, not before. You weren't going to see Gene Nelson or Rick Honeycutt. You were going to see Eck, period. As long as it worked for the A's, you couldn't argue with it. But it didn't work for everybody and it doesn't work now.

John Franco, a forerunner of Hernandez in the arithmetic of accumulation, was even more stricken with saves fever. One of the reasons it took me almost ten years to warm to John Franco was the way he expressed annoyance in his first September as a Met when Buddy Harrelson called on him to help the Mets out of a jam before the ninth. He acted startled and offended that as one of the premier closers in the game he would be asked to pitch in anything that wasn't the ninth inning. “You'll have to ask Buddy what he's thinking,” is the huffy quote I remember.

We weren't but four years removed from Orosco and McDowell trading save opportunities to the betterment of the 1986 Mets. And it didn't seem light years since Yogi Berra would bring Tug McGraw into a game in the seventh to start finishing it. But I guess it had been a long time. It was all about the saves by 1990. (Roberto Hernandez came up to the Majors in 1991, his whole career playing out in The Saves Above All Era.)

Franco made a huge deal about it anytime it appeared somebody else might get to close. His “pride” had been hurt when Armando Benitez was given the closer's role in 1999. And Armando went from being a wonderful eighth-inning pitcher to a complicated ninth-inning one. It was just an inning's difference but, like pride, it only hurt.

When Benitez was traded in the middle of 2003, it was wondered who's gonna save games now? Aside from the obvious answer of nobody (your team has to win games for there to be a save), it turned out not to matter. Franco, Stanton and Weathers each got a few and the republic continued otherwise undisturbed. The following winter, the Mets signed Looper and he became the designated statman. He did well in 2004, a little shakier of late.

It's too late to turn back now. Closers get ninth innings. It's news when they see the eighth. It's a story when somebody else sees the ninth. It's a horror show when the whole thing doesn't work. Feelings are wounded and glances are exchanged and words get heavy. It's all a bit much. The ninth inning is crucial. But so are the eighth and the seventh.

Good day. And it is a good day. We are here to join Heather Ann Roettinger and Matthew Wren Enis in holy metrimony.

I mean matrimony. Holy matrimony.

It is a particular joy to wed this couple because they are kind people. They have scheduled their nuptials for this, a Saturday afternoon, no doubt fully aware that the Mets don't play until 7:05 tonight.

Let's Go Mets! Let's Go Mets!

I mean Matt.

And Heather, of course.

The two of you wed at a very fortuitous time. The final Mets game to take place before your betrothal to each other was Friday night. As your marriage will most definitely be, it was a success.

Tonight, as you start your lives together, Pedro Martinez takes to the hill. Will Mike Piazza be behind the plate? Or will Ramon Castro?

These are the kinds of questions all young couples must face. For while it is the kind of power Mike is suddenly providing again that we all seek, sometimes we need a personal catcher. Sometimes we need a guiding hand to get our own Pedro Martinez through seven innings or more without a wild pitch.

Be kind to each other. Be patient. Sometimes Pedro has his problems in the first inning. And realize there is no insult intended in choosing a personal catcher. There will always be the opportunity for Mike to pinch-hit if necessary.

May you be each other's personal catcher. And may you be more forthright about it than Willie Randolph has been. “Mike is feeling a little banged up.” Yeah, right.

May your love for each other soar as high as Mike's first home run last night. At its ebb, may it soar as high as Mike's second home run last night which was no mean shot. Didja see that? Holy metrimony! That was like 900 feet of homers. Take that, Brewers!

Too, may your love always come back full-force like Mike Cameron has off the Disabled List. May you adapt and adjust as Cammy has, moving to right field to accommodate the other when one of you signs Carlos Beltran. May you feel as comfortable in the two-hole as Cameron looked last night.

May you have the presence of mind to drop Kaz Matsui to the eighth slot so he might regain his batting eye.

Not all days in a marriage are the days when Pedro pitches. There will be nights when you are forced to use Victor Zambrano. As you would with each other, be patient with Victor Zambrano, but don't be afraid to send him to Norfolk. In marriage as in life, sometimes we all must go to Norfolk. Look what it did for Bobby Jones in 2000 and Steve Trachsel in 2001.

Don't be afraid to send Victor Zambrano down. You will still have Jae Seo. And each other.

Look for the good in one another. Zambrano had two hits on the eve of your marriage. Why can't more pitchers hit anyway?

When you seek relief in each other's eyes, look to the bullpen of your hearts. May it be a rich and fertile pen. As wedding bells ring for you, may Heath Bell have another good outing like last night. Willie just stayed with him a little too long is all.

When your Heath Bell runs out of gas, have faith in your Roberto Hernandez. Don't be concerned about the lefty-righty matchups life may deal you. As you would trust one another with your well-being, trust Roberto to face Geoff Jenkins.

Dae-Sung Koo? Please.

Life is a journey. We all learn along the way. Willie Randolph is still learning. Be patient with Willie. He's just getting to know his bullpen in earnest.

Lean on each other in marriage, but don't lean on Looper too often. That's a disaster just waiting to happen. Two days of Burrell, then Carlos Lee. Phew!

Every marriage presents its Carlos Lees. There will be nights when Cliff Floyd doesn't make that catch to end the game. But there will be more nights when he does.

Cliff Floyd rules. It's something we should all remember. While his twenty-game hitting streak came to an end, his excellence, like your love for one another, will endure. Or so we pray.

Let us pray.

Dear Lord, give this young couple the strength and the fortitude to persevere in an uncertain world.

Give Pedro the strength to top 90 miles per hour despite going on normal rest. Give Pedro the strength to give Looper the night off. Give Carlos Lee the night off while you're at it. He's scary.

Amen.

As you leave here as husband and wife, we wish you nothing but happiness, joy and a four-game winning streak.

Let's Go Mets! Let's Go Mets!

I mean Matt.

And Heather, of course.

Yo, Philly! We can beat you with our best player tied behind our back!

I nearly spit when I heard Willie was resting Cliff. I'm sorry, do we have a lot of guys batting .391? Slugging .701? Being Death to Flying Things? How on earth are we supposed to win a game without Cliff Floyd?

Why, with everybody else. T-E-A-M! TEAM! TEAM! TEAM!

A little carried away I might be, but this was one of those games that would have been lost under the stewardship of Art Howe. I don't have any specific moves in mind that Willie made that Art never did, but a black cloud would've settled somewhere over Shea just in time for the demolition firm of Burrell, Abreu & Rollins to inflict fatal damage to our infrastructure. This had all the ingredients for the classic Phillies 8 Mets 7 type of game that has been absolute L on us since Bo Diaz was sticking it to Neil Allen.

Instead, a win. In the sun. With Cliff Floyd proving, for a day, irrelevant to Mets' success. Wow. First we tell the world we are so blessed with starting pitching that we take guys who throw seven innings of one-hit ball and ship them to Norfolk. Then we glue a 20-game hitting streak to the bench and what happens?

The heretofore missing Mets find themselves — not just Benson and Cameron, both looking like players and reminding us why we want them, but other heretofore lost souls. Piazza and Mientkiewicz came back from slumps; Wright recovered from a momentary lapse; Heilman conquered a new if temporary role; Diaz made himself at home in left for an afternoon; and Looper cleaned up somebody else's mess.

So who needs Cliff Floyd? Well, us, desperately…just not Thursday.

To be fair, Brrrrrl, who gives us chills, got jobbed on a called strike three to end the game. But good goes around. In the eighth, Jose followed a pinch-hit from Marlon Anderson (speaking of finds) with a deadly drag bunt. He beat the throw but was called out. Karma owed us one, so take a hike, Pat. It's good to see wrongdoing get righted.

Kudos, on that count, to Ted Robinson. With Anderson and Beltran on base, Mike launched a mighty blow over the left field fence. Three runs scored. Ted, whose brain must be rattled by all time he's forced to spend alongside Fran Healy, shouted “GRAND SLAM!” Within seconds, he apologized for being “giddy” and good-naturedly corrected the record in a way some pompous announcers (Thorne-choo!) never do. Maybe he was thinking that Reyes should've been on base.

Reyes should always be on base. Reyes swings. Reyes bunts. And now? (With deep apologies to Kanye West.)

Reyes Walks

Willie show him the way because his hamstring's tryin' ta break him down

Reyes Walks

The only thing that I pray is that his legs don't fail him now

Reyes Walks

And I don't think there's nothing they can do now to make him look screwy

Reyes Walks

Now can somebody somewhere please walk Matsui?

Finally, on to our most popular new feature…

NEW YORK YANKEE COLLAPSE-O-METER

WE FEEL YOUR PAIN, REALLY WE DO EDITION

Through 29 Games

1993 METS: 11-18 (Final Record: 59-103)

2005 THEM: 11-18 (Final Record: ??-???)

Remember: It's all about the rings, baby!

OK, so it was Joe Torre who said that once. Big deal. We took his coach, we can take his quote.

Besides, suddenly it's like we've switched places anyway. I'm not talking about anything so common as won-loss records; seeing how we can barely stay above .500, now's not the time to get too cocky about that. (Rest assured that should cockiness be called for, I'm willing to supply my share and then some.) Rather, it's the tone in the mighty Gotham media that's changed. Proclamations of doom, snide asides, death watches, clucking over bad luck, pitiless examinations of past mistakes? Why, I must be reading about the Yankees. Soliloquies about guys pulling together and picking each other up, different heroes each day, and masterful motivation from the manager's chair? It's a Mets story. (Can you imagine the jokes last year if 47,000 of our giveaway caps were stolen?) When the British got whipped at Yorktown, the band played “The World Turned Upside Down” at the surrender ceremony. They meant it as a slight, but it was true anyway. So, perhaps, is it today.

Even without the omnipresent question of what might be going on in the Bronx, this was a pretty good game. Call it some successful psychological maneuvering by Willie Randolph if you want, or the salutary effects of a Doug Mientkiewicz pick-me-up on the bench, but it was nice to see Mike Piazza being Ye Olde Feared Mike Piazza for a day. (And in a day game that followed a night game, no less!) Kris Benson was marvelous in his return, Mike Cameron was impressive at the plate if not in the field and Minky was terrific afield and showed signs of coming out of his offensive doldrums.

But my favorite stories of the day were written by Wright and Heilman. I love watching Wright play baseball, but it was good to see him play it a bit ticked — too much sugar in the blood isn't necessarily helpful, to paraphrase that wise sage Darryl Strawberry. David can shatter a few more bats if it makes him feel better, and even skip apologizing: Moving a few steps away from being Dale Murphy doesn't automatically make you Gregg Jefferies. It was better, of course, to see him come up in the exact same situation two innings later and rifle one to the wall for a two-run double. Yes, Virginia, this here's a game of redemption.

And Heilman, our prodigal prospect. In a way, his relief stint was more impressive than either of his two strong starts, because there was actually less pressure than in his starting assignments. He'd have gotten a mulligan if he'd pitched poorly, seeing how he was being thrown into a relief role and had to come in to clean up a rather serious mess left by Benson. In a situation where failure would have been at least somewhat forgiveable, he was lights-out instead. And there are even mutterings that Victor Zambrano may be in line for a Trachselian tour of the International League. Be still my beating heart. (And hey, what about Glavine? Would Richmond have his number too?)

Speaking of the whole game-of-redemption thing, if it was spooky seeing Wright come up in the same situation two innings apart, it was downright scary having Looper face Pat Burrell with the game on the line again. You could practically hear all the writers hitting RETURN at the top of their stories to clear space for their Pat the Bat ledes.

And then he struck out. Again. Pat Burrell! Fire up the fife and drum!

If buttercups buzz'd after the bee,

If boats were on land, churches on sea,

If ponies rode men and if grass ate the cows,

And cats should be chased into holes by the mouse,

If the mamas sold their babies

To the gypsies for half a crown;

If summer were spring and the other way round,

Then all the world would be upside down.

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.