Once in a while, particularly if it's early and you've been reasonably successful lately (and you didn't spend all day there), you have to chalk up a game like Sunday's as a mama-said.

Mama said there'd be days like this. There'd be days when a promising first-inning rally would be short-circuited by a crafty veteran pitcher — a crafty right-hander, yet — and even though you've scored three runs, you can sense they won't be enough because you had the bases loaded and nobody out and you have Victor Zambrano who was lucky to give up only three runs in his half of the inning. Everything that followed, while disappointing, didn't seem surprising.

I don't have a particular game in mind, but I know I've seen yesterday's scenario unfold at least a couple of times a year every year for the past 36 years. They say if you watch baseball enough, you'll see something you've never seen before, but I'm pretty sure I'd seen that first inning end with a strikeout and a double play and I know I've seen the inevitable tail-off between the second and the ninth that made the whole thing seem futile to start with.

But I don't think I'd ever seen what I saw as the bottom of the first played out. First and second, nobody out, and Carlos, the third-place hitter, bunts for a base hit. It goes foul. He bunts again and this time gets on.

Your designated RBI man bunting in that spot is unusual enough. I was listening on the radio and neither Gary nor Howie questioned it. Since neither Ralph Kiner nor Tim McCarver, men who believe No. 3 hitters should act like it, was doing the game, I figure it's unlikely anybody on TV made a big deal out of it. Yet I'm sure Beltran was doing something unprecedented in these parts.

No, not passing off the opportunity to drive in a run. Beltran's fast enough to beat out a bunt. The third baseman was giving it to him. Loading the bases with nobody out in the first is a fine thing. What I don't think I've seen — and I don't even know that it occurred — is the reasoning I believe Carlos employed.

Click back to Saturday, the game marked as the signal of the Piazza decline. That was when Beltran was intentionally walked so Mike could be faced. And Mike didn't produce. Click back to Sunday and what Carlos Beltran did.

I didn't hear it commented upon. I haven't read anything today. And I haven't spoken to Mr. Beltran (who for some reason hasn't sent me his cell number). But I got the very strong sense that Carlos was saying to his cleanup hitter, “Yo, Mike: you got this…you the man.” In much the same way that he took the kids to Gold's Gym in spring training, Carlos was being the leader of the New Mets by pumping up the old lion, the guy we're going to need if we're going to do anything at all in 2005. And Mike, in his own mind and my imagination, said, “dude…” and stroked that three-run double.

If that's what happened, especially if it's something that can be fingered from the vantage point of October, then yesterday was a day like few others.

Yecch. What a mess. Not many observations about the game itself: It was one of those you're glad to see end. I was relieved that apparently wasn't Willie ordering up Kaz's singularly stupid sacrifice bunt with nobody out and runners on first and second in the second — guess sabermetrics hasn't hit Japan yet, either. And I don't think I've ever seen that many hit batsmen in a game that was basically tension-free: It was like everybody knew nobody had too firm a handle on this whole pitching thing.

I went to the game with a bunch of friends, several of whom had never seen Shea before, or had blocked out long-ago memories of it. It was interesting to see their reactions. A woman who's basically seen nothing but Fenway was impressed by the relative newness of things and the lack of bad seats. (We were in a upper-deck box behind home.) She did look somewhat alarmed when the upper deck began flexing during the brief spell of Met-fan happiness following Piazza's double, and asked worriedly if this was the stadium that things had fallen off of, or if that was Yankee Stadium. I assured her that things fell off Shea all the time, adding gravely that it used to have two more decks. The look of horror as she felt the upper deck continuing to sway was worth my ticket.

Still, two things made me wonder if we hadn't found our way to some alternate Shea. First a friend of mine figured out, about ten minutes after the fact, that the beer vendor had given her change from a $10 instead of the $20 she'd given him. Forget it, I told her, you have no shot. She returned a minute later with her extra $10. Wha? Then, leaving the game, we were intercepted by the orange netting at the street exit. My pals sputtered in disbelief; I just nodded sagely and offered a theatrical sigh. Whereupon one of my friends asked the cop holding one end of the net (he was about 14, by the way) if we could get through. “We don't want to cross the street, we want to go left,” she said — exactly the kind of perfectly reasonable thing you and I and many other folks have said innumerable times at Shea over the years, only to be reminded that the rules of Planet Earth don't necessarily apply in Flushing.

“You're going left? Why, that'll be fine,” the 14-year-old cop said with a broad smile, sweeping the net aside like a proud maitre d'. And so off the merry band of visitors went to the 7, with me stumbling along behind in amazement.

Postscript: After Cliff Floyd was brushed back by Livan Hernandez and got up to rifle a single up the middle, the scoreboard operators triumphantly fired up the celebratory cartoon for Mike Cameron. Given the afternoon's other surprises, that was kind of reassuring.

I disagree about Piazza and his performance Saturday. When we look back at this season, this game will be remembered more for an unhappier reason:

It was the day I had a ticket to the game that would've allowed me to start a year 4-0 for the first time, and I didn't go. Whenever my next appearance comes, when it comes with a loss, I'll have no one to blame but myself. Well, myself and my head, which decided to come down with what is actually known as a suicide headache, a dandy little diversion that fells me from time to time. I've got a sweet prescription med for it that works eventually (like Seo) but knocks me out immediately (like Ohka). Somehow, the LIRR, the 7, and another three hours of stiff winds, cold mists and Ameriquest runs-scored bells (even if the bells toll for we) didn't seem like the right holistic alternative.

On the bright side — besides a win being a win from wherever it is observed — I've got a crisp, new $30 LOGE bookmark. Or, if I'm reading the back of it correctly, I could trade the unused ticket in for a buy one-get one free six-inch sub at Subway. It's a lotta meat! (Frighteningly, Willie's commercials are growing on me.)

Sorry to get in the way of a blowout win and the serious subtext of Mike's aging swing, but there is Me in Mets.

As for the Piazza Connection or lack thereof, this is news? He's been steaming downhill for the past three seasons. Nevertheless, if Guzman doesn't make a nice play in the first, we are instead sated with Mike's line-drive RBI single, don't notice him the rest of the way and find something else to bitch about in a 10-5 triumph:

* Damn Seo only pitched six innings of one-run ball after we thought he'd pitch one inning of six-run ball. GINTER! GINTER! GINTER!

* Four of Diaz's plate appearances didn't result in bases on balls. THERE ARE STATISTICS THAT PROVE SINGLES AND DOUBLES KILL RALLIES!

* Heavenly Heath's not pitching in meaningful spots. NO BASERUNNERS IN NORFOLK, DID YOU KNOW THAT?

* Reyes got zero walks — and don't tell me it's because he didn't play. STOP MAKING EXCUSES FOR HIM!

Our erstwhile standard-bearer still gets a decent swing or two every game, not bad considering who he is at the present time. He's Mike, but he's old. He's 36, which is like 45 in catcher years. He shouldn't be batting cleanup, yet he can still do a few things, and Minaya Be Praised that we've got a couple of other bats capable of doing a few things more.

When Frank Robinson came out to unsuccessfully and inaccurately argue that Wilkerson's ninth-inning double should've been called a home run, Gary said he should be used to losing these debates with umpires at Shea. He's been losing them since 1969. Direct historical hit! Several years ago, I was privileged enough to be invited to a Major League Alumni dinner. I walked right by both Frank and Brooks Robinson that night and while, sure, I was awed by their Hall of Fame presence, most of me thought, “Screw you, Orioles! You didn't take us seriously and you lost to us, you overconfident, overcocky, sons of bitches. It still thrills me and it still annoys you.”

In that vein of good guys winning and bad guys losing, we scored 10 runs and won Saturday. The other New York team allowed 10 runs and lost Saturday. Symmetry, symmetry…can't get enough of symmetry, symmetry…the Yankees suck. One advantage of being head-ridden was the opportunity to recline on the couch and push the delightful LAST button on the remote, the one that sent me from Channel 11 to YES. Hey, the LAST button is appropriate for that network's house underachievers since that's where they are, all by their lonesome. LAST.

What a marvelous contrast the two broadcasts presented. Seaver and O'Brien (who doesn't seem so bad when we're up by large margins) kidded each other about calling Washington Montreal, traded “I went to the White House” stories and sized up Victor's chances to go 5-for-5. Over on YES, the ministers of propaganda were presiding over a nine-inning state funeral, one that could give Brezhnev's a run for its dour money:

* “Paul, the Yankees certainly aren't getting it done the way they did when you were playing.”

* “Sooner or later, you can't say 'it's early' anymore.

* “You really can't blame these fans for booing.”

The fun continued into the post-game. On the radio, a straight-voiced Diaz told Eddie he wasn't all that impressed with Beltran's catch because “he makes the 119 and he's gotta earn it.” Howie cracked up Gary by noting the 3:24 time of game was almost long enough to dry out the Passover brisket. Back on YES, three dark-suited men wore grim expressions, shook their heads and spoke in hushed tones about what terrible thing might happen next if we, uh, you know, don't take care of business. It was like watching one of those wakes from The Sopranos.

My head still hurt, but I felt little pain.

So in the 5th, our boys had sent 10 men to the plate — and there was nobody out. I don't think I've ever seen that before.

Neither, perhaps, had the Mets: Floyd, Mientky and Wright promptly struck out, perhaps in disbelief.

Neither, perhaps, had Frank Robinson: I was really starting to worry about him.

WPIX had already made a habit of cutting to Frank's reaction after various atrocities earlier in the day. First when Tomo Ohka insisted on foiling Jae Seo's attempt to make an out via the sacrifice bunt, walking him instead. (Take that!) Then when Ohka was late covering first, granting Carlos Beltran an infield hit despite Carlos' best effort to be out by losing a step sliding into first. But in the 5th inning, the reaction shots were legion.

Absurd pop-fly double for Diaz! (One eyelid begins twitching as Frank stares out at the field.) Seo singles up the middle! (A vein in Frank's temple balloons alarmingly before returning to its normal size.) Woodward smacks the ball to center, Wilkerson misreads it — and it drops in! (Everyone on the bench begins butt-scooting sideways to get some distance from Frank.) Little ground ball to Baerga — between his legs into left field! (Frank has apparently lost the ability to blink.) Tony Blanco falls down, and that's a double for Beltran! (Frank's new road Nats hat spontaneously combusts.) Another ground ball to Baerga, he goes for the tag play — and everybody's safe! (Blood begins to drip from the bottom of Frank's clenched fists.)

It got so bad Emily and I were campaigning for someone to tell Robinson he had an urgent phone call in the clubhouse, then bundle him into a straitjacket and take him to a happier place. What made things worse was that I was downstairs running, while Emily was upstairs watching the TiVo-enabled TV, which comes with a slight delay. So every indignity happened twice. “Whoa! No way!” “Huh? No way!” “I'm worried about Frank!” “Yeah, he looks like he's going to blow.” “Whoa! No way!” “Wha? No way!” (Repeat for a long, long time.)

Fun's fun, but I suspect when we look back at this season, this game will be remembered more for an unhappy reason: It may stand as a milestone in the decline of Mike Piazza. It wasn't just that Mike went 0 for 4 and left 9 on-base. It was the 4th inning, when the Nats had Gary Majewski walk Beltran with two out and a runner on third to pitch to Piazza. I don't know how it played in the park, but at home it was a stunner: They just intentionally walked a guy to pitch to Mike Piazza.

Mike's hitting .200. I hope I'm wrong, but he doesn't look like he's in a slump. He looks old. Baseball, like life, is a pitiless affair, and so we knew this day was coming — after all, it happened to Rusty and Gary and Mex and Robin, and one day it'll happen to Beltran and Wright, and to future Met phenoms who can't even shave yet. But it's still shocking to see “someday” turn into “this day.” Mike Piazza? Why, he just arrived yesterday. They showed video of him and Jay Horwitz in the airport. Standing ovation after standing ovation. Helped beat the Brewers with a double that was hit so hard it left a burn mark halfway up the gap. Leiter got the win.

It was just yesterday, I tell you. How can Mike Piazza be old?

I hope our 7 inexplicably stalling at Bliss Street in Queens is some kind of sign that we'll have more nights like this one. Well, maybe not so much with (switch to Prof. Frink voice) the cold and the blowing and the mist and the brrrr, but with the beating the Nationals and the Floyd bomb and the Piazza productive groundout and the Glavine. It was only last year, I just found out, that the MTA restored the name Bliss to the 46th Street stop. So maybe that's a sign that we can look forward to more of that sort of thing — the bliss — as the season progresses.

Weather kept down the crowd. ThunderStix didn't make much of a ruckus, save for the lone souse in our row, and I think that was him knocking his head against his bottle of Bud. Shea being Shea, I assume they handed out one stick per customer. “Ya like noise? Bring yer own!” You'll recall ThunderStix were all the rage at the 2002 World Series. It is now 2005. Next week, the trend-conscious Mets will lure kids by giving away Pogo Sticks (though they won't stop at this floor).

Didja catch the Clydesdales and the Anheuser eagle in the parking lot? All that animal action must've scared King Felix and the feral cats from making their nightly rounds. Usually they're out to tailgate by 6:30.

I'm surprised Glavine gets as much support as he does in these parts. We sat a couple of rows behind a fellow in a GLAVINE 47 shirt. I wanted to ask, what, were they out of ROACH 57? It's not so much that I consider him a Brave as that I know he's still Glavine. I've been told both that he's a decent guy and that he's a total jerk. I have a hard time believing one of those. As long as he's paid to don our duds, I wish him success and safe cab rides. The second he takes them off, I don't really care what happens to him.

At the moment, I feel the same way about Al Leiter. Pity. He was our front man for so long that it feels petty to dump on him. He really did care about being a Met, about getting 100 Met wins, about being mentioned in the same Met breath with Jerry Koosman. (I'm certain that if he ever stumbled upon our One Hundred Greatest Mets ranking of him, he'd give me an earful; “28? 28? Behind Kingman? C'mon, I'm greater than Kingman!”). Yet there's something about Al departing that set off the sense of relief you'd see in an '80s teen movie, specifically the scene in which the popular kids who ran the school finally got theirs from the supposed nerds. Old-Timers Day 2010, Al won't get booed. Next Marlins start at Shea, he shouldn't count on it.

I wasn't thinking about Glavine's record or Leiter's record when I bid you adieu at 11:05, emerged into the din of Penn Station at 11:06 and decided, à la Timo, to not run full-out to catch the 11:07. I was thinking of my own record. For the third time ever, I'm 3-0 to start a season. It's happened twice before, in 1998 and 2000. After my fourth game those years, I was 3-1. In what they call a quick turnaround, I'm due back at Shea early Saturday afternoon to try to scale Mount Fourandoh for the first time ever. They say it might rain. They say it might Seo. I kinda hope it rains.

I'd like to soak up a little more of tonight's bliss before going back into battle. By pinging from Shea to Penn to Long Island, I got an additional treat. As both home teams were indeed home, there was a convergence of fans waiting for the LIRR. Mets fans. Yankees fans. We looked happy. They didn't. Shortly before the 11:36 was called, a couple of fellow travelers walked by wearing gear in the same family as mine. “METS!” they said. “METS!” I answered. We slapped palms. We knocked fists. We went public with our bliss. A Yankees fan standing nearby had nothing to say and nobody to knock. We won. They lost.

It was worth the extended commute.

Well, it was good seeing you in the realworldosphere, back in the big blue junkpile. I must admit that new Diamondvision is awfully impressive, and while the Nathan's hot dogs aren't even in the same ballpark (ahem) as the ones at Keyspan, they're a lot better than the ones from Pyongyang Collective Snout Factory #5 Brand, or whatever that was that was foisted upon us in years before.

Shea being Shea, it did have its share of strange sights, such as rain swirling sideways through the sky and not appearing to actually fall, elevator doors with a sign that says ELEVATOR DOES NOT STOP ON THIS FLOOR (so many questions), and Tom Glavine on the mound with nothing terrible happening to him.

Sometime this spring I had an unhappy realization: Every time something bad befalls Glavine on the mound, I feel ashamed, almost like I should be apologizing to him. And so many bad things have happened to him during his time here — a total lack of offense, bad bullpen work, horrid defense. You name it, it's happened to Tom Glavine.

But here's the thing: I don't feel like cringing when something happens to Trachsel, or Heilman, or Pedro or Zambrano or anybody else. Just Glavine. And ultimately, I've realized, that's not a compliment. It's the opposite, in fact: It's an admission that going into the third year of his time here, I still don't regard him as One Of Us. And from the impatience fans have always showed with him at Shea, I think most Met fans feel the same way.

But why? He chose us, didn't he?

It's not the obvious things. It's not that he's a mercenary — once that first free-agent period rolls around, they're nearly all mercenaries. I realized that and got over it sometime during the Reagan administration. It's not that I still think of him as an Atlanta Brave and therefore as the enemy, though all those years of seeing him throttle us didn't help. No, it's something else.

Somehow he's just never seemed to fit in here. He's invisible in the newspapers, in a way a top-flight starter and probable Hall of Famer shouldn't be, not in New York. Who remembers anything he's done or said, except for rumblings that he was part of the Leiter/Franco kitchen cabinet and his losing his teeth in a taxicab accident? (I know, I said that and yet we're killing Leiter because he can't keep his mouth shut. Fans suck.) On the mound he's aloof, expressionless and somehow apart — something I do remember from his Atlanta days, usually in conjunction with him staring at Javy Lopez after Javy had managed to screw up a bunt or put his shinguards on backwards or get a ball stuck in his ear or some other numbnuts Javy Lopez thing. Maybe it's that having stolen him away from the Braves, he spent too long getting shellacked by them. But if anything, that should have made him more one of us, not less.

I think, ultimately, it dates back to his countdown to 300 wins and the creeping realization that by coming to New York, he'd blown his shot at it. That's embarrassing, especially since I think we all know he'd have gotten there if he'd stayed in Atlanta. (Personally, I can't understand why he didn't go to Boston, but that's another post.) It comes down to thinking that we cost him 300 wins, that we let him down, that he'd have been better off never putting on our uniform. Which is a we that somehow doesn't include Tom Glavine.

And if he's still outside that we in his third season, he's probably not ever coming in. It's strange. Glavine's always competed, never malingered, thrown a one-hitter for us, and otherwise done his best for a bad team in the face of Questec and advancing age and plain old bad luck. And yet we've never warmed up to him and probably never will. So what happened? Did we reject him? Did he reject us? Did we reject him because we thought he was rejecting us? Like many a bad relationship, the only answer is that we'll never find the answer — beyond knowing, with a certain chagrined bafflement, that we never should have gotten together in the first place.

Don't talk to me about 2008. Don't even talk to me about August. Because I'm not hearing it. Instead, hear this:

Pedro Jaime Martinez is one hell of a pitcher.

I know, this isn't news to any of us. I remember living in fear of him the night Matt Franco ruined his masterpiece, watching in awe as he and the Antichrist tangled on Memorial Day Weekend a couple of years back, seeing him no-hit the Indians in relief with not much more than half a shoulder, a head full of brains and enough guts to launch his own Normandy invasion. But there's a difference between knowing and seeing, between catching ESPN highlights and the occasional Sunday-night game and seeing him every fourth/fifth day. (As much of the latter as possible, though. Please Willie.) To steal from Reggie Jackson, he's so good that people blinded by Cablevision stay home to hear him pitch.

Tonight he beat the Marlins with a Heilmanesque fastball — while the change and breaking stuff seemed good, basically he beat them from the neck up. And though things got silly early once Leiter spat the bit (OK, “projectile-vomited the bit” is more like it), he sure didn't sound like a pitcher pitching with a huge lead. When Dontrelle Willis came up as a pinch-hitter in the third, I expected some showmanship and leaned toward the radio in anticipation. Silly me: While yes, the D-Train was swinging for the downs, Pedro derailed him with an 0-2 changeup, which reminded me that this was not playtime. Who knows, maybe he'll drill Lenny Harris for that cheap-ass bunt single.

Pedro returned us to the back pages? I didn't care so much about that — the Mets occupy my personal front pages 365 days a year. He helped bring Carlos Beltran here? Maybe, but I always thought that was more marketing than causality. This is inarguable: We were 0-5, naked in the heart of Fannypack Nation, watching Smoltz bulleting fastballs and ungodly breaking stuff, and staring at the prospect of a soul-killingly ugly home opener before a panic-stricken fan base. And he made it all go away, keeping us nose to nose with Smoltz until the hitters could find themselves and put things right. And since then, things haven't been perfect, but they've been a whole lot more right than wrong.

Mi nombre es Pedro? I wouldn't dare to presume. I'm just glad he's on our side.

Miscellaneous: I don't know where the Daily News got Adam Rubin, but they ought to go back there and look for more like him. The guy's had great stories all year. Today brought a terrific rundown of Heath Bell's struggles with his own organization, as dingbat Met doctors wouldn't listen to him when his arm felt wrong and his velocity would fluctuate wildly. When he finally got an MRI it turned out he had a broken bone in his forearm. Oops! Last year's doctors, well, they battled. If tomorrow night a foul ball clocks me in the head and the EMTs say they're taking me to NYU Medical Center, do me a favor and immediately beat me to death with a chunk of the Nickelodeon edifice. It'll be much simpler.

Miscellaneous II: Mike Cameron referred to the Mets' decision on what to do with Victor Diaz as “totally an up-top kind of move.” Yo. Midnight may not be able to swing a bat, but he's still cool.

Miscellaneous III: Another one from the Times Have Changed Department — didja catch Cliff Floyd stealing with a six-run lead and Pedro on the mound? Apparently chin music really is a thing of the past. To quote the bracelet around Tim McCarver's wrist, WWBGD?

Nets won. They're in the playoffs. Change one letter in your priorities and you can enjoy a pleasant evening.

Instead of looking at the Marlins' backs, something I hope we're not doing in the standings much longer, I'm going to look at our backs. The backs of the fans, that is, and the names we choose to display on them.

At my two well-attended games this year, my informal survey by sight of uniform tops and t-shirts bearing players' identities has revealed a seismic shift in loyalties. Most noticeably, PIAZZA 31 has taken a dive. From the moment he got here on May 23, 1998 (when FRANCO 31 ceased to exist), the active Met with the most visible devotees in the Shea stands has been Mike by a mile. The only Met to give him a run as a symbol has been SEAVER 41.

That's changing. The early leader for 2005 is MARTINEZ 45. True, one of the games I tracked was his first Shea start, but the ace's acolytes were also out in full force on Opening Day. BELTRAN 15 has been in evidence in large numbers — not surprising — as has been WRIGHT 5 — a little surprising, given his brief tenure.

I'm wary of latching onto a new Met's fabric before he's played a single game for us. Although I was lusting for one as soon as he was recalled from Norfolk, I waited more than a month from his debut before shelling out for REYES 7 (on my back in the chill breeze Saturday, albeit underneath two layers of team apparel). I didn't even go for a PIAZZA tee until the summer of '99. He had to wait because a year earlier I'd developed an infield fixation. It was a big moment when I went to the Sports Authority and came home with OLERUD 5, BAERGA 8, ORDONEZ 10 and ALFONZO 13 t-shirts. The original Carlos B. still shows up from time to time around the house if I know I have to do sweaty work. (I think I get Baerga's Mets gear dirtier than he ever did.)

I cling to the dearly departed for quite a while. OLERUD 5 came out of the retired t-shirt bag when he returned with the Mariners in '03. I stuck with VENTURA 4 for several months beyond its practical application. When Robin showed up at Shea in the wrong kind of New York uniform, I gave him up. On the other hand, I protested the Mets' discarding of Alfonzo by buying my third ALFONZO. Seeing as how the proceeds from that purchase went to the organization that dumped him, I can't say it was a very effective protest.

I saw both VENTURA and ALFONZO at Shea last weekend. Fans only have so much money and emotion to invest in flavors of the week. Your Mets shirt is your Mets shirt, even if it has an ex-Met on the back. If it still fits, it's tough to say goodbye. Three winters ago, Stephanie surprised me with a VAUGHN 42. It violated my no-shirt-before-its-player's-time rule, but it was thoughtful, and because it was made in the image of Mo, it was roomy. Still is. Don't have the heart (or the shape) to callously remove it from my drawer.

Just as the PIAZZAs have diminished in volume, the LEITERs were almost nonexistent for his homecoming — I saw only two 22s, which would make 44, and I only saw one of those. Since my first glance was from the front, I wondered…ISRINGHAUSEN? PAYTON? MYRICK? Nah, it was CAMERON. He may have been on one fan's back, but for most of us, he's on the backburner. (How long before DIAZ 20 begins to sprout in earnest?)

There was one SHINJO 5 in my section, which I'm guessing was bought on sale at one of the Mets Clubhouse Stores. They overstocked the SHINJOs, perhaps predicting an East Coast ICHIRO 51 phenomenon. Never happened, on or off the field. But if you're not picky, the Mets stores are a spurned loyalist's/bargain-hunter's paradise. Last I looked, WIGGINTON 9 was priced to move, and I don't doubt McEWING 11 has joined him.

Though I've noticed the very occasional, very worn and very likely handed down CARTER 8 or STRAWBERRY 18, I don't remember the player t-shirt or top being much of a Met thing until the late '90s (winning not being much of a Met thing until the late '90s either). So hungry were we as a people for feeling like contenders, some of us latched on to whoever was made available. That explains my HUNDLEY 9, which won me a couple of rueful cracks at Wrigley in '98. I never succumbed to JONES 28, though. That seemed too desperate. In fact, the only pitcher I ever purchased was REED 35. To this day, he's the only hurler (save for 41) who's had my back.

I've focused my attention on officially licensed player merchandise (though the REED thing was a little shady since he was barred from the union and his shirt came with a likeness of his autograph on the front, a signature that was definitely not his), but kudos to some who have taken initiative. I'm not a fan of those who would iron HERNANDEZ 17 on an orange shirt or THEIR OWN NAME 17 for that matter. But I got a big kick out of SINCE 62 on a regulation snow white home jersey that popped up in the Mezzanine both times I've been there this month. That's the best one I've seen since YANKSSUCK 24:7 in 2000. COW-BELL MAN, you'll want to know, has switched from 10 to 15 and has traded in his trademark black jersey for the black & blue BP look. He has retained his hyphen.

Coolest shirt of all on Saturday was what appeared to be an authentic retro jersey that I wouldn't have imagined existed. A 1989 Blue Jays top. Number? 3. Name? WILSON. Mookie, Toronto-style! (No corresponding MUSSELMANwear to be found.)

You won't see me in PIAZZA 31 ever again, by the way. Not that I've given up on our old hero. It's just that PIAZZA the shirt is to luck what Piazza the first baseman was to fielding.

* August 14, 2003: I wear the black shirt. We have a blackout.

* April 12, 2004: I wear the black shirt. I get a pink slip.

I still love Mike, but I don't want to find out what the third strike is.

Superstitious? Let's just say shirt happens.

Oops. Too late.

The way I see it, over the last 27-odd hours the score is Mets 18, Phillies/Marlins 13. So there!

If there was a silver lining to this one…uh, it was brief? David Wright showed he can take a walk, there's something. Victor Diaz showed he can hit the crap out of a baseball, and that he has, well, untapped speed. This time I predict he really will get benched — that's two careless kid mistakes in three games. I haven't seen enough TV to immediately be able to conjure up what a pissed-off Willie Randolph would look like, but I can picture Bobby Valentine having retreated from the top step with his arms folded, or Dallas Green — never better than when he was pissed — staring out at the field with his mouth hanging open. (I can't even remember what Art Howe looks like.) Victor lives up to the Little Manny nickname more and more everyday — he might hit the ball 430 feet, he might make a hideous botch of a fly ball, he might fall asleep on the basepaths, he might do all three. Whatever you get, he sure is watchable.

As for Aaron Heilman, well, we all knew that was coming, didn't we? Heck, Len Barker threw a perfect game once. Great story, too: After he pitched his perfect game, his grandmother said, “Tell Len I'm very proud of him. I hope he does better next time.”

Aaron, I hope you do better next time.

Poor Gary Cohen just had to name a Mets Nikon Player of the Game. After some hemming and hawing he gave it to…Braden Looper. Pretty much says it all. Tomorrow is a new day.