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.

…And if we call up Heath Bell, the Mets will hit more home runs than they've ever hit in a single game and Randy Johnson will get beat by the Devil Rays and the world will see a new pope by the time Heredia's officially disabled.

I was going to mention all that yesterday, but the, uh, server was on the fritz.

You know the old saying: “There'll be another pope from Germany before the Mets hit seven home runs in one game.” I guess it's true, albeit by about nine hours. But not a bad daily double, eh? As Warner Wolf might say, if you had the Nigerian cardinal and six round-trippers, you lose!

And the Mets win! By a lot!

As Gary and Howie could attest, it's weird the things that spring to mind during an epic blowout. For example, the 16-4 score triggered the memory of another 16-4 score, also against Philadelphia, but one we were on the wrong end of at the wrong time of year. It was September 8, 1998, the night Mark McGwire hit No. 62 in St. Louis. At the Vet, it was the night the Phillies hit Hideo Nomo like there was no tomorrow. The erstwhile Tornado lasted 2-2/3 and surrendered seven runs. It was Nomo's last Mets start, a performance that made one think he'd never throw another pitch in the Majors.

But Tuesday night, with the Mets winning 16-4 in Philadelphia behind a pitcher not quite as talented but nearly as maddening, Hideo Nomo won for Tampa Bay. Against the Yankees. Who lost. To Tampa Bay.

The 16-4 game from '98 sticks out as well because the next day, Stephanie and I boarded a flight to Tampa (Bay) for the wedding of Carlos (Chuck) Briceno. I was best man at a very Catholic ceremony. I knew absolutely not a whit of what was going on religiously, but all I had to do was move some chairs around. I thought of that wedding Tuesday afternoon while watching the introduction of Pope Benedict XVI because that was the last time I was exposed to any live Catholic church action (save for Murph's memorial at St. Patrick's). There's sure been a lot of it on TV lately. That and Mets rounding bases.

XVI Benedicts, XVI runs. Sweet XVI. And a lot of white smoke coming off those Mets bats.

The offense deserves to be beyond reproach for a day, but after Victor Zambrano tripled — let's use that phrase in a sentence: “As people wondered what kind of pope the new pope would be, Victor Zambrano tripled” — Reyes couldn't have taken a pitch? No, he couldn't. He flied to center and Zamby had to head right back to work. That's a worse breach of protocol than no Phillie pitcher knocking down any Mets batter or, for that matter, Cliff Floyd having the bad manners to hit a three-run bomb Monday night instead of looking for a walk in the ninth down four. Jose, Willie says you attack the ball, and I love you for it, but give your pitcher a break. He just ran from home to third.

Because Victor Zambrano tripled. See? It's positively dee-lightful to use in a sentence!

Let's do it again: The Mets hit seven home runs, but the most remarkable hit occurred when Victor Zambrano tripled, making him the first Mets pitcher to triple since Steve Trachsel did it against the Braves at Shea on June 25, 2002.

While Victor Zambrano tripled, Felix the Feral was earning his money, every gosh darn penny of it. All he ever had to do was be the crowbar that pried Mike Stanton off this roster. Job well done! Just stay off the mound until your contract is up and you and your subjects will enjoy all the fruits of gratitude Shea Stadium can provide.

And by fruits, of course, I mean rats. Succulent, succulent rats. Lots of 'em.

King Felix was exiled, Heath Bell was freed…oh, and we pasted the Philadelphia Phillies. I mean pasted: This was a no-prisoners, baby-seal-clubbing, closed-casket rout.

A club-record seven home runs, including two by Victor Diaz (whom I'd

feared would be benched for forgetting how many outs there were

yesterday), two by Reyes, a majestic shot by Piazza (who'd never

homered in Citizens Bank Park, oddly) and David Wright's first grand

slam. Oh, and Mientky hit one too. I know you know — it was just fun

to type all that.

And don't forget Victor Zambrano, at least at the plate — on the mound

he was irritating as usual. Any time your pitcher has a two-run triple,

you can basically guarantee football scores are being posted. I mean,

has any pitcher ever hit a two-run triple and lost a 3-2 nailbiter?

Those things always come when it's 9-4 in the fifth. (For instance.)

Not like you could really blame the Phillies for that one — walking

the eighth-place hitter after he's connected twice isn't exactly

advanced strategy. Has a Met pitcher tripled since Leiter did it a

couple of years back? That remains one of my favorite

Shea memories — 30,000 people laughing at once is quite a sound.

A pause here to note my appreciation of Gary Cohen and Howie Rose as a

radio team. While I'd rather be watching on TV to catch the little

things, these two are just fantastic company. Loose, funny, smart,

historically minded — it's an absolute treat to listen to them. Two of

my favorite points made during the night: Why on earth was poor Mike

Lieberthal stuck in that mess for that long? And how did the Phillies

let the Mets club balls halfway to Portugal and never once sit someone

down in the batter's box? This isn't to say you knock Victor Diaz's

helmet off or something Clemenseque, but you can't just shrug off being

a team's personal BP pitchers. The game has definitely changed.

Anyway, I think we both agree that this was a baseball team in fairly

desperate need of a laugher. Late-inning magic is wonderful, but it's

also bloody exhausting.

Not that the first five games of the season didn't suck, especially the ninth inning of the first one (and the two in Atlanta — ah, they all sucked especially hard), but one could make a case for eerie fascination with history. When are we gonna win? Are we really gonna challenge the Orioles' record from 1988? Is 0-162 in the cards? Will we make the cover of Sports Illustrated? How awful will this get?

Then we began to win, which was, of course, magnificent. It felt so much like the season had begun anew that a familiar feeling crept in. What's it gonna be like when we lose? That's usually what I'm thinking after we start 1-0. The idea of a loss seems so foreign that at once I fear it because I can't imagine it and wait for it so I can be relieved that the world didn't end when it came.

Never mind that we'd already collected five losses. Those were the glorified exhibitions. After Saturday, we were an unblemished 6-0 in every way except the standings. Plus, each win had been more fabu (a word I picked up from a temp art director a long time ago) than the one before it. When are we gonna lose? Are we really gonna challenge the Giants' record from 1916? Is 157-0 — OK, 157-5 — in the cards? Will we make the cover of Sports Illustrated? How great will this get?

Then we lost on Sunday and sense of normalcy at last pervaded. We're a regular team that can't win 'em all but won't lose 'em all. We can start over like everybody else. Thus, Monday night was de facto Opening Day III, the first game of the rest of your year.

It's gonna be a lousy year from the looks of it.

I hate games like this. I hate games that are the second loss following a winning streak, thus invalidating that WE'RE THE KING OF THE WORLD! feeling from the winning streak. I hate the cold water games like these splash on my fan self-esteem. I hate that half the teams who played last night lost and we're in that half. I hate that even though it was April 18, we finished the night in last again (sub-hating that I fell asleep with Atlanta tied and woke up to find they won; I hate them in every state of consciousness there is). I hate how I look forward to a game all day and then it proves a travesty from the first inning on. I hate how I instantly lose interest in a game like this and start mindlessly flipping to other channels, thus missing nuggets like Heredia's “injury” manifesting itself. I hate that while we're losing, the Yankees are swallowing their dose of SlumpBeGone better known as the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. I hate that West Wing Marathon Monday on Bravo felt redundant, me having seen every episode they were showing at least a dozen times by now. I hate that it was 5-0 practically all night.

Then of course I hated the ninth inning, the 5-0 deficit shrinking tantalizingly to 5-4 but the bases emptying and Victor the Redeemer left, ultimately, in the on-deck circle, unredeemed. I hate that what was going to be one of those unremarkable “whaddayagonnado?” losses turned into one of those finals where I spend the next twenty minutes blurting “godmotherfuckingdamnit!” like an X-rated Rain Man and listening to Mets Extra just so I can be sure we weren't awarded two extra runs by the official scorer on the basis that he felt bad for us.

Oh well. I hate it less now that I've relived it. I think I just woke up in a bad mood.

Regarding your helpful count of new Mets and how they've been allotted on an annual basis, how futile have the last few years been anyway? At least 13 of the 29 debuts from 2004 will almost certainly never be seen in these parts again (James Baldwin, anyone?). As for the 29 nuMets from '02, three whole seasons ago, none are on the current roster. None! Only two, Seo and Strickland, are even still in the organization. Player turnover wasn't just invented, but this takes built-in obsolescence to farcical proportions. What was the 2002 slogan again? Oh, I remember it: “Blink Once And You'll Miss McKay Christensen…Blink Twice And You'll Miss Mark Little…Missed 'Em!”

Yes, let's get Heath Bell up here immediately. That will solve all our problems. No more runs will score against us from the sixth through the eighth. Time Warner and Cablevision will pound their swords into digital plowshares. Fran Healy will take a vow of silence. Pat Burrell will be traded to Detroit. Leo Mazzone will retire. General managers from coast-to-coast will apologize for daring to look up from their statistical printouts for even a moment but they had to so they could fire their know-nothing scouts. Pretzels will be fresh and a quarter. Whoever sits behind me at my next six-pack game will sip Aquafina and utter only witty, original insights in a moderate tone. And as unanimous Cy Young, MVP and USA Roller Sports Magazine Man of the Year Heath Bell blades his team to unforetold accomplishment, Mets bloggers everywhere will produce irrefutable evidence that Blake McGinley must replace him in 2006.