I am not going to speak of any other sport. I am not here to argue about other sports. I am in the baseball business. I started in professional ball in 1910. I have been in professional ball, I would say, for ninety-five years. I have been employed by numerous ball clubs in the majors and in the minor leagues.

I'm counting all the years from which I started, up to and including this present year, which is Twenty Aught Five. To be right and technical about it, I am dead at the present time, a state I commenced to being in 1975 when I collected my final annuity from my job as a vice president of the New York Mets, the amazing, amazing, amazing Mets who brought me out of involuntary retirement in 1962 soon after the other ball club in New York saw fit to put me there. Mrs. Payson wuz kind enough to give me that job title when I retired from active duty as her manager in 1965. What I did under that vice president title is a nebulous thing. They printed my photograph in the annual yearbook every year after that until 1975 and didn't ask nothing out of me in return except to come back to their beautiful new stadium once a year and tip my hat to the crowds when they'd gather up all the old-timers, myself being older and having more time in the baseball business than anybody else they could dig up for the honor. But having been in the professional baseball business since 1910, I wuzn't one to take a handout. That's why I keep watching my Mets and keep filing these reports in case the present ownership consortium feels it's its prerogative to inquire on behalf of them.

I see all the games from where I sit, the coaxial-cable connection not being an issue as it is in the New York Metropolitan area. When I first come up to the Brooklyns in 1912 and even when I had my contract transferred to Mr. McGraw and the Giants in 1921, ya couldn't see the baseball without coming to see the baseball game, so I guess it's not much different today in Brooklyn or Manhattan where they can't see the baseball or the baseball game at all. I understand ya can't see it in the borough of Queens where they built that big, beautiful stadium with all those wonderful escalators. I'm not beyond finding it a touch ironic even in my current state, which is dead at the present time, that I get a better view of the baseball game than many of the people who figure to be yer paying customers when the amazing, amazing, amazing Mets come off of their current barnstorming trip.

I seen all the games since 1975 with crystal-clear reception and perfect audio but I don't often say anything since nobody any longer particularly asks for my opinion. I understand how that situation might come to arise given my status as a retired active manager and former vice president and of course dead at the present time. But nobody said I wuzn't no longer supposed to let 'em know what I'm thinking, so I don't see where there's any particular harm in offering it up to those might avail themselves of what somebody who made a good living in the professional baseball business for nearly a hunnert years, the last thirty of which not so living, is thinking.

I do this, ya see, because I'm hearing about myself suddenly with a frequency that I haven't since I handed the keys to the manager's office to Mr. Westrum. All the daily newspapers and the radio broadcasts and the televisions that come in here with marvelous clarity are saying that these Mets, these amazing, amazing, amazing Mets, have lost their first several games that count. When they wuz done Friday night, they wuz oh and four, and in six months, they have a chance to be oh and a hunnert and sixty-two. I reckon they haven't found themselves at such a precarious juncture since 1964 when Mrs. Payson and the city of New York opened that fine new stadium and I wuz still the active manager. We didn't win too many games back in those days, not there or at Mr. McGraw's Polo Grounds, 'cept nobody made too much of it given I wuz expected to manage a team full of the halting and the lame that the other owners in the National League, out of the goodness of their hearts, made available to me to manage so they could be careful I wouldn't win more than from time to time.

I ascertain that this is no longer the prevailing situation with my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets. The Mets are supposed to win like Mr. McGraw's Giants used to or maybe the way Mr. Topping and Mr. Webb expected me to win every year when they paid me to manage their club. The current owner, the fella with all the real estate dough who bought out Abner Doubleday's nephew, he's no piker come lately either. He laid out a goodly sum of more than a hunnert million American dollars, which is still a tremendous amount of currency, even at the present time during which I'm dead, to have a team that would not just entertain the New York people but actually enchant them by winning more ballgames than they lost.

I didn't have that luxury when they opened that wonderful new stadium, as we still had the halting and the lame along with the Youth of America who wuz yet to come into full flower at the time and I would make much of the placards and the banners and the general atmospherics that surrounded my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets. Now, unfortunately, when a team plays dead at the present time, as which the Mets of Twenty Aught Five appear to be commencing to do, the spectators aren't nearly as forgiving as they might have been when I wuz presiding over the less than competitive product that I wuz handed to manage through no fault of Mrs. Payson's.

I find it most helpful in filing my scouting reports to start from the top of the lineup and work my way down in the interest of the best use of time which is one of those things that I don't really concern myself with at the present, seeing as how at the present time, I am dead. But my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets have another ballgame tonight with the Atlanta Crackers, to whom they lost a tough one last night following the three even tougher ones they took on the chin from those Cincinnati Red Stockings which is where they first started playing professional baseball all the way back to 1869 which wuz before my time as hard to fathom as ya may find that given as how I've been in the professional baseball business for nearly as long a period as the Cincinnati Red Stockings.

I like this here lineup that Mr. Mañana the general manager and Mr. Randolph the active manager have put together for the purposes of winning ballgames for my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets. I don't know Mr. Mañana but I do know Mr. Randolph played for my boy Billy Martin on the team that no longer had use for my services when I made the mistake of turning seventy years old, a mistake I have yet to commit again and one I swore I'd avoid as long as I live, which is something I'm not doing at the present time and have no plans toward until further notice.

I look at the top of this here batting order at the present time and ya have this fella with the legs who's always hurt. If ya keep him out of the nightlife and sticking to the milkshakes and don't let him fall under any threshers, I like him a lot. He plays shortstop with them legs and he runs to first with them legs and as long as he touches first he can go to second with them legs which wuzn't always the case for me when I wuz managing my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets.

I see ya have Metsui batting second. That there is a marketer's dream come true, marketing being what ya have to do sometimes when ya want people to come to the beautiful new stadium even after ya take great care not to show yer potential paying customers in Brooklyn and Manhattan and in the borough where the ballpark is the games even though ya can at the present time. Metsui. That's brilliant. The kids today, their first words are gonna be “Metsui! Metsui! Metsui!” Plus the fella come up with orange hair which is yet another marketing stroke of genius seeing as how Mrs. Payson took the orange from the Giants and the blue from the Brooklyns to make the colors for my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets. Ya can tell the writers that this fella Metsui has a good head on his shoulders and he takes off his cap and they see it's true 'cause it's orange. When I played, I'd take off my cap and all ya got to see wuz a sparrow.

I like this fella who's batting number three, the fella who makes all the money. I wuz a banker in my latter years before the present time at which I'm dead. I wuz a banker in Glendale, California, not far down the road from where Mr. O'Malley took the Brooklyns and made more money than anybody imagined except that this fella batting third and playing center is making a lot of it, too, which he's worth it for if ya judge it on all his combined talents which add up to a tremendous amount of baseball good for my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets. I don't worry too much about the centerfielder who did so much for the Houstons, who were going to be in the Continental League with us which Mr. Rickey wuz planning for to make it up to the spectators in New York who never shoulda had their franchises in the National League absconded with to the West Coast even though that's where I eventually wound up living with my Edna, and I had some good ones in my day right up to Mr. Ashburn who wuz my most valuable player the year we wuzn't valuable at all and including Mr. Mantle who coulda benefited from drinking more milkshakes before he wound up like the shortstop with the legs which ya need to get from first to second to third to home taking care to touch all of them.

I get to home and I see ya still got Mr. Piazza at the present time after all these years behind it which is a good thing because on the amazing, amazing, amazing Mets ain't nobody been as amazing as Mr. Piazza who's been amazing there since before the last century commenced to being finished. I got a soft spot for catchers 'cause ya gotta have a catcher lest ya have a procession of passed balls which if I'm reading this pitching staff correctly yer gonna have even though ya have that Pedro fella who wuz so good for so many years with the Beaneaters of Boston which is where they said I wuzn't too bright so they changed the name of the team I managed to the Bees before changing it back to the Braves who would go on to become the Atlanta Crackers which is what they wuz called when they played in the Southern Association.

I don't know about this left fielder ya got batting next, Mr. Floyd, who is surely big and surely would play more if he wuz capable of not being disabled half the time. I like a big left-handed slugger provided he's actually out doing the slugging and not in the trainer's room with a bandage on his leg, which is what he's been doing most of the present time since he's been on the amazing, amazing, amazing Mets. I can make him out easy on my television because he's the fella with the very sparkling earring which may be the fashion at the moment and not to give advice to Mr. Randolph who played for my boy Billy Martin but if ya wanna wear an earring, join the jewelers.

I ascertain that this third baseman is going to be the correct choice for a position that commenced to give my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets fits from the very first game we played in St. Louis when we lost the first nine in a row consecutively. I inserted this fella Zimmer to stand at third base and he rewarded my faith in him by going oh for thirty-four almost immediately. He finally registered a safety and Mr. Weiss saw fit to trade him to Cincinnati for Cliff Cook and Bob Miller, which Bob Miller I'm not sure of at the present time because we seem to have had more than our fair share of 'em and neither one of 'em could play third which is something that a lot of third basemen could say the same thing of as New York Mets but this new fella seems an appropriate choice, the absolutely, positively right one which in of itself is right because that's the fella's name, Wright.

I see all kinds of possibilities for the first baseman, Manischewitz, given how he's got the name that's so similar to the wine that so many of the patrons for the amazing, amazing, amazing Mets drink when it's early in the season which it is at the present time and they have the passover cedars commemorating the coming of Moses, who is not to be confused with the other fella Moses who helped us get that beautiful stadium built where ya can't watch the games on the television, and the wine is an important part of the rituals just as the ball is an essential part of the game which is something this fella knew when he played for the Beaneaters and they finally won the champeenship last year and he commenced to keep the ball not knowing but suspecting that it might be worth a lot which wuz a smart thing if they let ya get away with that sort of thing which isn't something Mr. McGraw would've looked kindly upon when we won the 1921 World Series though I can't honestly tell ya where that ball went once the final out got recorded.

I find myself at the bottom of the order now except for the pitcher though I have to tell ya I am delighted to find that the National League still makes the pitcher hit for himself even though most of 'em do a piss-poor job of availing themselves of the opportunity of advancing their own cause with the bat which why ya wouldn't wanna do that isn't something I understand but I never swore to being the smartest man in this here game only the one who has spent the most time in it, alive or, as reflects my state at the present time, dead. Most nights, my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets have Deeaz batting eighth, a positioning I can't question because he is a road apple, just falling off the truck as it were and if yer just a freshman ya can't ask the prettiest girls to dance until ya've paid yer dues which this Deeaz fella has yet to commence doing but I do see some promise in him. He reminds me of the fella I had at the end of my tenure with my amazing, amazing, amazing Mets, Mr. Swoboda, who demonstrated amazing strength, amazing power and could grind the dust out of the bat. He wuz going to be great, super even wonderful. He even learned to catch a fly ball. The Mets have a lot of fellas in the outfield like that since my time. This Deeaz reminds me of that big pineapple of a kid we had not too many years ago, the one who would get a hit that would win ya a game and the paying customers would cheer and he'd return their congratulations by every now and then as long as the management didn't mind and they shouldn't have because it created immense goodwill for the team tossing them a baseball right then and there in the middle of the game even while the game wuz in progress which might not have been the best thing to do at that present time but the goodwill wuz tremendous as wuz that fella who I would watch and ask my Edna who's been sitting with me the entire time I've been filing my scouting report, can't Agbayani here play this game?

Tonight I did the first thing I do when I panic — I listened to the FAN postgame.

It's a good way to calm down, because 90% of the people who call in

are, by comparison, completely insane. And indeed, apparently this is

all Kaz Matsui's spot, and he needs to be benched, moved to the 9 hole,

traded, shot, or all four. Then everything will be fine.

What's wrong with our team? Nothing but a little slice of everything, I

suppose. Tough to win being down by a crooked number after every first

inning. Bad calls. (Glavine, meet Reyes.) Erratic pitching that's just

good enough to lose. (Ishii, meet Zambrano.) Shining with the bases

empty, grounding into double plays with them not. (Wright, meet

Wright.) Lots of hits, none of them bunched. (Everybody, meet

everybody.)

Taken individually, of course, one tends to survive these things. Together, well, you're 0-4 and actually pinning your hopes on Aaron Heilman.

If it really is 1964 all over again — Texan in the White House, a single artist dominating the pop charts, Mets getting their suck on early — I have one question:

Where's our new stadium?

Oh, it ain't 1964. Dubya's no LBJ. 50 Cent's no Beatles. And Carlos Beltran could buy, sell and outhit the third-year Mets all by his lonesome. Even though I'm making cranky noises similar to those I was making 41 years ago, including “waaaaaah!” after this colicky three-game sweep, I'm thinking sometimes a three-game losing streak is just a three-game losing streak. Have this in June and there's only mild panic in the streets.

Not that it's not disturbing. Thursday afternoon's lineup felt empty without Mike (Piazza, not Cameron; who's Mike Cameron?). Not that Mike is the rock anymore. The opposite-field fly he ended the game on as a pinch-hitter would've gone out a few years ago. Instead of the Mets losing 6-1, they would've lost 6-5 but we would've been falsely encouraged.

Ishii was Ishii which is to say he was Sid Fernandez reincarnate. Though both he and Pedro dug 0-3 holes and then recovered admirably, there was a difference. It's been so long since we've had a great pitcher around that I'd forgotten the old saying that if you're going to get to a great pitcher, get to him early. That's what Ralph, Bob and Lindsey taught me about Seaver. That's what we saw with Randy Johnson in the first game of the '99 NLDS when, yes, he gave up homers to Fonzie and Oly and was down 4-1 in the fourth, but then pitched into the ninth, striking out eleven (before Fonzie slammed Bobby Chouinard; happy ending). It was like watching two different games. I thought of that Monday with Pedro.

I didn't get that feeling with Ishii. He settled down after Peña homered in the second and was even sort of overpowering for a while, but trouble seemed to be lurking around the bend. He made me think of Sid who could go on spurts of invincibility but was always one bad break from crumbling. On the other hand, Sid won a lot of games for the Mets. Ishii still seems like a better choice than Ginter to have filled Trachsel's slot. Whether Heilman or Seo or Santiago is a better choice than Ginter to take Benson's starts is another matter altogether.

Felix Heredia pitched a perfect inning. Didn't think we'd see that. He was the last of the new New Mets to appear, bringing the lifetime total to 760. Dig out his card.

While you're at it, check out the current SI for its profile of the No. 21 Met of the First Forty Years, Wally Backman. The story finds him in Oregon with his family, picking up the pieces that shattered his Diamondbacks managerial stint into painfully brief pieces. It left me thinking he wouldn't have gotten into any trouble if only he had had a game to play in or manage every single night of his life.

Didja see the Daily News story Thursday about the paucity of Mets bars in the city? The guy went all over town looking for a place to watch the Opener but couldn't find one that was truly Metsian. He wound up at the former Bobby V's across the Grand Central from our state-of-the-1964-art  ballpark. The game was on and the bartender was into it. Valentine's ultra-cool collection of Mets stuff, however, had been long packed up given that he sold his interest in the joint after his own nearby managerial stint ended. As much as it pained the writer to mention it, he had to acknowledge that Yankees fans have several bars to call their own.

Given their heroic levels of alcohol consumption (serving to simultaneously fuel their inflated sense of grandiosity and numb the pain of the past four post-seasons), it would figure Yankees fans have more bars. Shoot, most of 'em belong behind bars.

OK, I'm no longer so philosophical. In fact, I'm in the Valley of the

Shadow of Something Not Good. Like I'm imagining the proto-bloggers of

1988 Baltimore gathered around crabs and beer, grousing that their damn

team is 0-3 and wondering when it's going to end. Where does the AP get off invoking Jack Fisher and George Altman and the Class of '64? I thought that was our gig.

Losing streaks are like bad bouts of the flu: When you're in the middle

of one, you can't imagine you'll ever be well again. Clearly misery is

to be your lot in life, unless whatever you have is fatal, which seems

perfectly plausible. Then you get well and a couple of days later

you're vaguely embarrassed about all that drama.

Unless, of course, this is Baltimore and it's 1988….

Enough. No more. It's far too early to turn this blog into the Yusmeiro Petit Watch. Atlanta Braves, feh. Due for a fall, I say.

Just win, boys.

“Wow, this is a really good sandwich. Who wants to ask me about it?”

Willie, what's the deal with the double-switch?

“The Double-Switch Deal? You mean how when you come in to your local Subway and you get twice the meat and twice the cheese at half the price? Yeah, what a deal!”

No Willie, we're talking about the double-switch you botched against the Reds.

“The only double-switch I made was the switch I made on the double from Quiznos to Subway, where there's always a great 'botch' of your favorite fixin's to top off your favorite sandwiches!”

You mean batch?

“I mean flavor!”

But Willie, the Reds?

“Ah, the reds — the tomatoes and the peppers that are available to accent the biggest, meatiest, tastiest Subway sub you've ever had. You're right — they're awesome!”

C'mon Willie. How on earth did you blow something as simple as knowing you had to take out the first baseman and the pitcher at the same time to be able to switch them in the order?

“You can order anything you like at Subway, and yes, you can get it to take out. And the only blowing I'll be doing will be blowing on my hot meatball sub because it's so darn hot when it comes out of the Subway microwave oven.”

Did you not realize that when you put DeJean into pitch that you also had to replace Mientkiewicz with Woodward simultaneously if you wanted Woodward to bat ninth? Was it a lack of experience that caused you to overlook that rule?

“I realize there's no better experience than biting into a delicious tuna sub at Subway. As a matter of fact, it does rule!”

That doesn't answer my question at all.

“Is anybody going to ask any questions about me?”

Yes. Do you have any idea how muddled your explanation was after the game when you said the umpires shouldn't have allowed Dave Miley's protest because you hadn't crossed the line yet? What line?

“There's no line.”

So you admit you were confusing the double-switch with a visit to the mound?

“I admit that there's never a line at Subway because their courteous, professional staff of sandwich artists moves you through their many restaurants and to your lunch in 90 seconds or less.”

Willie, the season's barely started, but it's beginning to feel as if you don't quite have your head in the game. After the crushing opener, you dwelled on what a nice day it had been for you. Regarding your closer, you basically said he's not as good as his counterpart on the Yankees, which doesn't do anything for his confidence or make Mets fans feel any better. You've got guys stealing when they should be staying, and staring when they should be running. And then there was this whole embarrassing episode with the double-switch that wasn't, which may or may not have affected DeJean's demeanor on the mound, and god knows DeJean doesn't need distractions. I guess I'm asking if you feel you're living up to expectations as a manager thus far?

“When it comes to expectations, Subway surpasses all of them. You've gotta try their new sandwiches. It's on bread that's really toast!”

Willie, get it together soon or that's what you'll be.

Forgive me for summing this one up before it's official. Fear 1, Faith 0.

All hail the unanticipated kingdom of Joe Randa — at least Howie's not

around to point out once again that he was a paper Met. And hey, we got

Juan LeBron for him. Did Juan LeBron even reach Binghamton? *

So many embarrassments tonight. There was Glavine doing his usual Glavine thing — even if he was

getting squeezed early, you knew eventually those decision pitches

thrown over the plate would lead to Bad Things, which they did. And

what exactly was Cliff doing trying to steal second with Diaz at bat as

the tying run? Your newest, number-crunchingest sabermetrician and your

oldest, crustiest, cigar-chewingest, selling-jeans-here-est scout would

have been equally appalled by that one. And couldn't Joe Torre have

stopped healing the sick long enough to lean over during an interleague

game and teach Willie how to double-switch? Mike DeJean sucked, but at

least you can't say he did anything wrong above the neck.

(Of course Victor Diaz now gets a hit. Goddamn it. This game will kill you.)

I largely held my fire during the St. Lucie days about Felix Heredia

because I take it on faith that those who stink in the Grapefruit

League generally come out of the gate OK and vice versa, just to make

baseball even more of a head-scratcher. But this is getting ridiculous:

Willie's giving Heredia the Mike Maddux treatment and it turns out he

refused to go on the DL, which means we'll have to resort to some kind

of 40-man-roster chicanery to bring Jose Santiago up to face Atlanta,

which will probably treat him like Julio Valera. (I hope Omar's

reviewed the roster rules, seeing how in Montreal Bud Selig barely let

him have 40 guys.)

Anyway, thanks Felix! Way to be a team guy! What's the over/under on

how many weeks of this we have to endure before the team grudgingly

eats Heredia's contract?

(Goddamn Mets. These lipstick-on-a-pig rallies ultimately just make you

angrier. La la la, I'm not listening to this comeback attempt.)

By the way, did you notice Mariano Rivera, Mr. Automatic, blew the save again? And got booed? Someone talk Filip Bondy off the ledge. If he's noticed.

(Strike three. Thanks for playing, Mike. Once again God was not fooled by my ostentatiously not listening to a rally. 9-5 Reds.)

OK, that was the suckingest bunch of suck that ever sucked, but for

whatever reason I'm not too discouraged. The team looks (sorry, it sounds)

much better defensively and the offense, while not exactly clicking,

has been encouraging up and down the lineup. Maybe it's just listening to a healthy

Reyes and Floyd. Maybe it's just having games that count again. Maybe it's just that it's finally warm. Regardless, I'm

hanging in there better than I'd expected. Though if things go badly tomorrow, I get the feeling

I won't be so philosophical at around 4 o'clock.

* The Internet provides. Juan LeBron played one whole season at Triple-A. So says his bio

on the Web site of your Somerset Patriots, who helpfully note that

LeBron was signed on August 3, 2004 and released on August 28, 2004.

(Somerset, please! A little tact!) Oh, and he hit .216.

But here's the weird thing: Juan LeBron even got a Topps baseball card,

part of the 1995 Traded set. Only the good folks at Topps goofed and

put his face on another Kansas City prospect's card, with that

prospect's face winding up on LeBron's. So who was the other guy in the do-si-do?

Carlos Beltran. You could look it up.

With 161 games remaining, our once-beaten closer has two choices:

* Getting bogged down in his mistake
* Climbing back on his proverbial bike

Yes, it's BONER OR PEDAL for BRADEN LOOPER.

(That's all of them, I promise.)

I'll bet there were some equally stupid things written about the Opener. I'll have to bet because I refused to read any of them.

I don't consider myself a see-no-evil fan — as opposed to Time Warner subscribers who are see-no-Mets, hear-no-Healy, a mixed bag to be sure — but on infrequent occasion I will institute a news blackout: no papers. The last time I did that was a couple of days in early November 2001 when I didn't want to be inundated by screaming headlines proclaiming,
MIRACLE YANKEES WIN GAMES, HEAL CITY

O'NEILL OBLITERATES MEMORY OF TRAGEDY

JETER FLIP TO CATCHER CAPTURES OSAMA

GOD PLEDGE: I'LL TRY TO BE MORE LIKE JOE

The last time before that was the Monday after a five-game series the Mets played versus third-place Philadelphia in mid-August 1980. With the Mets coming in a mere 7-1/2 back, I fancied this a showdown crucial to the outcome of what was clearly going to remain a four-team pennant race. By the time the weekend was over, so were the 1980 Mets. They were outscored 40-12, sat eleven back and were in the midst of a spankin' new five-game losing streak.

The Phillies took off and won the World Series, one of many that should have been ours.

That was the summer when I began to make it my business to buy every paper I could and read every word written about the Mets. The Magic was Back, you know, and the more evidence I had of it, the better. But after that sweep, I couldn't stand to be reminded that the Magic was illusory. So no papers that Monday.

And no papers yesterday. I wouldn't even click on one of our many helpful Braintrust links. Your reporting on the reporting by the likes of Bondy and Araton made me glad I saved my quarters and my eyesight.

Generally, though, I'm old-fashioned. I believe in newspapers, physical newsprint, as intrinsic to the baseball experience, win or lose. That kiosk at the end of the 7 extension which occasionally sells Mets (and too often the other kind of New York baseball) merchandise used to be a newsstand. That's romantic. I like the notion that you can buy a paper outside the ballpark. I think every fan should have read at least one paper before coming into the ballpark. I also think there should be all kinds of entrance exams administered to anyone daring to sit in a better seat than me, but that's for another time.

The beat writers do the heavy lifting for people like us (fans, I mean, but bloggers, too). We should give them a little love from time to time to recognize the volume of work they do, but we should also get something beyond the mundane and, worse, uninformed from them.

Man, it sure sucks that we lost the seventh game of the 2005 World Series yesterday afternoon.

What's that? We didn't? Are you sure? You'll have to forgive me then, because that's the impression I got from this morning's papers.

Here's Filip Bondy: “Sandman! Cue Sandman! Sorry, no Sandman. Very clearly, this was no longer the rally-proof

Bronx, the triple-pad-locked, barb-wired playground of a certain

one-pitch reliever.”

Now, I expected no more from the sniggering Muttley of Yankee propagandists. But I was a bit disappointed in Harvey Araton: “From the dugout as Joe Torre's third-base coach and last year as his

first lieutenant, Randolph had a front-row ticket for Mariano Rivera.”

Mariano Who? Oh yeah, the Yankee reliever. But wait a minute — isn't

he the same guy who came into Game 4 of the ALCS, with the Yankees

three outs from a World Series — and blew the save? And isn't he the same guy who came right back in Game 5 of the ALCS — and blew the save?

And perhaps I've gone crazy, because this seems impossible, but isn't

he the same guy who came into today's game (played in that

“triple-pad-locked, barb-wired playground,” if I can quote me up some

of that fancified writin') against the Red Sox — and blew the save?

Now, I'm no math whiz, but from my calculations it looks to me like

this Mariano fella is on a three-game losing streak, saves-wise.

Amnesia may be a necessary part of the toolkit for professional

athletes, but it's a bit embarrassing in professional sportswriters.

I'd climb higher on this particular high horse, except  for the

fact that our new manager is part of the problem. This, alas, was

Willie Randolph yesterday: “There's not too many Mariano Riveras

around, that's for sure.” I can't believe I'm saying this, but time for

a little Wilpon interference. How about a short, sharp memo: We admire your loyalty, Willie, but choose your comparisons more carefully — you work for us now. Any questions, let us know.

Anyway, this is the nature of closers. One of the more-searing parts of Moneyball

is Michael Lewis's description of Billy Beane stamping out closers like

counterfeit coins: “You could take a slightly above average pitcher and

drop him into the closer's role, let him accumulate some gaudy number

of saves, and then sell him off. You could, in essence, buy a stock,

pump it up with false publicity, and sell it off for much more than

you'd paid for it.”

When that was written, Beane had shipped off closer Billy Taylor to

some idiot team that'll remain nameless for Jason Isringhausen, whom he

later let go as a free agent and so converted into Cardinals draft

picks, to be replaced by Billy Koch, who couldn't make the Blue Jays

this spring.

Why is it so easy to mint closers and pass them off on suckers? Because people don't understand the numbers. As Alan Schwarz noted recently

in the Times, last year 84.8% of save opportunities were converted by

relievers considered closers. That works out to 32 of 38, which sounds

good to us, but isn't — it's average. (Schwarz notes that Keith Foulke

is the talk of the town these days, but he was actually slightly below average in save percentage last year. Incidentally, he blew a save today too.)

Braden Looper's an average closer. If he has an average year he'll go

32 of 38; if he has a good one he might go 34 or 35 of 38; if he has a

bad one he might go 29 or 30 of 38. I was gonna say he ain't Brad Lidge

— but you know what? Brad Lidge converted 88% of save opportunities

last year: better than average, but probably not as good as most people

would have guessed. And no, Braden Looper ain't Mariano Rivera, who did

convert 93% last year. (And 50% in the ALCS.) But I've got news for

certain New York media and managerial circles: Recently Mariano Rivera

ain't Mariano Rivera, either.