My heart going boom boom boom...

In the first at-bat I saw today, Mike Piazza came up with two on and took Ramiro Mendoza high over the left field wall and up on to the roof of the VIP tent. We went ahead of the Yankees 7-6.

In the second at-bat I saw today, Mike Piazza put a charge into a John Smoltz pitch and rocketed it over the right-centerfield wall. In the blink of an eye, we had overcome a five-run deficit and were tied at seven.

In the third at-bat I saw today, Mike Piazza blitzed the first offering from Terry Mulholland on a line straight to the left field auxiliary scoreboard. It bounced back onto the grass but not before it capped off a 10-run inning.

In the fourth at-bat I saw today, Mike Piazza ran around the bases to no musical accompaniment. What I remember was the one long cheer, punctuated only by the rustling of miniature American flags.

I would have liked to have seen one more at-bat from Mike Piazza. But after eight seasons, I had seen all I could possibly hope to see.

...son, he said...

To be uncharacteristically generous about it, I got all I needed from the Mets in Game 162, Home Game 81, The Log Game 19 (10-9). Except for Anderson Hernandez bolting from the schneid, none of what I hoped would happen happened in terms of team or individual goals (the only Mientkiewicz sighting was when he warmed up Takatsu, for cryin' out loud), but, in a perverse way, just as well. The victorious, alone-in-third, 84-78 Mets would have had me overly giddy and believing we were just one or two players away. The Rockie-topped, tied-for-third, 83-79 Mets are a reminder that those one or two players are, to borrow from Dick Young, Walter Johnson and Babe Ruth.

We're not bad. We're not great. We're all right. On the final day of the season, that, lovely weather and a few friends are really all I need.

The Mets are no doubt a strange organization with a physical plant to match. They sort of, kind of operate in a half-baked, half-assed manner, but here we are, us and them, still doing business together after all these years. They have what we want and they know it. Still, I will miss finding my way to Shea between now and sometime in April. Queens is just another borough with a series of railroad tracks until then. Whatever it is I do on ever chillier and darker Sunday afternoons, it won't be nearly as much fun.

And when they brighten and warm, whoever catches won't be nearly as amazing.

...grab your things, I’ve come to take you home.

Well, you know you're beloved when the fans stay to cheer you in an 11-3 game when the only question left to be settled is whether or not third place is yours alone. (Florida rallied and we have to share.) The tributes were nice -- the ones involving hands together in the stands, I mean, as the ones on the Diamondvision were banal when they weren't embarrassing. The look on Mike Piazza's face was nicer. But the moment that got me the most, oddly, was Anderson Hernandez receiving a near standing ovation for his first big-league hit. That was the best side of Met fans on a day that also showed some less-than-best sides. Met fans read the papers, listen to the radio and generally know what's going on, enough to cheer a young player who'll go into the winter smiling because he's 1 for 18 instead of 0 for 18. But by that same token, they're informed enough to know that Carlos Beltran has been hurt multiple times, pressing all year and still working his behind off -- the booing of Beltran has long since corroded into sour, pointless hazing. Kind of like the way Mike Piazza's every failing was once booed, come to think of it.

(And I still want to hear why Mike DiFelice came to the plate.)

The sunshine and farewells for Mike also couldn't let me brush away the fact that as Emily and I were leaving, we ran into a line of Met security drones intent on keeping fans away from the entrance to the Met offices and the skyboxes. "THIS WAY! HEY! YOU! THIS WAY!" they barked, mouths inches from the faces of fans understandably confused at being asked to squeeze their way through the bomb barriers into the parking lot. In Flushing that means "Thanks for coming and spending money to support the team." You started the season finding the escalators weren't working; we ended the season being bellowed at by semi-cops. No matter how hard the Mets try, the surliness and decrepitude of Shea and those who work there elbow their way into the picture, like a garden party with something dead under the porch.

But oh well. It was a .500 day for what was basically a .500 team.

And now it's winter. I'd reach down deep and try to wax lyrical about what it means, but somebody already did it better. Take it away, Mr. Giamatti:

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings. And then, as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it, to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it the most, it stops. Today, October 2nd ... it stopped, and summer was gone.

Today is the day we remain who we are in earnest.

It's come to this: I'm fuming at the Braves for blowing an eighth-inning lead to the Marlins and thereby costing us a Saturday night clinch of third place outright. Dan Kolb sucks just enough to not do us any good. On the other hand, who wants to back into the division's third-best record to say nothing of sole possession of one of the league's top five marks overall? That's what Sunday is for.

We're walkin' real proud and we're talkin' real loud again in A-Met-ica. And you never did think that it ever would happen again.

Congratulations to the 1973 National League Eastern Division champions who, thanks to Joe Randa and the San Diego Padres, after hearing about it for 32 years, are no longer the titleist with the lowest winning percentage in baseball history. (I can hear the 1972 Miami Dolphins popping champagne corks right now.)

Today is the day we are still Mets fans in our natural habitat, the baseball season.

You know who I was missing from Saturday night's penultimate triumph? No, not Him. Doug Mientkiewicz. After Piazza pinch-hit for Jacobs because a lefty came in the game, Hurdle brought in a righty to face Castro. So when the next inning began, Randolph double-switched in Padilla to bat in what had been Jacobs' spot and to play first and bat ninth (due up in the bottom of the seventh), he inserted Chris Woodward.

This stumped me. I love Woody -- especially when he's half of Charlon Woonderson -- but you're protecting a two-run lead, you need defense, you could use a left-handed bat and you skip Minky? I saw him on the bench Friday night chillin' with Cammy and Pedro. Unlike them, as far as I know, he's available to play. I feel bad that he winds up the season as a forgotten footnote. I'm not advocating bringing him back or even starting him in the finale (though I wish they'd quit reminding us that Jakey's home run feats are matching those of Shane Spencer, Kevin Maas and Benny Agbayani; no Pujolses in there?), but Doug has seemed like a good guy no matter how his season dissipated. He gave us some of the great quotes of the year (available via the vigilant Metstradamus). I simply like the guy too much to see him buried from here to Offerman.

Today is the final day that past stays past and future runs far off because, for one more day, we have a present with which to concern ourselves.

As for Him, it's dawned on me what's going on with the "almost totally certainly" manner in which Mike's last game is being billed as Mike's last game. Wilpon or whoever remembers how the Mets were pounded for wallowing in useless veterans to their bitter end for so long -- Leiter, Franco, Zeile -- that the organization now feels it must make a clean break from any remnant of its past. But Leiter and Franco were running things (into the ground) and Zeile was essentially preposterous. Mike hasn't inflicted his weight on the front office, he can still hit some and he hasn't made a pest of himself or allowed himself to become the center of attention in any fashion other than organic.

Mike Piazza on the 2006 Mets would not be a horrible distraction or a sign that the Mets don't know how to move on. Half their lineup is living, breathing, running proof that they've made progress, that they're not stuck in the mud somewhere in the swamps of Flushing. But leave it to the controlling interests to fight the last battle.

We've already obliterated 2004 by a dozen wins and counting. Remember where we were last year at this time? Remember how we got ourselves together to wave bye to Zeile and Franco and Art Howe even? How there was nothing certain about the final day except that it was now or never for Joe Hietpas and nevermore for the Expos? We've come a long, long way together.

But don't let me give you the wrong idea regarding Closing Day 2004. That was a great time. I'm a big believer in going to The Closer (and I'm not the only one). Any idiot can go to Opening Day. Most of them do. It takes a real fan to understand what's at stake on a day like today.

I don't know why more people don't cherish Closing Day. It's the last chance to sit in the sun for several hours, to wear a cap for a reason, to eat ice cream out of a helmet, to retreat for a few more hours into this Brigadoon of ours that thrives over a six-month clip. Cap and t-shirt selection loses its meaning when the season is over. Gate E ceases to be a destination. Woodside's no longer my point of transfer or reflection.

If somebody's kind enough to leave one piping hot final baseball game cooling on the window sill, what kind of idiot would I be to not calmly wander by, furtively grab it and run like the dickens? Later today will be my eleventh consecutive final regularly scheduled home game, thirteenth in all. A few left me cold, but most of them have bathed me in warmth and given me just enough to hold onto to get me to the start of the playoffs, maybe even the second round. It ain't much but it's somethin'.

Today is the day.

We've never finished with 84 wins before. I'd like to get there. Jose and David are one run shy of a hundred. I'd like them to get those. It would be nice if Cliff could drive in three. And yes, let's get Anderson Hernandez a hit and Doug Mientkiewicz some face time and Victor Zambrano a little rotation cred and Carlos Beltran something happy to take home (besides his paycheck).

I ask nothing of Mike Piazza. He's given us everything.

Happy Old Year.

If you haven't bookmarked Faith and Fear in Flushing, do so immediately. Better yet, just set us as your homepage and hit refresh a lot. We wouldn't think of leaving you high and dry for that first painful week of Mets Withdrawal. Our first annual Year-End Spectacular is running Monday, October 3 through Friday, October 7.

What's so spectacular about it? Glad you asked.

MONDAY: The Final Short-Season Awards
TUESDAY: The Long-Season Awards
WEDNESDAY: A Salute to The Two Indispensable Mets
THURSDAY: The Faith and Fear MegaMix
FRIDAY: Flashback Friday 2005

In addition, we'll have post-game thoughts following Sunday's finale, incisive post-season analysis -- which isn't likely to go much deeper than YANKEES SUCK!, but you never know -- and, as time permits, a good bit of post-whatnot.

The hiatus that will follow the Year-End Spectacular will be as brief as my reminiscences are endless. But it is necessary. Blogware and good health willing, we will have posted here for 190 consecutive days as of October 7. We've beaten DiMaggio but are in danger of getting obsessed with Ripken. You see what Cal's streak did to the Orioles. Everybody can use a day off.

But that day is several days away. The first Metsless week is always the toughest. As you've been here for us, we'll be there for you (clap-clap...CLAP).

Once I built a Collapse-O-Meter, made it run.
Once I built a Collapse-O-Meter, now it's done.
Buddy, can you spare some crow?

Congratulations to the 2005 American League Eastern Division champions, the name of whom escapes me. May this title be what you look back on fondly a week from now. And congratulations on having had a schedule backloaded with games against Baltimore just in time to save your sorry asses, to say nothing of the cherry on top of your season: the opportunity to face Braden "I'm OK, I'm not OK" Looper on June 26, quite possibly the difference between your season and those of Boston and Cleveland.

That's about all the graciousness I have in me on this count. I've tipped my cap to these cretins so much over the past decade that I've got carpal-tunnel in my cap-tipping wrist.