Ah, Fonzie. You and I are never going to agree on this, and that's OK -- if we wanted bloodless analysis everyone could agree with at a glance, we'd be actuaries. To me, it's pretty clear that Fonzie's bad back killed his career, or at least maimed it -- his power numbers have dipped into the decidedly ordinary, he walks less, he never could run and his range has become tiny at third. It's only a bit of an exaggeration to say he's become Dave Magadan. Of course, I still mourn Bill Pulsipher, who never even had two weeks of good numbers, so obviously I'm an idiot.

And I still miss the hell out of Fonzie, stats notwithstanding -- if I close my eyes I can see that little twirl of the bat knob he liked to do, and he sure isn't doing it in orange and black. I loved that little bat flip around the hand -- I loved how it was evidence that for Edgardo, having a bat in his hands was perfectly natural, perhaps more natural than not having one, and his hands knew that bat so well that they could make the frickin' thing levitate. Here's hoping when his contract expires he comes back as our Miguel Cairo and we celebrate with a public tarring and feathering of Steve Phillips. ("God, Jeff, that was YOU strapped Lecter-style to the hand truck? We've, uh, made a terrible error. Don't know how that happened. Oh, here's the hand truck with Skill Set. Guess we'll have to do this again.")

OK, that's taking it too far. Hmm. Maybe it isn't.

I liked Dave Magadan too, of course -- if he had only been faster than, say, an air-conditioning unit being wheeled around by Teamsters ready for their hourly break, he would have hit .360. (And if Olerud had been faster than the above, we still would have cheaped out and let him go to Seattle.) Though I was always somewhat spooked by Magadan's resemblance to late-80s Bruce Springsteen. Danny Heep looked strangely like Billy Squier, while I'm exhausting the subject.

Tidbits from my pre-work scan of the papers: The reporters can't agree on who's the last man in camp. Leaving aside the visa-problems guys, it's either Gerald Williams or Jeff Keppinger. If I were either of those guys, I'd have made sure I was in camp by now, but what do I know. Please, please, please, let this be the end of the Gerald Williams era. There is no more perfect example of how ridiculously unimaginative a baseball front office can be than the fact that we let Gerald Williams play the outfield for us in the second half of last year.

Mike Cameron's nickname is "Midnight," which is insanely cool. Jon Heyman, having frightened himself by expressing admiration for David Wright, thinks Mike Cameron is a phony and/or a criminal. We don't have a captain right now, which is as it should be -- honestly, the fact that our captain was a lefty specialist was pretty pathetic. ("And Steve Kline is leading his Orioles onto the field!") I feel bad about making fun of Heath Bell (though that'll pass) after reading about him rollerblading in the driveway with his daughter. I now have a nonlaundry reason to root for him, which is nice.

Oh, and it has to be said: Willie Randolph may lead us to the promised land, in which case I'll eat these pixels, but he's behaving like a typical Bronx mullah. No loud music in the clubhouse? OFFS. It's getting a little Torborg in here....

It has been two years, two months and a week since Edgardo Alfonzo signed with the San Francisco Giants. Not that I'm counting. I raged against the Metchine all through the winter of '02-'03 over this crime against humanity, loyalty and good taste. The only things that got me through this dark period were the word on Reyes and Richie the Electrician cluing me in on a third-base prospect who tore it up in the Florida State League. Watch out, he told me, for David Wright.

Okey-doke, I said, considering Richie is a reputable source (his cousin is Dave Giusti and his Little League coaching is legendary). I waited through Ty Wigginton's irrepressible Sluggo act, which wasn't altogether painful, and when Wright came up last July, he was as good as advertised. Yea, a hitter! Whereas I couldn't take the pressure of Scott Kazmir turning into Pulse or Izzy, I treasure every offensive prospect we have, knowing they are as rare in these parts as unassisted triple plays in the second game of a Sunday doubleheader. I was on hand for Wright's first hit, Wright's first Shea homer and, will swear someday, Wright's no-hitter. Yessir, this kid could do it all. Nearly threw a perfect game, too, but the ump was distracted by a plane and called ball four on one right down the middle.

Understand this doesn't let Steve Phillips off the hook for his oily, self-promoting, destroyer-of-worlds ways. 2003 was the only season in which I took pained pleasure in Met losses, all the way into July. Glavine the Brave being pelted on Opening Day was beautiful. Art Howe demonstrating himself Jean Doumanian to Bobby V's pre-mogul Lorne Michaels was managerial justice. Rey Sanchez proved a fraud as a player and a person and I giggled. I know as fans we're supposed to be glad when our worst fears don't materialize, but 2003 was an exception to the rule. I couldn't live with the idea that Steve Phillips was right to bring any of these guys on board, that Steve Phillips had earned a single extra day as GM.

If Steve Phillips is right, I'd rather live a wrongdoing life.

It wasn't until Phillips was axed and most of his collectibles were auctioned off for cents on the dollar that I could look my team in the eye and not automatically wince, blanch or shudder. Glavine and Howe I learned to live with. I had to. I had too much invested in the Mets ­ literally. Clothes, for example. If I truly gave up on the Mets, my wardrobe would be down to three random college t-shirts and an Expos cap I bought as a goof.

But Phillips' stain, despite the yeoman scrubbing by Duquette and the expensive Minaya-formula detergent applied liberally lately, remains soiled into this organization. I don't care how limited Edgardo Alfonzo's production in San Francisco has been or what a dud his contract is for them. He never should have been allowed to walk. After 2002, it was simple. I can see it now in the transactions agate of my dreams:

METS­  Decline to pick up option on 2B Roberto Alomar.

That's all. Admit Alomar and us, an intriguing proposition and one worth trying, was a mismatch. Let him walk and shift Fonzie for the final time in his career back to second where he could tutor young Jose Reyes when he was ready. Fonzie, feeling no pressure of living up to a free agent contract in San Fran, produces like he used to. Reyes is installed at short to stay. Proceed with Wiggy, then Wright at third. Richie's scouting report would have come no strings attached, not making me choose sides between past and future, because with Robber Baron gone, Fonzie and Wright play different positions. Kaz Matsui, yet another folly on ice from another wacky Wilpon winter, is never heard from. Take that money and put it toward Vlad where it belonged. And this year, maybe we've somehow replaced Piazza with LoDuca or Kendall because we're not desperate for Beltran.

Yeah, you can drive yourself to distraction with what-ifs. I've only just stopped running the John Olerud stays/Western Civilization doesn't decline scenario.

My Fonzie ardor, I have to admit, has abated somewhat. He's an opponent now, even though he shouldn't be. But he should be moving up our lifetime charts. He should own our lifetime charts. Even with his last two uninspiring years, he has 1,419 hits. Let's assume he gathered only exactly as many hits as a Met in '03 and '04 as he did as a Giant. He'd be the all-time Met hit king, one ahead of Eddie Kranepool (gawd, what a franchise). Using the same template, he'd be but 37 RBI behind Strawberry for leadership in that category. Except for homers and triples, he'd soon have everything.

It'll take a few years, but we'll cross our fingers that we follow David Wright up those charts. He's closer than you'd imagine to Met immortality. If he plays 148 games at his position in 2005, David Wright will be the No. 11 Met third baseman in terms of service at his position. Ever. He's 179 games away from being No. 6 on the list. If he stays on track and healthy (and if he doesn't, we're all screwed anyway), he will be almost indisputably the greatest third baseman the Mets have ever had by his fourth season.

Which reminds me of one of the glow jobs written on his behalf over the weekend. Adam Rubin made a fey case in the News that David Wright could have won the N.L. Rookie of the Year award when one considers how similar his and EX-MET FARMHAND TRADED BY STEVE PHILLIPS FOR STEVE REED Jason Bay's numbers were while both were in the bigs in the second half, and how a few guys (McCovey, Horner, Darryl) have won it with less than a full season under their belts.

Nice try, I thought, but irrelevant. It's a strange award anyway, as it guarantees nothing regarding future success and they don't issue corresponding awards for second-, third- and other-year players. Barry Bonds lost the ROTY to Todd Worrell in 1986. Wally Moon beat Ernie Banks and Henry Aaron in a landslide in '54. A Taste of Honey topped Elvis Costello in '78, though I think that was music.

Not that I'd throw a Rookie trophy back if it came our way. It still rankles me that Andre Dawson edged Steve Henderson in 1977. Look at the stats, prorate the ABs and remember the situation Hendu came into. Then again, Debby Boone won the Grammy as Best New Artist that year, so we know the judging of freshmen was askew all over.