Here's a memory for the Old Perfesser that seems all too appropriate: Once upon a time you warned of Ron Swoboda, shortly after he was seen hopping up and down in the Met dugout trying to get a stomped-on helmet off his spikes, "He thinks he's being unlucky, but he's gonna be unlucky his whole life if he don't change."

We're 0-5. Oh and five. I mean, for fuck's sake. The realists among us didn't think we'd win 90 games, but 81-81 seemed like a gimme, with a wild card an if-everything-goes-right hope. Tonight,  0-6 and coming back to Shea to a blast furnace of boos seems probable. And after that, who knows? We could go 157-5, but that's clearly impossible. But I bet if you tweaked OTB's offerings you'd find more than a few paranoid, battered, terrified Met fans who wouldn't put any money on us going 1-161. This is a fan base hiding under its collective bed. Not exactly what we had in mind with the "New Mets."

I'm trying to be rational about this. The way I see it, a baseball team is a beast that fires on, let's say, six cylinders. (No, I'm not gonna name the cylinders. This is just for argument's sake, and anyway I'm drunk.) Teams firing on five or six are unbeatable; teams firing on four win more often than not; teams firing on three are .500 squads. You can win by firing on two or even once in a great while on one (think of the aforementioned Rocky Swoboda beating Steve Carlton with two homers on a night Lefty struck everybody else out), but it's damned difficult to do. And when multiple cylinders are busted and trailing smoke, it's hard to do much of anything.

Which brings us to our not-so-amazing Mets. None of our cylinders is trailing smoke -- in fact, all have looked like they're in impressive shape at various points in this young season. Sometimes we've even brought a number of 'em online at the same time. But we've also managed to find that exact combination of missing cylinders to ensure a loss, and we've done so day in and day out. Bad relief, bad defense, double plays, lame offense, bad calls, mental lapses. Never all at once, so you turn off the radio with an annoyed snap in the third inning and try to salvage your night, but enough of them to ensure we lose every time out.

That's bad luck. Every baseball instinct I've honed over nearly two decades of watching this game too often tells me it's that and nothing more. Bad luck that's been cruelly magnified by coming at the beginning of a season, but bad luck all the same. But despite the fact that I worship at the altar of stats, baseball remains a game played by people, and people are subject to any number of forces, including some that exist nowhere except in their own heads. Which leads me reluctantly to ask, "Hey Case -- you saw a game or two in your day. Where does bad luck stop and bad karma begin?"

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.