A's for Atlanta
Where Coke makes its Fanta
And the Mets gift the Braves
As if they were Santa

B is for Beltran
He's not a well man
His quad's day-to-day, what can ya say?
He's probably got a good health plan

C is for Cameron
And a bat that's been hammerin'
Trotted to first, the count three and two
"W-W-What?" was what we were stammerin'

D's for Disaster
The Mets are a master
More games like last night's
We'll wind up in last, sir

E is for E-Six
On a ball that normally he picks
A tack-on run, a little less fun
Say Jose, won't you please fix?

F is for Floyd
Whom righties avoid
He's like three for a hundred
And now I'm annoyed

G is for Giles
He wipes off our smiles
Makes no meaningful outs
And homers that carry for miles

H is for Horacio
No better than Astacio
His early RBI forgotten
By the time they aired the post-game show

I is for Ishii
His control is all quichey
Egg's on his face with runners on base
He oughta try pitching in Vichy

J is for Jordan
And Brian is hoardin'
New ways to milk our misery
Like the cows who're workin' for Borden

K is for Kill
Which the Braves do at will
What happens next?
The same old thing still

L is for Lose
That's hardly news
Keep your damn grits
Would y'all pass the booze?

M is for Mink
Fields as good as we think
But at .197
His average doth stink

N is for Nearly
How we beat them -- yearly
The frequency of which
Feels familiar -- eer'ly

O is for Out
Though Wright didn't pout
Don't throw your helmet
You're entitled to shout

P's for Piazza
Career hits? He's got lotsa
In a pinch in the ninth
He crumbled like matzoh

Q is for Queens
Where the Mets make their scenes
Their home record's amazin'
Their road mark's for beans

R's for Rafael
Furcal, you can tell
Will keep tormenting the Mets
Until he rots in hell

S is for Slide
But you can't veer too wide
Break up the play -- have a nice day!
You'll watch the rest of the game from inside

T's for the Ted
Roll over, play dead
Turner Field refuses to yield
I feel this has often been said

U is for Ump
From the rulebook he'll jump
To inconsistent interference conclusions
And prove the man in blue is a hump

V's for Valent
Wonder where he went
In 2004, he was pretty darn good
His bat is apparently spent

W's for Willie
Not to blame if he's chilly
Ask him a lot why his team lost
After a while, it's you who'll feel silly

X is for X
Mets, cross out this hex
Delete these bad innings
Quit playing like wrecks

Y is for Yowl
Against the Braves I howl
I liked them much better
With Oddibe McDowell

Z's for Zambrano
Who pitches like guano
He's gonna follow Glavine
Not too soon to say "ah...no!"

So this afternoon (California time) I straggle back to my hotel room after a long day about equally divided between work and technical problems trying to prevent me from work, plop down on the bed, look at the clock and do the away-from-home math. Whoa, I think to myself, it's like 8:30 in New York. The boys are on.

A while back I'd signed up for MLB.TV as the opening gambit of a bid to evade the Cablevision blackout, a plan that happily never had to be put to a real-world test. I realize that, of course, I haven't remembered to cancel MLB.TV. Woo-hoo! Saved by my own disorganization! Time to see some baseball! And indeed, after a bit of fiddling, there's FSNY on my computer screen. It's 4-3 Braves, but with me supplying karmic power, surely that will soon change. Ain't technology from the decade of the 2000s wonderful?

And then, just as quickly, I'm looking at a still picture of Rafael Furcal frozen in mid-walk toward home plate from the on-deck circle. BUFFERING, the computer tells me. Now Furcal is standing at the plate. Then he's standing there but it seems no one is throwing a ball toward him. (Such a distinction is sometimes lost on those of us who've endured the Era of Trachsel.) Still picture. BUFFERING. Being stubborn, I start an ultimately vain battle with MLB.TV. Marcus Giles's home run makes it 7-3, but the full import of this doesn't sink in -- I'm dealing with so many technical problems that this just seems like one more. BUFFERING. TRYING TO RE-ESTABLISH CONTACT WITH SERVER. I THREW A FLAT FASTBALL AND IT GOT HIT OVER A FENCE. BUFFERING.

It's only after I give up on MLB.TV that the pilot light that burns fitfully in my brain emits a feeble glow: This game is probably on TBS, dumbass. I flip around the hotel channels and whaddya know -- there's beady-eyed Manny Aybar pitching well at garbage time. Ain't technology from the 1950s wonderful?

Only here's the thing. By now it's a bit after 6. I've only played some mild hooky at the end of a day so far, so no big whoop. But I have a dinner to go to at 7, and it can't be missed. What the hey, I'll watch the boys until 6:30 and then get ready. 6:30 turns into 6:45, and by now the game is interesting. Wright's single makes it 7-4. Then he makes an eye-popping play at third to keep me interested. Now it's the 8th, and really slightly past the time I should be heading for the lobby to meet my party, as they say in airports. But Reyes singles off some Anonybrave name of Adam Bernero, Pete Orr makes a fairly grotesque error, and we're making some noise. It's like 6:48. What the heck, I can walk fast. Mike Cameron has a long at-bat, which normally would be saluted by me but now makes me agitated. He walks. 6:51 or so. I can walk really fast sometimes. Cliff Floyd pops out, and I'd be angry, except Cliff is angrier than I am anyway. Hang with 'em, Cliff. 6:52 or so. I'll run. Or fly, or figure out how to teleport myself, but I'm not leaving, because David Wright is hotter than lava, and my favorite Met, and clearly something wonderful is about to happen. 6:53. No one is ever on time for these things -- 7:01 won't kill me. Wright walks -- see Cameron, above. 6:55. You've got to be kidding me, they're changing pitchers. Once again Bobby Cox is determined to kill me. 6:57. Mientkiewicz's in danger of falling below the Mendoza line, but I have faith. He hit .300 not so long ago. He's due. He's overdue. It gets to 2-2 and I think, This is the first pitch of the rest of your life, Minky. Jack one and send me sprinting to dinner mildly apologetic but wildly happy.

Smack! Uh-oh. That one's tailor-made. Except Wright takes out Furcal! And the ball is thrown away! That means it's 7-6! No, wait! It's 7-7! Yes! 6:59. Time to run like hell.

What the...? Hold up with that remote finger. Wright is arguing. Willie's on the field. The Braves are leaving. Oh no. No. They never call that. It can't be. Wow, Wright is furious. I've never seen Wright furious. He's out. That means it's just 7-6. Oh wait, no. It's 7-5. 7:00. I'm officially late. But what the hell? What just happened?

TBS shows the replay. I feel my fury wither into grumpiness. Wright pretty clearly deserves an interference call.

7-5. 7-5 and I'm late. I slink out the door grumbling. And when I finally get to check on things, much later, the final outcome seems preordained.