If you win twenty in the Show, you can let the fungus grow back on your shower shoes and the press'll think you're colorful. Until you win twenty in The Show, however, it means you're a slob.
--Crash Davis

Thirteen of Beltran's seventeen RBIs have come in games started by Martinez. Wait 'til the Los Mets conspiracy theorists gnaw on that one.

Your long lost Fran Healy saluted the New York baseball fans for their knowledge of the game when Jose approached his unfinished four-ball symphony. It was an unknowing echo of Bob Murphy's long-retired line about the most knowledgeable baseball fans being right here in our town (at our place). That was also back in the day when Bob, Lindsey and Ralph cast a skewed tone toward cities like Houston that ordered their patrons to clap and make noise. We never had to be told that.

It was a long time ago.

I'll admit the bases-on-balls...not-so-fast-there bit was cute, but to be a wet blanket on a damp night, why is it funny that we have a leadoff hitter who can't draw a walk? It's reached absurd proportions, and we have a rich tradition as Team Surreal, but geez, be professionals. At 15-1, OK, maybe. But at 5-1, it's not like these were gimme plate appearances. Any opponent that brings Burrell, Abreu and Thome (in whatever shape he's in) to the ballpark is not to be trifled with. Ya wanna walk? Walk already.

If I haven't made it clear, Jose Reyes is my favorite Met. I love the kid. I have faith in him. The four hits and his baserunning derring-do and his hard liner on the last pitch he saw speaks to a night that should be beyond reproach. He's a serious player. He's not Rey Ordoñez hitting an annual dinger and getting the silly silent treatment. So why come down with the giggles for even a pitch? He's too good for that.

Kill me now, but I'm going to quote Bleepin' Joe DiMaggio for saying he went all out all the time because there was always somebody who hadn't seen him play before. Kill me again for citing Pete Rose and his obsession with turning a four-hit night into a five-hit night. And absolutely put me on a bus to New Mexico for this one, but the single thing a certain weasely shortstop in the other league does that I cannot find a way to mock or despise is run out every two-bit grounder because you never know how far you'll get if you run hard.

It is told of another beauty, Ty Cobb, that a young pitcher struck him out three times one afternoon. A teammate asked the hurler if he remembered what he got the great hitter out with. "Nah, why should I?" the cocky kid said. Because, came the reply, Cobb will, and he'll never swing at that stuff again.

DiMaggio...Rose...Jeter...Cobb...they're all disgusting, so never mind them. Think about Gil Hodges instead.

Gil Hodges wouldn't have found any humor in not competing to the fullest of one's ability. Half these Mets would be leaving a crisp c-note on The Man's desk every other day for violating some rule or another. If Gil Hodges wasn't who he was and didn't manage like he did, 1969 would be just some year that somebody walked on the moon. Heck, even the teams run by the notoriously loose-shipped Davey Johnson kept their antics confined to rally caps, masks and hotfeet on the bench while the games were in progress.

The 2005 Mets are fun but they're also .500. They'll be less irritating and more colorful once they start winning more than they lose. They've yet to prove they can do that and until they do, they should take no liberties. Willie should worry more about how they play than how they look.

This is a very appealing ballclub we've got. Part of its charm is its inherent goofiness. But they're also reasonably close to being a truly good club. Don't lose your chance to move on up toward your destination. Play hard and play smart, fellas. Give the rain-delayed minyan that stuck around until close to midnight its bronze-ticket money's worth.

New rules:
* Pitchers, you get a turn at bat. Use it like it matters. Leiter's gone; everybody else has to swing like a man.
* Everybody stop patting Piazza on the head every time he throws out a runner. He'll think it's the eve of a national holiday...especially if it's the night before Pedro pitches.
* Matsui -- you're allowed more than one base if the placement of the ball dictates your advancement from first. You could look it up.
* It's ninety feet between bases. All of you, pretend you're getting paid to run the full distance.
* Winning isn't everything, but it is the most fun you can have on a baseball field. It's even more fun than not walking.

Tonight's game was one of those contests with a crowd that heartily deserved a reward: Anytime a bunch of people have to hang around two extra hours in 45-degree weather, there's nobody left but the diehards by the time the grounds crew pulls the tarp. And it certainly sounded that way: The crowd pointedly but good-naturedly chanting "WALK! WALK! WALK! WALK!" when Reyes looked at ball three is one of the funnier things I've heard in some time. Go on, tell me they do that in any other baseball town. I refuse to believe it. I can only hope Fran was in full cry about the electricity at Shea -- tonight I wouldn't even have made fun of him.

All those hardy crazies got a good one: This was one of those neatly scripted little thrillers that may not be remembered next year or even come September, but is the kind of game baseball fans deeply appreciate on any night on the calendar (and appreciate somewhat more shallowly should they wind up on the short end of things).

Continuing storylines? Intrigue? Take your pick:

* Beltran's theatrically timed rescue of Pedro from No Decision Land, courtesy of the three-run homer -- note that Pedro departed having thrown exactly 100 pitches, which must have had some Red Sox fans out there revisiting the urge to scrape something dead off the street and FedEx it to Grady Little;
* Clifford's stuntman catch and delivered-with-an-exclamation-point notice that yes, he was going to extend that hitting streak;
* another masterful night for Pedro, cool as the other side of the pillow in dissecting an NL lineup;
* Reyes pulling a Lance Johnson to silence all the OBP nuts in Met Land for a night (and only a night, since it's awful hard to go 4-for-5 162 times);
* the continuing struggles of Victor Diaz, with Mike Cameron's footfalls now audible;
* Personalcatchergate continues -- by Memorial Day Willie's going to have to start reusing reasons that Mike not catching Pedro is a coincidence; and
* the latest chapter in The Enigma of Kaz Matsui, one of very few men to drive in a man from first and end the play on first himself. That took doing, Kaz. Please don't do it again.

Much as it's a delight to watch (OK, hear) Reyes frisking around Shea ("Whoo! Look at the spring in his step as he waves at that 1-2 outside slider!"), it makes me happier to hear a healthy Cliff Floyd. Yep, this is indeed the player we feared when he was the Man of Teal. His body is finally doing what he tells it to do without a lot of 15-day backtalk, and what he's telling that body to do is carry this baseball team through Beltran's adjustment and Piazza's last hurrah and Wright's sophomore season and Kaz's growing pains and Victor and Reyes learning on the job. Who knows how long all Cliff's parts will hold together (sound of frantic wood knocking, salt whistling over shoulders and what-not) -- while they do, you can practically hear his delight at just being able to play all-out again.

Truth be told, I think most of us wrote off Floyd sometime in the middle of last year: We admired his gutting it out and appreciated his blunt take on things, but had quietly abandoned the idea that he'd ever again be more than a gritty third-tier player. That's one of the nice things about being a habitually pessimistic Met fan: It sure is wonderful being wrong.