Sometimes it just ain't happening. It's not so much that you're playing badly, but you're certainly not playing well. You're just playing, the other guy's getting the breaks, and you're going to lose. This one was practically a sand-in-the-gears roll call:

* Jason Lane's nice catch off Marlon Anderson denies us two more runs in the first.

* Another stupid bunt in the second. Zambrano's a converted shortstop and a good enough hitter to swing away there. Giving up an out just to move Matsui to second wasn't worth it. Of course Reyes then promptly strikes out.

* Floyd gets a bad read on Biggio's long but catchable fly, which goes just over his glove to tie the game.

* Beltran, Floyd and Castro all strike out after Cameron's at second with nobody out.

* The Astros take the lead after Wright makes a nice play but can't quite get Ensberg at first -- on a ball Ensberg hit one-handed after the ump refused to let him call time. (For Pete's sake....)

* Dan Wheeler, a bad pitcher for us last year, manages to walk Matsui but then looks like an awfully good pitcher against Woodward, getting him on an evil breaking ball. With Lidge waiting in the bullpen, that was the ballgame.

Nothing in that list is truly awful in a lie-awake-at-3-am-fuming sort of way -- it's plays not quite made, plays and pitches made by them, that sort of thing. But it's a loss nonetheless, on a night when the Nationals, Phillies and Marlins all won.

Speaking of roll calls, the morons in the bleachers who called out the names of the Met starters the way the Yankee Bleacher Creatures do better be on a plane to Gitmo as I type. I have to (grudgingly) admit the Yankee roll call is fairly cool, but that doesn't mean I want to hear it in my park. Particularly not emanating from that sad construction we call bleachers. There's nothing wrong with hiring a Yankee coach or signing a Yankee second baseman -- the coach grew up a Met fan and played for us, after all, and the second baseman was a smart addition and seems to have shed the stink of brimstone. But you can't bite the other team in town's rituals. You just can't. How is this not incredibly obvious to any right-thinking Met fan? What were those people thinking? Let us never speak of this again.

It will be a big deal when it happens. Of course it will be. I could tell that by they way my heart had lodged itself in my throat by the seventh.

But sometimes I wonder why a pitcher winning a complete game in which he happens to allow nobody to record a base hit is such a big deal.

Because it's a no-hitter, stupid. And we've never had one.

Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm as haunted by it as any of us. I'm on it after the first pitch of the game is a strike. My highway's jammed with broken pitchers on a last-chance hitless drive. I'm certain it would instantly become a thrill on the order of our two world championships if it ever happens.

But why?

Because it's a no-hitter, stupid. And we've never had one.

I understand that. I understand how we've become -- on a smaller, less tragic, more trivial scale -- identified with not throwing a no-hitter the way the Red Sox were identified with not winning a World Series or the Cubs are identified with not winning a pennant. I understand, too, the taunting irony of all our great pitchers not throwing no-hitters for us but throwing no-hitters somewhere else. I understand Nolan Ryan and all he symbolizes. I understand that it's a gaping void in our history and that it would ease our pain to fill it.

But why?

Because it's a no-hitter, stupid. And we've never had one.

The idea is to win games. Advancement in the standings is never awarded by what's in the second column at the end of the line score. It's all about the R, baby, the runs. Every game we've ever won has included at least one base hit by the other team. I didn't throw a single one of those wins back.

Disappointed at times? Sure. I was raised (or raised myself) on the tale of Jimmy Qualls. Shea Stadium. Every seat taken. Fans planting themselves in the aisles. But everybody's standing. Twenty-five Cubs up, twenty-five Cubs down. The whole world aligning as it should. The Mets are on their way. And Tom Seaver is about to throw not just a no-hitter, but a perfect game.

Then Jiminy Who'zits, playing only because Don Young couldn't handle two fly balls the day before (not that anyone minded that), dumps one in between Cleon and Tommie. No perfect game. No no-hitter.

Seaver was disappointed. Who wouldn't be? But at all of 24 years old, he figured it out. When he saw Nancy, her eyes red, swollen with tears, he asked, "what are you crying for? We won 4-0."

Nancy perked up and smiled: "I guess a one-hit shutout is better than nothing."

I read that exchange when I was eight years old in a book called -- get this -- The Perfect Game. Ghosted by Dick Schaap, it's the story of the most important game of Tom Terrific's young life...

Game 4 of the 1969 World Series.

That was Tom Seaver's perfect game. At least that's what he said in the book and why would Tom Seaver have lied to me when I was eight? The Astros, it was noted by the greatest broadcasters in baseball Tuesday night, have a passel of no-hitters to their credit (including that way cool gang-blank of the Yankees in 2003) but would likely trade in the whole lot of them for what the Mets have:

1969.
1973.
1986.
2000.

Given a choice, I guess I would take four pennants, two world championships and zero no-hitters over the Astro alternative. But why have to choose? Why can't we have it all just once?

I'm beginning to believe we have a real chance to inscribe 2005 above the right-field wall and that we won't ever get a no-hitter. On a scale of One to Qualls, Pedro's certainty factor was hovering between Chin-hui Tsao and Benny DiStefano. His breaking ball was so sharp. His command was so absolute. The Houstons were so overmatched. I did the Times crossword during the fifth and sixth (must find something to do so as to act as if nothing unusual is going on) and could feel his adrenaline coursing through my pen while 26 Across -- stuffed headrests -- became DOWNPILLOWS; 33 Across -- stuffed appetizers -- became MUSHROOMS; and 49 Across -- stuffed polling receptacles -- became BALLOTBOXES.

All the clues said 45 on the mound had great stuff.

When Chris Burke did what he did, the no-hitter became evitable and that, I suppose, was inevitable. Houston had a hit and a run. We had ten hits and two runs. Now it was the game I was worried about. Well, not that worried. We still had Pedro. They were still the Astros. But we hadn't gotten to four games over all year and the Nationals were winning and life's priorities were coming back into focus.

So when we added a run and Pedro yielded nothing else of substance and we came away with the victory, it had been a wonderful night. If my eyes were red or swollen with tears, it was just the antihistamine talking. Winning's what matters. The no-hitter can wait.

But why?

"It's kind of a culmination of thoughts. First, it's just the gratification of knowing you hit the ball well. Then, you realize that you broke up a no-hitter and it's your first homer and it's off Pedro Martinez. When I got into the dugout, I really kind of had to sit down for a second."
-- Chris Burke

Tonight's culmination of thoughts: The flirtation with the no-hitter was nice, though we've become pretty used to disappointment on that score over the decades. But that's OK. After all, we got the electric stuff, we got the base hit to help his own cause, we got his awareness of the crowd and acceptance of it and eagerness to let it take him and bear him up to an even higher level, and we got the four strikeouts to finish the thing just when we were thinking dark thoughts about Grady Little and 100 pitches and Looper's failings. Silly us for worrying. That impossibly surgical fastball on the inside edge that ate Orlando Palmeiro alive in the ninth? It was a thing of almost terrible beauty,a piece of kinetic art to be gawped at, to leave you shaking your head in mute amazement.

Yep, young Mister Burke, he makes us feel like we have to sit down for a bit too.