If the Mets were in the National League West, they'd be a half-game out of first. And the commute home would be a bitch, so never mind. But we just did a pretty neat job of sweeping a first-place team on the back of the most foreboding pitching matchup since Heilman vs. Beckett.

This game of baseball -- one never knows, do one? A blowout in your back pocket before three o'clock in the afternoon...at the expense of an All-Star starting pitcher, no less. It was a bad day for assumptions. It was a good day for the previously damned.

Ishii lives! (But if he misses the plane to Denver, that wouldn't be the worst thing in the world.) Willie suggested Kaz got the start because he's had some success against the San Diegoites in the past. You mean that studying precedents and planning around them actually works?

Benito Santiago has abandoned his Norfolk post knowing that the backup catching juggernaut known as Ramon Castro is powerful and unyielding. He could use a blow, though. Maybe Piazza can fill in for Ramon for the next four days.

Ted Robinson told a sweet story about how a righteous Gerald Williams stood up for a callow Bernie Williams against a taunting Mel Hall in a tense clubhouse situation long ago. His "great teammate" attributes continue to trump his "washed-up" qualities where Willie (who witnessed the aforementioned morality play) is concerned. If the GW bridges some unseen gap between Mets and makes 12-0 wins possible, then I will cease mocking him as the human white flag of surrender. Until we lose four in a row.

The heretofore rusty Doug Mientkiewicz got well against some chump named Peavy...oh crap, we play them out there next month and I just provided him with bulletin board material. Go take it out on the Phillies, Padres. Then forget about us.

Thus unfurls the complexity of a league full of competitors. Today's enemy is tomorrow's ally. I have just rooted home Odalis Perez and the Dodgers in Philadelphia so we could touch down in third for the night. By the time the 5 o'clock whistle blows on Friday (and everybody's working for the weekend), Los Angelinos will be the objects of our disaffection. And, yes, we'll need those can't-dress-themselves Friars to cook on our behalf.

You stay classy, San Diego. And thanks for stopping by.

I know, I know, from Throwing in the Towel to Too Excited. But I want this game.

Oh, it'll be tough to do: Kaz Ishii vs. Jake Peavy isn't the kind of matchup that sends you running to Vegas. And hey, it's not out-on-a-ledge time if we take two out of three instead of sweeping. But this team is playing well and about to play a patchwork Dodgers team before starting five weeks of crazy yo-yo-ing back and forth across the country. We don't need this game, but in six or seven weeks it could stand out as a game we sure wish we'd had. It's not quite time to say all-in or go home, but it's getting there, and this is an excellent chance to get off the .500 treadmill and aim at a bad stretch of road with some momentum.

But OK, enough. No need to anger the baseball gods. Games are reduced to plays are reduced to pitches. So here we go, Mets: This pitch. There's gonna be about 290 of them, but they'll come one at a time. So let's take 'em that way.

Kaz Ishii and those who follow him, what are you trying to do with this pitch? What are you gonna throw? Where are you going to throw it? What's the purpose of it in approaching this hitter?

David Wright and everyone else in the field, are you positioned properly for this pitch? If the ball comes to you, what are you doing with it? If it doesn't come to you, what are your responsibilities?

Carlos Beltran and everyone else walking to home plate, what's your goal on this pitch? What's the count? What's Peavy got? What's he thrown you in this at-bat? In previous at-bats? What will the runner (or, hopefully, runners) be doing? What do you need to do with the bat?

Focus on this pitch. Then do it again until there are no more. Let's go. Let's get this game.

The Mets are playing the way they're supposed to and have won three in a row. They're two games over .500, a half-game out of third, five from the Wild Card, 5-1/2 away from first.

To reluctantly paraphrase a Yankees fan overheard in the upper deck six years ago who was desperate to downplay the significance of what Matt Franco had just done to Mariano Rivera, t'row a pahty -- the Mets are in fourth place.

It's all very nice, but I won't be wondering who let the dogs out for at least a little while. Excellent game, don't get me wrong. The Mets are warming up and the weather at Shea, like its primary tenant, proved bearably hot. Good stuff. But Dr. Freud would caution us that sometimes a three-game winning streak is just a three-game winning streak. Let's make it four before breaking down the Doors.

'Twas another Six-Pack night, a fantastic merchandising gimmick. Without them having been slipped in among the Braves, Yankees and Home Opener, I can't imagine 31,000-plus would've shown up at the end of a 90-degree day to watch the Padres no matter what the standings say about them. I wouldn't have gone out of my way for San Diego. Six-Pack partner and FAFIF Comments doyenne Laurie surely wouldn't have. "What am I doing here?" she asked after attacking...

• the Padres as worthless adversaries and human beings
• the pukey Padre road togs as something out of a diaper
• our various Section 9 neighbors for their steady, two-fisted support of your local Anheuser-Busch brewery (indeed, we were a sober sandwich between two slices of drunk)
• the guy in the next row who last week thought Jose Offerman was Marlon Anderson
• the heat
• the humidity
• the tobacco industry's clientele
• and the Texas Rangers

All valid targets. I was impressed.

"You're a one-woman show."
"That's not a compliment, is it?"
"Sure it is."

We had fun. We had seven runs of fun. We should've had eight. That balk business was loopy. Jose dancing off third was something out of the Bobby V playbook, which made me slightly misty for (everybody, all at once) Steve Bieser. Whenever a dispute with an umpire gains steam, I grab for my radio. By the time I untangle the earbud cord, Gary is halfway through explaining all that went wrong. Then I parrot it like I really heard everything he said and really understand what I'm talking about.

"Meriweather made a horrible call! You can't reverse a balk! You can't consult on a balk! You can't argue a balk! Bochy should be thrown out! C'mon Willie! C'mon Jose! Fight! Fight!"

Honestly, I had no idea, but Gary Cohen is my rabbi. I would rely on him to interpret the Talmud if I had any desire to know anything about that austere document. I just know that a Mets run disappeared without the Padres doing anything to erase it. Somebody should've paid dearly. I'd wanted Glavine to dust the first Padre hitter he saw. What that had to do with Chuck Meriweather is still not apparent to me, but it was kind of warm and all I was drinking was water.

Which reminds me...concession tip for non-Friday night/non-Saturday afternoon games: the Kosher hot dog stand beats Nathan's hands down. I have the most gruesome ketchup-mustard stain to prove it. The creepy Jews For Jesus pamphlets (which include a New York Baseball Trivia Quiz chock full of misspellings) that have been handed out of late by earnest zombie types -- the ones not hawking credit card applications -- on the 7 extension can be used to soak up your dripping condiments.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Glavine didn't hit anybody but the Padres didn't do much to Glavine. Maybe he's an older version of Barry Zito at this point of the season, a good pitcher who has found a way around whatever was bothering him. I'd hate to show Glavine that much appreciation except he is here and is wearing whatever combination of shirt and cap that marks him a Met. We're paying him, he may as well earn it.

Juan Padilla may just turn out to be this year's Bartolome Fortunato. Bartolome Fortunato turned out to be last year's Jose Parra when Jose Parra couldn't handle the pressure of being Jose Parra for very long.

Hence, the Pythagorean Theory of middle relief suggests Juan Padilla may already be Jose Parra. As long as nobody's DeJean, we'll be fine.

Carlos Beltran has gotten it through his head that he wasn't playing behind Tom Glavine Wednesday night. He was playing behind Pedro Glavine. Thursday's starter is Pedro Ishii, followed by Pedro Zambrano. Whatever it takes, CB. Whatever it takes.

And dear old Mike, driving in three runs, homering and answering another cry of "Encore! Encore!" It seems to have dawned on everybody all at once that Piazza is a dish likely served not at all next year, so he's getting a hero's reception every time he shows the back of his head. (Laurie didn't mind Heilman's extended stint of relief because, she let on, where there's crouching Mike, there's hidden pleasure.) Surely grateful Mets fans will continue to shower their all-time great with the love and respect he deserves for the rest of the season.

Until he grounds into a couple of double plays. I think they'll give him a pass on the first one. But he'll hear it once he fails twice. That's love and respect Shea Stadium-style in 2005.

I'm not sure it's rising (let alone risin'), but at the very least it's fluttering suggestively.

Reyes was so good tonight they had to give one of his runs back. Carlos showed more signs that quad is finally just another muscle. Floyd bashed and ran and did all manner of good things, Wright played some sparkling defense and Piazza once again looked like a mountain of pressure has been taken off his shoulders in the #6 hole.

And then there's TMB. Some of my anger at Glavine's failings this year has been due to my assessment -- no doubt highly accurate through a TV screen -- of why he's been failing. It's been hard to blame Kaz Ishii for screwing up because watching him you got the feeling he couldn't change, and being mad at Kaz Ishii for being Kaz Ishii seems kind of pointless. Watching Glavine, though, was different: I got the feeling he wouldn't change, and that was getting pretty close to unforgiveable, considering how poor the results were as Glavine hunted for the outer edge of an expanded plate that no longer existed, then gave in and threw mushy fastballs on hitter's counts. But not since that debacle in Seattle, and particularly not during his last two starts -- he consistently pitched inside against the Braves last time out, showed some guts, and deserved better. This time he did the same -- pitched inside, mixed in curveballs, and received better. (Sure, he wilted early, but that's eminently forgiveable. It's beastly out.) Bravo, Tommy. We might just come to like you yet.

Apologies for the '99 reference. If I ever work the Baha Men into this blog (and no, that doesn't count), feel free to put a price on my head.