As this crazy year of yo-yoing around the mundane .500 mark has unfolded, I've blamed a lot of people. Carlos Beltran for feeling the pressure. Jose Reyes for not getting on base enough. Kaz Matsui and Miguel Cairo for being useless. Mike Piazza for daring to get old. Victor Diaz for being dopey. Victor Zambrano for being maddening. Tom Glavine for being stubborn. Kaz Ishii for being bad. Braden Looper for being...no, I can't talk about Braden Looper right now. Heath Bell for being absent. Dae-Sung Koo, Danny Graves, Jose Offerman and Gerald Williams for being present. Willie Randolph for being overly loyal, bizarre about lineups and weird about tactics. Omar Minaya for being deficient at day-to-day roster management. Shea Stadium for being junky. The West Coast for being far away. The Cardinals, Braves and others for being better than us.

But as the drain gurgles flatulently on our wild-card hopes, I realize it isn't the fault of any of these variously esteemed entities. In fact, it's my fault. If the Mets are Antaeus, I'm the earth they need to be in contact with, or something like that. (Sorry. Ma done raised me on Greek myths. Made me turn out funny.)

Consider: On May 22 I got on an airplane for the West Coast, fuming that I wouldn't get to see Pedro try and demonstrate the truth about his parentage to the Yankees. I landed to find we'd lost that game in horrifying fashion. Then we got swept at Turner Field while I fumbled with hotel wireless connections and MLB.TV in San Diego and San Francisco. I returned home on May 26, seeing Rusty Staub in the San Francisco airport on the way, and watched happily as we bludgeoned the Marlins, 12-4. Record for my time out of state: 0-4.

On July 8 I got in a rented truck with a bunch of furniture and miscellaneous crapola and drove to Maine, picking up the beginnings of our game against the Pirates through static as the sun started to go down behind the pines in the Mosquito State. That night Braden Looper lost in horrifying fashion; we got pounded the next, then rebounded to salvage the finale before the All-Star Break arrived. I returned on the 13th; the next night we got the second half rolling by beating the Braves, with Mike Piazza showing Blaine Boyer that the old man's bat still had some blasts in it. Record for my time out of state: 1-2.

Early in the Maine trip you begged me to return, even kindly offered to trot black bears and what-not by for that Maine feeling. Did I listen? No -- on Sept. 3 I bundled Emily and Joshua into the rental car and we headed down to Long Beach Island for idyllic weather and horrible baseball. We've covered this of late, so let's just skip to.... Record for my time out of state: 1-6.

Total record when I'm outside the Empire State: 2-12.

So anyway, now that it's too late, I'm back and apologetic. But just in case we do have a late run in us, some bad news: I'm heading down to D.C. for Sept. 24-25. That final nail in the coffin, if for some reason it's still needed? Taken care of.

Turner Field may be a toxic dump for our hopes and dreams, but I don't see where Busch Stadium is a much healthier place for Mets and other living things.

We just lost our tenth consecutive game there dating back to 2002. Though it's generally accepted that it was the Diamondbacks who buried the shiv irretrievably deep into our backs that August, the Mets actually went on the road after being swept by Arizona and took two of three from Milwaukee. Then it was off to St. Louis. Al Leiter, David Weathers and Armando Benitez teamed for a five-hitter and beat the Cards 2-1 to put our record at 58-57, 6-1/2 out of the Wild Card. Not much, but not terrible.

It all ended the next day. Bobby V came down with a case of the geniuses and fell in love with Marco Scutaro. He pinch-hit Marco for Burnitz in the fifth (against Mike Matthews) and the Scoot struck out. Then, despite a resume that would indicate it wasn't a good idea, Bobby stood him out in left. It wasn't like matching some horse show guy with federal emergency management, but it wasn't a great fit. Let's just say the ball found Marco Scutaro. The Mets lost 5-4 on his misplay and they never looked back. Or up.

When asked why he stuck Marco Scutaro in harm's way, sending him to a position with which he was unfamiliar, particularly on a Major League field, Bobby answered something along the lines of "they told me he could play there."

Newsday told me the Mets could play at Busch Stadium. According to my homeisland paper, the Mets will come away from the soon-to-be-demolished edifice with a barely winning all-time record. Ya could knocked me over with an automatic tarp roller. Whenever I scan the media guide, the Mets seem to have a mark of about 150 games under against every established National League franchise. But we must've beaten somebody somewhere along the way. It surely hasn't been at Turner Field, so maybe we have had some good times at Busch.

As I fancy myself a ballpark buff (please don't tell us how you've been to 29 stadiums again) and I have been to 29 stadiums, I should be getting a little misty or at least reflective over the impending implosion. If I am, it has little to do with what the Mets have done there.

They played those intense series in '85 and '87.
They swept that pivotal four-game set in April '86.
They won the first two games of the NLCS in 2000.
And, during the eras encompassing those accomplishments, they were called pond scum by those great St. Louis fans. I've always been proud that the Mets managed to raise the ire of such gentle folk not once but twice.

Of course there were other scattered moments of pain and glory that I could call on, but I'd rather shift my focus to -- surprise! -- myself.

I've been to Busch twice. Saw one game as part of a trade-media junket to the headquarters of the brewery that used to own the team. The stadium was unremarkable and the seats, given that we were guests of the Anheuser empire, were more so. We were handed red Cardinal caps gratis. I had a hard time putting mine on and not because my head is abnormally big (though it is). Like any Mets fan who had been sentient in 1985, I carried residual resentment of everything Cardinal, from the beer to the bird to the Bucks. This was 1992. The Mets-Cardinals rivalry was as hot as the one between the U.S. and Sweden. But I sighed and wore it. They were playing the Pirates, and the Mets were, for another week or so, chasing Pittsburgh, so, uh, go Cardinals. (Bucs won in 13; Bonds made a sensational sliding catch.)

Several months later, a nor'easter blew through our little town. When Stephanie and I went outside to inspect the damage, I felt I should wear a hat, but not one that I cared about. I wore the Cardinals cap. It was, in the end, good for something.

Been to Busch twice, but only saw one game? That's right. The other time was a little more special. It was the very first time I ever set foot on a Major League field. Yeah, it was carpet ('95, the last year before grass) and no, it wasn't Shea and, shucks, I wasn't drunk and avoiding cops, but it was a goose-bumpy moment nonetheless. I was in St. Louis for the only reason I would ever be in St. Louis, to see somebody at the brewery, and I had some time to kill between my meeting and my flight. My host told me they give tours at Busch Stadium, you should go.

So I went. It was pretty freaking cool. They showed us a lot. We got to sit in the press box where I attempted to write LET'S GO METS on the countertop but it was made of some impenetrable material. And then they brought us downstairs to the field. This was during the post-strike spring training, in April. No game but lots of preparation. The grounds crew kept us from straying too far. Whatever the tour guide told us was lost on me. My stare was fixed on right field where Gary Carter's fly didn't drop in front of Andy Van Slyke a decade earlier. I resisted the temptation to run out the very spot and spit.

The only souvenir I want from the joint is a W this weekend. Let The World's Greatest Fans remember that once upon a time we were worthy of being jealously derided as pond scum.

As opposed to playing like it.