Well, rats.

It's a funny game -- you go from marveling at being behind in exactly two innings to wondering how on earth the team got beat by the likes of Tomo Ohka. Stifled, in fact. Well, so it goes. I'll take 8-2 for the next 10 games with nary a complaint. Meanwhile, some thoughts:

* Does Jorge Julio have options? I'm not ready to run him out of town on a rail or moan that I would have preferred more time in the lukewarm bath that was Kris Benson, not with what the radar gun shows on Julio's fastball. But he's obviously all kinds of messed up and he's equally obviously a sensitive sort. The fans were booing him during Opening Day introductions (which was ridiculous, but too late for that) and Julio doesn't look like the kind of player who can keep that from getting into his head and doing all sorts of damage.

* Speaking of booing, the Carlos Beltran nastiness seems to be behind us. A week ago the stadium would have been deafening after he let that weird little dunker from Prince Fielder fall in front of him. Today the fans shrugged it off. Who says New Yorkers can't let bygones be bygones now and again?

* What exactly does Jose Valentin bring to the table? I know you're supposed to give a player 40 games before making judgments, but that can't apply to pinch-hitters. Valentin has shown absolutely nothing.

* Still, Valentin might stick around given Victor Diaz's continuing fits of dopiness, like that awful misplay last night. The way Willie looked at Diaz from the dugout, I wouldn't have been entirely surprise to see Victor immediately turn to stone. Something tells me he'll be looking at the real-estate listings for coastal Virginia before too terribly long.

* On the flip side, the chiding finger wag Delgado gave Wright after his poor throw last night was priceless, particularly with that million-watt smile of his.

* Gary Cohen gets unconditional love from me, but some SNY producer should talk to him about those shots of the booth. Every time we get one there's Gary staring at Darling or Keith like he's Superman using his X-ray vision, then turning that same laser-beam look into the camera. Frankly, it's a little creepy. Gary! Relax! You're among friends!

* Speaking of SNY, why do I have to look at Derek Fucking Jeter every half-inning? If he's not hitting against Josh Beckett in a videogame, he's trying to sell me a Ford or showing me around his "crib" or just smirking about something or other. I thought the whole idea of our network was less looking at DFJ. Instead, I probably see him for more minutes per game than Cliff Floyd. Enough. I hearby announce my boycott of all products using His Smugness as their spokestool. *

I'm gonna quit before this gets all Larry King. Ben Sheets tomorrow. Ulp.

* Since I don't play console games or have a car, I'll grant this is completely symbolic.

Good morning, fellow fans of the best team in baseball. Our winning streak is extended to seven, our co-best start in franchise history remains intact and so does our four-game lead over the second-place team — five in the all-important loss column, a queue I thought we might wind up visiting after vintage Glavine gave way to shaky Aaron, but, as mentioned previously during this most pleasant skein, it's a team effort. There will be nights when it's Heilman picking up the starting pitcher, just as it was the formerly unlikable starter who gave the generally dependable bullpen a wide enough berth to stumble but not falter.

A fella could get used to this kind of sameness. On this count, I won't be careful what I wish for. You know that Twilight Zone episode in which the small-time crook dies and thinks he's gone to heaven because he's receiving everything he's ever dreamed of — and receiving it with no exertion of effort — and he tells his celestial guide, played by Sebastian Cabot, that he's bored with it and he wants to go to the "other place," and Sebastian Cabot cackles and tells him, "This IS the other place!"?

Well this ain't that. This is pretty sweet. 8-1 feels about as ideal as could be and an immediate-future template on which I will gladly sign off. No complaints, Mr. French. No jadedness here, not with the likes of Carlos Lee looming for at least another eight at-bats this weekend. As the sun shines over Metsopotamia and I prepare for my second try at my first game at Shea, I say carry on, Mets, carry on.

The standings say we're 8-1, but I'm thinking we're riding a 20-5 wave. No, that's not a projection, but what the Mets have compiled dating back to last September 16. What am I, some kind of Jimmy Rollins advocate? Have I lost my sense of direction? Don't I know that when one season ends, it ends and that we start fresh?

Yes, I do know that. But it strikes me that the way Willie's Mets didn't quit at the end of 2005, after they initially collapsed, may have carried over at least a little. True, some of the heroes of the Great Salvation — Jakey, Bert, Piazza, Padilla — are no longer a part of it all, but I think the culture carryover is genuine. You may dimly recall that the Mets were rocking through the Wild Card race when they essentially stopped playing ball at the end of August, spiraling into a dreary and familiar 3-15 disappearing act. Just when it seemed like a case of Howe We Doin' was in full effect, they turned themselves around and finished 12-4.

It could just as easily be attributed to picking up uncontested points in garbage time, but I don't think so. Randolph instilled a blend of professionalism and expectations throughout 2005 and his team never quite reflected it until those final two weeks when they seemed to play like the slogan said. Next year was finally now, albeit better better late than never. Remember, they were beating the Marlins and the Phillies who desperately needed those games, sweeping the Nationals on the road who had just embarrassed us at home and taking a couple from the Braves, which is never a bad habit to get into.

It's the first season in quite a while when the Mets aren't trying to erase some predecessor humiliation, and I don't think it's a coincidence that the results have been positive. The highly touted imports aren't saddled with the burden of changing the atmosphere and the holdovers have are benefiting from persevering through the growing pains of 2005.

Except for David Wright, who dared to strike out Friday night for the first time all season. Tsk, tsk, don't let that happen again, young man.

Congratulations to our heretofore Snigh-deprived readers in Western Connecticut whose cable provider, Charter Communications, has gotten with the program and added the most important network in the world to their suddenly vital television machines. In particular, I'm happy for my friend Larry who badgered customer service representative "Jim" for a reported half-hour last week until "Jim" hung up in tears. "Just give this guy his Mets games already! I can't take another phone call like that!"

Like the 2006 Mets, whatever it takes, folks, whatever it takes.