Well, this one was over the moment the $3 million arm and 10-cent psyche of Victor Zambrano shuffled to the mound (though Pedro Feliciano gets the Ashburn award for valiant service in a hopeless cause), leaving me with less-weighty matters to ponder.

Like this: What the fuck is up with this new song?

If you haven't heard it, and you're not operating heavy machinery and don't have a pacemaker, the New York Observer has the bads. Never before has 74 seconds seemed to last quite so long, has it? You didn't think anything could make you feel more kindly disposed toward "Chocolate Strawberry," did you?

Once you're recovered, read Newsday for the tale of how this monstrosity was foisted on an unsuspecting world. Personally, my danger sense would have been tingling the moment I heard it was co-written by the president of a Smithtown ad agency. (Mindful of the old saw that there's no such thing as bad publicity, I won't be naming him.) The other co-writer (I won't name him either) once upon a time was part of a group called the New York Citi Peech Boys, who had a regional proto-hit in 1981. Which, perhaps coincidentally, is exactly what "Our Team. Our Time" sounds like -- an early-to-mid-1980s rap track, perhaps one from a TV movie or performed at a high-school talent show.

Except it's bending a definition to the breaking point to even call this rap -- the rhymes don't start until about the halfway point, and even then they're hide-your-eyes lame: "David Wright, Jose Reyes making sure you're not safe / Just in case Carlos Delgado he's at first base". As for the mad skillz of the rapper (described as a "freelance artist" -- uh-oh), it's possible he's one of those guys in the Quick Lube ad SNY keeps showing. And if I may dip a toe into the waters of lyrical criticism, where are the rest of the starters? No love for Lo Duca, Hernandez or Nady? Was it impossible to top the above couplet?

Anderson Hernandez he's hittin' .183
But we be doublin' that with X-av-ier NAY-DEE!

I mean, how hard was that?

Dave Howard's take? "It was a pretty cool song." Um, no, Dave -- it isn't. (Does Dave have a kid? One between 10 and 40 could have set him straight on this one.) That statement's not quite farcical enough to go up in the Met Utterance Hall of Shame with Art Howe being a man who could light up a room and Victor Zambrano being fixable in 10 minutes, but it's close.

OK, I've made a federal case over a song no one is claiming will replace "Meet the Mets," and whose roll call of current players ensures it'll have a short shelf life. Do I really care that my ears will be assaulted by a staggeringly crappy first draft of a song at Shea? No, not particularly. It's just that it's upsetting having to endure another wheedling, needy, desperate Met marketing effort that makes me want to put a bag over my head.

Heresy alert: This sense of desperation goes all the way back to "Meet the Mets." Look, I love "Meet the Mets" -- but do I love it for its ricky-ticky instrumentation and hammy Off-Off-Broadway vocals, or because I've heard it 58,000 times when I'm about to walk into Shea or see my team play a baseball game? I assure you it's the latter. Listen to the lyrics: The song's basically tin-cup begging for fans to show up, particularly in the rarely heard second verse:

Oh the fans are true to the orange and blue,
So hurry up and come on down --
Cause we’ve got ourselves a ball club,
The Mets of New York town!
Give em a yell!
Give em a hand!
And let em know you're rooting in the stands!

Inspiring stuff if you were introducing the Wappingers Falls Palookas, but doesn't it strike you as slightly small-town accompaniment ("the butcher and the baker") for the heirs of the Dodgers and Giants in what was still the baseball capital of the world, and has never ceased being its media capital? The same naked desperation can be heard in the horrid modernization of the song, where some worried marketer touches up the mild sexism of "bring your kiddies, bring your wife" and replaces "East Side, West Side" with a frantically inclusive laundry list that stuffs in two more boroughs, Long Island and an entire other state.

But ultimately, "Our Team. Our Time" reminds me of one of my favorite pathetic Met-marketing stories. It was passed along by a friend who heard it from a friend etc., but just see if you don't think it's true:

As 2003 was mercifully coming to an end, the Mets put together a video montage of highlights featuring Vance Wilson and Jason Phillips, to the tune of "Hold On". (By Wilson Phillips, yagetit?) I actually thought it was pretty clever: The gimmick snuck up on you and made you laugh, the lyrics fit, and it was a rare, welcome case of a baseball team admitting to the fans that no, that was not the Big Red Machine down there on the field.

Nice work -- except that the song was by Wilson Phillips.

The story goes that very, very shortly after the montage was unveiled, into A/V Central stomps Jason Phillips. He seems somewhat agitated: "WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT FUCKING GAY SHIT? THAT IS THE GAYEST FUCKING SHIT I'VE EVER SEEN! WHO THE FUCK CAME UP WITH THAT FUCKING GAY SHIT? DON'T EVER FUCKING PLAY THAT FUCKING GAY SHIT AGAIN!"

(Or something to that effect.)

When Phillips stops to hyperventilate, a crestfallen Mets A/V guy tries to manage the situation: "Jason -- can we fix it?"

The answer, alas, is no. When you start with a Wilson Phillips song that's the gayest fucking shit not really very cool, things are not fixable. And when you start with played-out Reagan administration beats and a rap a bright sixth-grader would be embarrassed by, you wind up in the same place.

Don't get me wrong: I'll gladly take .769 ball and tragically uncool marketing over .500 ball and a new theme song written exclusively for us by Kanye West. But for now, for once, could the marketers please stop trying so friggin' hard? Cliff Floyd and Pedro Martinez and Carlos Delgado are cooler than any marketing campaign you could possibly try to cram them into. And 10-3, that's pretty cool too. It's simple: Play "Apache," rifle doubles up the gap, follow good starting pitching with stingy relief, and the rest will come.

For about 30, 40, maybe 50 minutes after last night's game, I swear to you I was as baseball happy as I've been in 20 years. And baseball happy, given my short slate of priorities, pretty much means happy.

No kidding, though. When the enormity of our five-game lead over frigging Atlanta sunk in, I became almost overcome with joy. It was nothing like I remembered since 1986.

This isn't me falling into the hated trap known as the memory hole. I leave that to the know-nothing Kens and Barbies who deliver highlights on TV, blatherers who waste radio airspace and general assignment reporters who write those worthless metro section "baseball fever has gripped the city!" stories. We know different here. We're the institutional memory of this franchise. We know that the convenient storyline, "It's been a sad state of affairs for Mets fans since 1986," is specious. We know there have been winning seasons and playoff seasons and even a pennant season, that there have been victories that have warmed the cockles and cockles that have warmed to victories.

We know that. You know that. I know that. But here's what else I know:

The last time I felt the way I did last night had to be 20 years ago. This takes into account the extended stretches of satisfaction, excitement and dreaminess that have made me the fan I am today, the ones from 1988 and 1990 and 1997 and 1999 and 2000 plus a few others from less successful campaigns. Those were good. A few were breathtaking. But they weren't this.

The way I felt last night in the wake of beating the Braves was something else altogether. This was first place as a matter of course. This was taking it to a team that had taken it to us. This was having a masterful power-hitting first baseman slugging a huge home run for us, not against us. This was a rightfielder acquired from some distant precinct flourishing, not shrinking. This was a catcher who runs the game and a middleman who stops the bleeding and a closer who ends opponents' evenings and 200-game-winner Pedro Martinez being 200-game-winner Pedro Martinez after all these years.

These are the Mets of 2006. They are ours. OURS! And first place is OURS! Theirs by achievement, but ours by rightful inheritance. We're the caretakers of the estate. We watched after it as the Howes and the Cedeños and the Wiggintons and the James Baldwins overran it and infested it with futility. We've watched the Braves ransack it so many times that we've lost count. Finally we have some real hard-ass types to scare them off with pitchforks.

We're ten and motherfucking two. We're five games ahead of the whole pack of National League Eastern Division jackals. We're No. 1! We're No. 1!

Just like the '51 Dodgers, the '64 Phillies, the '69 Cubs, the '78 Red Sox, the '95 Angels...you get my point. This is why the euphoria only lasted 30, 40, 50 minutes, because I have no concrete evidence that it will continue tonight or next week. Watching Floyd leave with a pulled rib cage muscle and seeing no sign of Beltran actually put me in mind of another great first-place team, the 1972 Mets. Remember them winning anything? They got off to a 25-7 start, had a six-game lead in May and then everybody got hurt. They finished 83-73 and way back in third place.

I don't want to be the 1972 Mets. I don't want to be the 1969 Cubs. The weird part is I don't want to be the 1999 Mets, and if you know me at all, you know that I consider the 1999 Mets representative of all that was worth living for. I was never so wrapped up in a baseball season as I was in 1999. I never cared so much about a Mets team as I did in 1999. No club — no thing — ever lifted me higher or threw me to the ground harder with impunity than the 1999 Mets. That was a year when fate itself hung on every single pitch.

I don't want that out of 2006. I'm too far gone after 10-2. To wind up in a dogfight with the Braves for the division or somebody else for the Wild Card would be to descend from the mountaintop. I like it too much up here to ever leave.

I fear I've been spoiled. 1999 was the best year of my baseball life and I now consider it beneath me, beneath us. It was fine for then, but I've tasted a record-setting five-game lead after 12 games and I don't want to go back. I want a six-game lead after tonight. I can't bring myself to throw out numbers beyond that, but I want great, big stuff out of this season. We can be scrappy as all get out in getting to it, but I want 1986-scrappy, not nearly blowing a playoff spot in the last two weeks of September-scrappy.

So now I've set myself up for disappointment. Anything less than first place will be crushing. Anything that isn't built to an impenetrable lead and soon will have me on more pins and needles than I need. Anything that follows the path of the recent St. Louis Cardinals — stupendous regular season, postseason failure — makes the whole thing an awful, unfair tease. And if we do scale the highest of heights and plant a few flags? If we do win everything there is to win in 2006 and are celebrated justly for it? Then I just know something will go wrong in 2007 and it will be 1987 all over again and I'll be sad.

OK, this is sick, as is this: guilt. Guilt?! Guilt from what? I'm watching last night as Pedro is wriggling out of jams and Andruw Jones just misses with one into the wind and there's no Chipper in sight and somehow I'm thinking, "Well, the Braves didn't get the breaks. The Braves are undermanned. This isn't a true test of the Braves."

Just lock me up now before I do harm to someone with that kind of thinking. The Braves are at a disadvantage? The Braves have injuries? Like we weren't physically to say nothing of mentally challenged when playing them series after series, year after year? They came out on the short end of a bad bounce or two? All balls have done in a thousand Mets-Braves games is bounce their way. I hate the Braves, so I know I can't possibly feel sorry for the second-least sympathetic organization in baseball.

What is it then? Is it that the Mets don't deserve happiness? That some other baseball team deserves it more? The Red Sox got theirs. The White Sox got theirs. You don't have to wait 80-90 years to get yours. Cripes, it's been 20 years! Isn't that enough?

As I'm peeling back the layers on this onion, I'm finding my problem is a mash-up of expectation, perception and defensiveness. Though I came of age when the Mets were good, I never expect something like a 10-2, 5 GA start out of them at any time since. But I have always perceived them to be capable, and I'm extremely defensive when somebody — friend or foe — tries to paint us as some kind of perpetual, congenital loser. When I hear other Mets fans say things like, "Whaddaya expect? We're the Mets," I bristle hard. I expect better than that. I perceive us as not long-suffering (even though I have, in fact, suffered for long periods of time because of the Mets). I guess I consider the Devil Rays the exemplar of übercrappiness and we generally haven't been them. It's almost as if it's been good enough for me not to be Tampa Bay.

But the rest of the world doesn't see it that way and, as much as I hate to admit it, I do care what the rest of the world thinks. When we finish with records like last year's 83-79, I want to sprint into the streets and do a jig that screams, "We had a winning record!" But nobody cares. Nobody cared when we finished 88-74 in 1997. It set my soul on fire, but by 1998, the memory hole beckoned. "Mike Piazza turned the Mets into winners." The dickens he did! (Sorry, Mike; we loved having you, but we didn't all-out suck when you got here.) I could have lived with improving incrementally, auditioning Aaron Heilman as closer, enduring the fits and starts of Mike Jacobs at first, but then they go and drop Billy Wagner and Carlos Delgado into our laps and I'm ebullient...until I wonder if that's somehow unfair because we spent money that a team like the Devil Rays doesn't have.

And my head goes round and round like this.

I worry that we won't win the next game. I worry that we'll win too many games. I worry that we won't win enough World Series. I worry that we've done something wrong to be doing everything so right. I worry about displaying an uncharacteristic sense of entitlement and then I worry that I don't think I deserve better and worry that that reveals something as self-destructive as excessive haughtiness would. I worry that my worrying will screw up a 10-2 start with 150 games to go.

Then I get down to worrying about the normal things a normal fan worries about, like injuries and age on the pitching staff and a thin bench and bullpen depth and whether hot starts by Lo Duca and Nady and Sanchez are going to last because if everything doesn't continue to be the festival of Our Lady of Perpetual Victory that it's been for all of two weeks, I just don't know what I'm going to do with myself.

Which is why I'm better off confining my thoughts to those 30, 40, 50 minutes after a big win when everything is perfect.