I take my 0-2 record to Shea Sunday afternoon for the finale versus the Braves. I know better than to scream SWEEP or go CHOP but I gotta tell ya: I know a little less better all the time.

The Braves is dead? Oh, let's not get ahead of ourselves even if we're nine ahead of them. Still, the Braves I know would have won one of these past two games, probably this one. They had Tim Hudson. We had Victor Zambrano and just barely.

Didja ever see something like Zambrano 1) shaking his pitching limb; 2) being tended to; 3) being left in; 4) striking out Andruw Jones; 5) sprinting off the field without the counsel of a catcher, a manager or a trainer? I thought I was watching Joe Hardy revert to Joe Boyd right before our very eyes.

Joe Hardy led the Senators to the pennant. Victor Zambrano had thrown 1-1/3 innings at those Damn Braves, so it's not like he sold his soul, I don't think. They say it was the elbow. To me it looked like a panic attack.

Are you there God? It's me, Victor. I'm pitching and these people aren't booing me. I don't know what to do with myself. I have to get off this mound right now.

Good thing Willie Randolph was packing baseball's only eight-man bullpen. He needed it. When Darren Oliver goes toe to toe with Tim Hudson, and Bartolome Fortunato (he wasn't on the 600-day DL?), Chad Bradford, Pedro Feliciano and, yes, Jorge Julio pick up as much slack is as necessary, then the Mets are the right thing to be and it may finally not be the Braves' year.

The Braves are now nine out of first, nine behind us. Heard today that the Braves were nine out at some point in 1993 and they stormed past the Giants. But that was another world. Most relevant to me was hearing that they were eight in back of the Phillies in 2001. These Braves aren't those Braves and these Mets aren't those Phillies, mostly because Willie Randolph, whatever you think of him, is no Larry Bowa.

Maybe the 2006 Phillies will give us trouble but I don't expect the 2006 Mets to implode. Can't imagine Willie will allow it. I love the confidence he has in his players, right down to the recalcitrantly reviled Jose Valentin (big hit Saturday) and the hypothetically hopeless Jorge Julio (a winner and a saver in consecutive games). I'm laughing hysterically at the FAN and the callers and host who are spitting on Julio's accomplishments, that he can't be trusted, that Lee Mazzilli — great manager — buried him, that he nearly blew it. Jorge Julio wasn't supposed to be fit to tie Donne Wall's shoes a few weeks ago. Even now he is, at best, the Mets' fourth option out of the pen, yet when he was needed, he got the job done. That's his own doing and probably some of Peterson's doing but ultimately it's Willie Randolph not giving up on a player who can help the team.

On a day when Wagner, Sanchez and Heilman were best not bothered, Jorge Julio was one of several who saved the day. Let a little of it get away? Sure. He had two runs to work with and gave back one. And that affected the final score and the standings how much? By not one little bit. I still haven't seen the plus/minus column that tracks style points. Give me a shout when those count as tiebreakers.

The Mets are winning games against everybody now. I feared an old-fashioned letdown versus Washington and Pittsburgh. We went 3-1. I feared the Braves for all the reasons one fears the Braves. We're 4-1 against them since last Friday. The Mets have won nine of eleven and until I stopped to figure it out, I swear I hadn't noticed. Nine-of-elevens and such used to be events around here. Now it's numbers. It's what we do, just like not being out of a game because we're behind in it or not giving up one of them because we're forced to rely on dollops of one fourth starter and five second-line relievers to constitute one gosh darn effective parts-sum.

So Sunday, when I go to Shea in search of my first win of the season, I will do so in the face of John Smoltz — short rest, but when has that ever stopped a Brave? — and on the right arm of Jose Lima.

Jose Lima's starting for the Mets? Against Smoltz?

I won't tote a broom and it's too early to grab a shovel, but I can promise you I'll pack no fear.

Willie Mays is 75 years old today. A diamond birthday for the king of the diamond. Perfect.

Willie Mays isn't an old man, however. He's Willie Mays. He was still young when he was at the end of the trail when we got him. How could he be old now?

What's that? Fell down in centerfield, hit .211, bumped Tommie Agee from the lineup, was a burden on Yogi Berra, disrupted the team by his enormity and sense of entitlement?

So I've heard.
I've never believed it.
I never will.

Willie Mays played for the Mets. I still can't get over that. I still can't fathom that some cash and Charlie Williams gave us almost two full seasons of perhaps (?) the greatest player the game ever knew in a Mets uniform. That's always made me smile, right from that first Sunday he donned our colors and hit us a home run and won us a game against his old team.

Joan Payson should be in the Hall of Fame for arranging that. Willie Mays built a legend in New York, went somewhere else because his job took him there and got to come home. That's an owner with the best interests of baseball at heart. She was a real sportsman.

Just watched Willie Mays being interviewed by Bob Costas. The excuse was Barry Bonds, his celebrated and vilified godson. Costas obviously wanted Mays to condemn Bonds. He wouldn't do it. Let me know when you condemn your family on HBO.

Willie Mays is family, Mets family. Estranged and twice removed but still a great uncle in our genealogy. Still the man who wore 24 after Jim Beauchamp and before Kelvin Torve and stood before an adoring Shea Stadium and acknowledged that it was time to say goodbye to America — though before he did, he drove in the fourth and scored the sixth runs of the 7-2 win that clinched the 1973 National League pennant. You gotta believe? You can't without Willie Mays.

One of the first things I learned as a baseball fan was Willie Mays was the best there was. It went, essentially, Mays then Aaron then Clemente. Saw just enough of each just in time to understand. They weren't villains to us. They were too great for that. It wasn't that star-sucking-up-to that ruined too many McGwire Cardinal, Sosa Cub games in the late '90s. It was reverence. Especially Willie. Mays was New York's, merely on loan to San Francisco during all those trips when he came in with his relocated team. To have him reappear on an apparently permanent basis in a cap with our NY on it and have him take the field for us, not against us...wow.

He's been back with the Giants for good for more than a dozen years and that's all right, I suppose. San Francisco never deserved him but now it embraces him. Better late than never for a city so beautiful in so many ways. I'm disappointed that he slipped away from the Mets organization somewhere in the early '80s. Old ballplayers without portfolio and clearly defined responsibilities don't always find a place at the table, even if — especially if — they are far bigger than the table (or have you seen Tom Seaver around Shea lately?). I'm glad Willie's not divorced from baseball.

I continue to maintain that No. 24 should have been taken out of Mets circulation circa 1974. Nobody would have blinked if it had been. Since then, three-plus decades have come and gone and to the naked eye, Willie Mays seems no more significant to Mets history than Willie Montañez. He was just some washed-up player who didn't know when to quit, reportedly more than a bit of a distraction.

Uh-huh. And New York cheesecake is just another dessert.

I had exactly one opportunity to interact with Willie Mays in my life. It was 1982. I tagged along with my sister to a trade press event promoting the introduction of Tron: The Game. I didn't understand why both Willie Mays and Hank Aaron were part of the festivities, but there they were, dispensing autographs and just enough bonhomie to earn their fee. It seemed inappropriate, so I didn't approach them. Tron had nothing to do with baseball. The two greatest players of my youth were picking up a paycheck. I remained distant. John Updike said of Ted Williams that gods do not answer letters. They shouldn't plug video games either.

This is the part where I tell you that I regret my one chance to say hello, say something, say anything to Willie Mays. But I won't tell you that. Twenty-four springs later, it still seems inappropriate, both the currency of Willie Mays used to hype arcade/movie tie-ins and the idea that I could say anything that would be worth his listening to, even perfunctorily.

But if I could say anything to him right now, it would be, happy birthday, Mr. Mays. To me, you'll always be a giant among Mets.

Oh, Doctor! A 98-yard triple-reverse ties the score at 63-63! We have seen nothing but razzle-dazzle here today, three visits from Morganna the Kissing Bandit and the surprising return of Jim Brown!

Yeah, it was something like that.

To be fair, I didn't find myself asking myself, "Could this be the best day of my life?" Not to be Homer the Heretic, but it may have been the stupidest game I ever watched. I say that with love because I love how it ended. (Was that a double? Most accounts say it was, which is almost too bad because Ground Rule Single has a nice ring to it.) And I love how it went intermittently, what with all those ties: 1-1, 2-2, 6-6, 7-7. Well, I loved that they got tied. I was getting a little tie-ered when those ties wouldn't be broken like they oughta be.

It's tempting to read a LOT into this game. It's tempting to take a step back and say that because of this particular annihilation of Atlanta, Michael Tucker is out at the plate...Jay Payton held up at second...Chipper took an ohfer...Shawn Dunston camped under that fly...Rey Ordoñez put down a bunt...Al got out of the first 1-2-3...Kenny Rogers was saved for Game One of the World Series...Armando retired Brian Jordan...Franco retired Brian Jordan...Brian Jordan retired from baseball in 1992 to concentrate on football...Braden Looper found another calling...

Yes, it's tempting, yet it's too late to undo damage done. The past is past and the present is just fine, especially after winning 8-7 in 14 innings. Result aside, it actually was quite the stupid affair.

Why? Think about it. Everything we're taught about baseball, about smart baseball, didn't matter. All that stuff about the importance of putting on the leadoff man didn't matter again and again. The Mets didn't cash in and the Braves didn't pay. That's stupid. When you dig deep into a team's lousy bullpen, you're supposed to come away with runs. We didn't, at least not enough. That was stupid. Some guy named Moylan circumcised us. Ouch! That was really stupid.

The Mets were determined not to lose but equally determined for the first thirteen innings not to win. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

You reach a point in a game like this when nothing is any longer there for the proving. It's not about character. It's not about slaying dragons or gagging ghosts or gaining ground. When it's a war of attrition and both managers have used just about everybody (in the Braves' case, everybody; by the by, who's our emergency catcher — Delgado?), then it's just a matter of waiting for something to go wrong. In this case, it was Brian McCann's fatigue (serves him right for that showy steal in the sixth) and Jorge Sosa's unplanned excursion to the mound (he's no Ron Darling). But if it hadn't ended in the 14th? If we'd lost in the 18th or won in the 26th or were headed right now for the top of the 35th, what would it mean?

Other than I'd have been up until the 18th or 26th or 35th?

They don't make marathons like they used to. For a franchise that has 23-, 24- and 25-inning all-nighters on its permanent record, it doesn't seem like 14 frames should be that much of an imposition. Gary and Keith, get hold of yourselves; ask Ralph how long an endless game lasts. Still, I guess innings are longer than they used to be and pitchers don't stick around as they once did. I've been to two 14-inning games in my life (both wins, hallelujah) and they were nerve-rattlers to be sure, yet I don't remember wanting to throw myself to the ground as I did after the Mets didn't score in the...I don't remember anymore, but there was one extra inning where I'd had it, absolutely had it with whichever favorite Met of mine didn't bring home a run and my face was literally in the living room carpet.

Then I picked myself up, dusted myself off and started all over again. Like I'd give any of this back. I have all winter to not get disgusted by LOBs.

Games like these are bereft of implications because a player can be red hot for eight innings and ice cold for six. Strengths are weaknesses and weaknesses are strengths. Wagner is Julio and Julio is Wagner. Floyd's a hero and Floyd's in a slump. The ball carries like it's Citizens Bank (in whose home clubhouse I hope more than a few players were watching to the bitter end) and the ball gets stuck in a wind tunnel than can only be Shea's. Everybody failed in the clutch and the entire team came through.

These aren't games that prove a lot once they pass four hours or twelve innings (whichever comes last), but they are better when you win them. We don't have a single excuse or alibi or rationalization this morning. We don't need one. We won. The third-place, eight-out Braves lost. They have Tim Hudson going against Victor Zambrano today, but he can't win last night's game for them. That one's in our pocket, a nice place for it to rest.

No, it wasn't a classic last night. But I have a hunch that someday, it will be.

I wouldn't call that one a classic -- too much bit-spitting in situations where the thing should have ended earlier -- but it sure was fun. About the only thing it was missing was one or both managers picking their least-worst-hitting starting pitchers to pinch-hit. (Glavine and Smoltz?) Along the way...well, I'm not quite sure I can remember. When Gary reminded us that early in the game Lo Duca got hit in the wrist by Andruw Jones's backswing, I was startled: Wasn't that like last week? Even Billy Wagner giving up a pinch-hit home run to Wilson Betemit was a bit aged in the memory by the time this one was over. Which is best for Billy, as it will mute the muttering in tomorrow's papers and blogs somewhat. Though not enough: I'm not ready to say something's wrong with Billy Wagner, but I did catch myself wondering if Billy Wagner's all right.

But anyway. At one point I dimly recall Steve Trachsel being infuriating, Carlos Beltran hitting a smooth and easy home run, Cliff Floyd hitting a sudden and very violent home run, Bobby Cox arguing about balls that haven't been strikes since Maddux and Glavine were atop the heap, wondering why on earth "Sir Duke" isn't Lo Duca's theme music, thinking I sure wish Roger McDowell wasn't wearing that uniform, an Australian pharmaceutical salesman making us look silly, laughing at Keith and Gary as they became increasingly unfit for narrating television, and finding it incredibly funny that they'd show the radar-gun readings of the four pitches of an intentional walk, which suggested I was becoming increasingly unfit for watching television.

In the end, two more-recent and lasting impressions to take into the night:

1. A game ball for Jorge Julio. Willie kept saying the right things about trusting him, but I bet he didn't have this in mind for Julio's first real test: straight into the lion's den to face Chipper and Andruw with no margin for error. He came out not only alive, but with Andruw's pelt. Nicely done.

2. We all know Carlos Beltran made a heads-up play when that ball eluded McCann in the 427th inning. (Or whatever it was.) But there's another reason to give thanks for his heads-upness: Wright's game-winning hit landed on the warning track and hopped into the bleachers. If Beltran hadn't taken second, that would have been a ground-rule double, and Beltran would have been sent back to third.

Second and third, two out...and I don't want to know.