Ah, the ballet. I watched some myself today.

For a while, the matinee between the New York and San Francisco companies seemed hardly worth saving the program. There was a fine performance from Steve Trachsel, who's not exactly a diva but known to like everything just so, and to take changes in his carefully established routine out onstage with him. The other lead, Matt Morris, is most certainly a diva, as was obvious when Barry Bonds was nowhere to be seen as Carlos Delgado's sixth-inning double bounced off the wall: Morris spread his arms out as if to say, "What on earth?" Oh dear: Recent asterisks and clubhouse reputation aside, that's a Hall of Famer out there, and more importantly, he's wearing your colors. The San Francisco company appears to need a little group therapy.

Barry, ugh. There's nothing more cringeworthy than an aging dancer falling out of pirouettes and not being able to stay en pointe. He still fills out that orange and black tutu impressively, but the horizontal Arabesque he essayed during what became an Endy Chavez triple was painful. His replacement, Jason Ellison, was slightly more graceful: Only a hasty en arriere by Jose Valentin prevented Ellison from erasing him as the tail end of a most unlikely 5-4-7 double play. That would have been one to stare at in the scorebook when discovered years hence.

Alas, Bonds wasn't the only one whose art was lacking today. Jose Reyes, normally so reliable, opened the door to horror by getting too cute on a double-play ball. He's still just 22, our Jose, so you have to expect the occasional young-player mistake, but that was a bad time for a casual toss a la seconde. As for Sanchez walking in a run, well, merde.

And that's not even mentioning my favorite move from today's exhibition: The nifty pas de deux between Reyes and Morris with Reyes on third and only Manny Acta for company, thanks to the overshift against Delgado. Morris's look of terror at seeing Jose 40-odd feet down the line was priceless, as was the crowd all but ordering him to steal home. (Too bad it all came to naught.) I would like to know what passed between Acta and Reyes before Jose seemed to shorten his lead; I bet he was told he was distracting Delgado as much as he was bothering Morris. Whatever the communication, Jose looked like a Lab who'd just had the expensive cowboy boot he was chewing on taken away: He seemed to understand, but wasn't going to hide how disappointed he was.

And, of course, the half-inning that had the crowd all demi-pointes. That would be our belated (and ultimately ineffectual) revenge against one Armando Benitez. Yesterday Armando seemed like a lock for a walks-then-a-big-hit meltdown and wriggled free; today he seemed like all systems were go and then inexplicably threw a rod. Confusion reigned in the Fry/Bernstein household, however (or at least in my half of it): We'd had to pause TiVo and so were 40-odd seconds behind with Valentin at the plate when Joshua accidentally changed the channel, erasing TiVo's recording and hurling us into the present, but on some random channel. I flipped back (26? Augghh! Think! Oh! 11!) just in time to see Lastings' drive sail over the fence, which threw me into a paroxysm of rage: Oh these tack-on runs! Now it's 6-5 and Lastings' homer doesn't matter! Second night in a row! Fricking Heilman! And he got got by the guy from Double-A whose name still isn't spelled right on his uniform! Wait, why is the WB claiming it's 6-6? Stupid WB, they can't even get...wait a minute, did somebody else homer? Valentin? Endy? Who cares? YAAAAAY!!!!

(As for Milledge's post-homer oh-no-he-didn't decision to slap hands with the customers along the right-field line, we'll revisit it the first time he faces a Giant next year and immediately takes a pitch in the earflap. For now, let's just say that when the other team's psycho reliever, your own cool veteran and your old-school manager agree you fucked up and tell the press as much, you fucked up.)

All in all, a recital that see-sawed from exhilirating to excruciating, but was never anything less than hugely entertaining. I only wish I could let go of my quarrel with the New York company's choreographer: In the 8th, with Valentin on second and nobody out in a tie game, why was Chavez bunting? The base-out matrix will tell you that's a bad idea, but you didn't have to be a stats geek to hate that call. Bunting there puts Milledge -- a rookie who had two big hits but has also looked very overeager -- up against a guy who's a ground-ball machine. If the 21-year-old can't get it done, you've got a pinch-hitter coming in with two outs. And, indeed, Milo grounded out and Franco struck out. Ack!

Oh well. We didn't get the win, but I can't say I wasn't riveted. Sometimes you wind up delivering your Bravos to the other guys.

(Ballet terms butchered thanks to Wikipedia.)

There was no orange button on your new blue cap because you had to earn it Croix de Flushing Meadow style. And despite six hours of service time, you came up short. Tsk.

Of course, I get nothing for manipulating television and radio volume controls from 1:20 until 11:00 except maybe a touch of the carpal tunnel and a relatively pleasing case of the warm-and-drys. Though I wouldn't compare it to your battle with the elements, the Giants or the kind of common sense that one is required to check at Gate A for day-day-night doubleheaders, it was a long stretch from my particular catbird seat. Warm and dry, but long.

Nobody knows how to do rain delays anymore. Fox showed an Angels-Indians game that I guess was the only other one they had going. The Braves and Diamondbacks were playing a day-nighter in Atlanta, but the afternoon part was the makeup so I'm guessing it wasn't televised. I don't think we've ever had a day-night doubleheader of our very own (not counting those Skank-induced frauds that we half-hosted in 2000 and 2003). The one you went to last year was as close as I can recall, a 4:00 start and then an invitation to stick around for the 8:00 show. Seeing as how Fanny Pack Nation traditionally makes itself so scarce, I thought day-nighting it at the Ted was a little showy. Unless they were expecting a huge crowd for Fanny Pack Night and had to fight 'em off with a switch.

I listened intermittently on XM to the Diamondbacks defeat the Braves in the daytime, getting myself squarely behind the National League's new premiere closer Jorge Julio. (Didn't we used to have him?) And because it was there, I watched a bit of the Indians unraveling my nominal favorite American League team, though I have to admit I haven't kept up all that closely on Angel affairs of late. Apparently, "we" are not very good this year.

As pleasant at it is to have a baseball game from Cleveland on TV and as necessary as it is to hear one from Atlanta, I would have ditched both for wall-to-wall Rain Delay Theater. The FAN seemed fertummelt by the fact that the game would not start as scheduled and always acts fermisht when the arrival of the first pitch is unknown. How many Mets games have they broadcast since July 1, 1987? It's rained at least a few times.

Wouldn't you think an all-sports station (save for the Saturday mornings when Richard Neer hijacks the format for his crusade against mental health; he campaigned for Glavine to go in the first game so he could get "an extra four hours of rest" before his next start) could line up interviews with interesting baseball people while they're all standing around a baseball stadium with nothing to do? Instead of Ed Coleman fretting that the tarp is on the field and the skies don't look promising and we have no idea when we're going to get underway, can't he grab a beat reporter or a columnist, even one from San Francisco? How about getting somebody from Fox on? I don't want to listen to Lou Piniella do the game, but I wouldn't mind 10 minutes of Lou Piniella on The Game. Surely there's an itinerant scout floating around who could tell us something flattering (or otherwise) about Lastings Milledge.

No, all we learned of a substantive nature on the FAN before it was thrown to Steve Somers in the studio (where I could be assured of learning nothing at all) was Tom McCarthy used to help roll tarps for the ballclub in Trenton where he was assistant GM. Really? I didn't know that. Ralph was famously a minor league GM before becoming a Mets voice for the ages, so maybe Tom's got the right career path in gear.

Around 3:30 I began to compose a full-froth rant about how Fox was obviously going to screw us out of our telecast, that they were going to issue a bland statement about the local market and the limited window and how we were already served by witnessing Los Angeles of Anaheim at Cleveland of Ohio and I checked SNY to see various bouts of sailing or gymnastics or lacrosse and began to get doubly mad that our very own network wasn't going to show our game either, that this was an outrage, that this was disgusting...

And then a Mets game magically appeared on Channel 5 and I calmed down. For 2-1/2 hours they had shown a sunny day in Cleveland and that very nifty Jacobs Field and suddenly it was dark and foreboding and Shea and I couldn't believe how much better it looked here than there. It really does matter who's playing.

Then the game took place and I couldn't do anything about that except turn the television sound down and listen to Howie Rose and Tom McCarthy describe the action five seconds before I could look at it. Time tunnel be damned, I'm not going to listen to Piniella when I can listen to Rose. And I'm never going to listen to Josh Lewin, whom I still haven't forgiven for larding up the ill-fated Brian Jordan II telecast in September 2001 by referring to the Mets as the New York Metaphors, carrying the weight of a nation on its shoulders.

Besides, Fox couldn't spell that "kid" catcher's name correctly in its graphics. I'd never heard of him until yesterday but I could see his uniform said he was "ALFONSO". I later learned that the foulup was on the kid's back, not in the Chyron. Either the San Francisco Giants or this guy was the culprit. I choose the San Francisco Giants.

But only in this case. I wouldn't choose the San Francisco Giants in anything except a knife fight against the Braves, Phillies or Skanks. Loathsome bunch, and Bonds is the least of their loathsomeness. It's the team of the living dead over there. Is Steve Finley still in the league? Omar Vizquel isn't an Indian? Randy Winn isn't a Devil Ray? Ray Durham? Steve Kline? I don't care for any of these people now if I ever did before. Where do they play their home games...Alcatraz?

And yes, there is the issue of their zombie ex-Mets Vizcaino and Benitez. Viz lost his nickname privileges long ago. And Armando...yeesh. Just yeesh. Stephanie was devoting about 10% of her attention to the end of Game One, but when I pointed out who was closing for the visitors, she emitted a noise normally reserved for discovering that the yogurt in the back of the fridge has an expiration date of AUG 24 05.

I looked forward to a more "normal" second game, flipping over to SNY to hear Gary Cohen, but was surprised at how much he had begun to sound like Howie Rose. Hey! That IS Howie Rose! Gary apparently shared a bad appendix with Xavier Nady so zowie, it was Howie for 18+ innings yesterday.

I welcomed his presence (thought the Dolans would have forbid it considering he calls Islander games on one of their channels), but there was something Proustian about it. Hearing Howie coming from the TV jolted me back to his FSNY gig, a bit too much of which was spent describing bad baseball on either side of the Bobby Valentine era. Seeing the tableau of foreboding clouds and empty orange seats made me think I was watching a game from April 1996 or September 2003. A utility infielder in right? A four-A outfielder in center? A .205-hitting second baseman? Tom Glavine warming up in front of nobody? Is Art starting Joe DePastino behind the plate?

Got over that soon enough, but was a little taken aback when I realized that Howie, every bit the good broadcasting companion that Gary is for my money, has aged right before our ears. Maybe it's just an evergreen sense of fair play on his part that I've never quite embraced, but he's displaying curmudgeonly tendencies that are probably par for someone who's been on the New York baseball scene for the better part of thirty years. I've always considered him a card-carrying member of the New Breed and figured the NB wasn't as relentlessly judgmental as its predecessors.

In measured terms, however, Howie couldn't bash Barry enough, giving off the impression that "that's not how it was in my day." Willie Mays was his day but it could have been Willie Keeler. It went beyond the reasonable and defendable assertion that the guy's a lousy cheater, et al; the vibe seemed more Dick Young than Howie Rose, and I thought Dick Young was long dead. Then again, Dick Young wasn't always wrong.

It was also interesting listening to Rose attempting to cajole Hernandez. It was good-natured Howiedom at its best, but Keith's such an odd duck that it wouldn't take, not even in the rain. Howie was teasing Keith about him not wanting to play both ends of a doubleheader. There was silence from Keith until Keith, his professionalism as a player somehow impugned 16 years since he last played, explained (you could almost hear him lacing up his spikes) that he wanted five hits out of every doubleheader. Howie was trying to keep it light. Keith couldn't believe somebody couldn't understand why you wouldn't want to get eight to ten at-bats in a single day.

Then Howie, easing into an anecdote about erstwhile Mex backup Dave Magadan, actually placed an event from Bud Harrelson's tenure on Davey Johnson's docket. Howie never makes those mistakes! By the middle of Game Two, we were all getting old.

TBS had the good news, for a while. The Diamondbacks were drilling the Braves. Then the Braves started mounting one of their infernal comebacks, the kind of rally they've been in the middle of since Mags was ducking flying lumber in St. Louis. While the Mets and Giants were literally stuck in the mud, I focused on cheering home the Turner Field visitors. I heard myself calling out "C'MON ERIC!" to Eric Byrnes, a Snake on whom I was wishing several forms of whacking three or four days earlier. The schedule can be a funny thing.

Arizona was withstanding the Atlanta assault; how did Damion Easley not do us in? Meanwhile, we trudged into a 19th inning. Stephanie had long abandoned the couch for her Saturday evening pastime of loading tracks onto the iPod Shuffle she gave me for my birthday. I've refused to learn how to do this since I'm not entirely convinced the audio cassette tape's day has passed; I'm not without curmudgeonly tendencies myself. As has become custom, she'll slip the earbuds on me when she finds a particular song she's sure will strike my fancy and I'll usually leave them on for an hour or two while listening to and watching other things (muuulti-tasking!).

By the bottom of the eleventh, she had gone upstairs and Lo Duca singled and Delgado doubled and Milledge pinch-ran (I also cried overmanaging...geniuses we are here) and as the bases got loaded, the song in my ears was Sultans of Swing, the Dire Straits tune to which Chris Woodward always strides toward the plate.

And who was striding toward the plate mid-song? Chris Woodward!

I love and hate stuff like this. I love the idea that a coincidence (there is no display on this iPod) could foreshadow a walkoff incident. I hate the idea of loving the idea because it never works as I would imagine. Except this time, Woodward lofts an inadequate fly to right and Milledge, resembling a late September callup amid anything but a pennant race — empty orange seats depress me so — dashed in a fashion nobody else available (certainly not Lo Duca) could have, slid smartly and scored. I was clapped a lot and yelled up the stairs, "Hey, I've got an iPod story for you!"

Then I switched back to TBS, rooted for Jorge Julio to strike out Todd Pratt and found myself not having completely wasted a Saturday. A half-game picked up on Philly. A game picked up on Atlanta. A better taste in my mouth to nod off to than seemed possible for most of the previous ten hours. And I was still warm and dry.

Though you are commended for logging unwarranted face time with Old Man Late Winter (a hardy soul who was supposed to be at his condo in Boca by now) and not docked for surrendering to self-preservation and the babysitter's retirement fund (I hear she started planning a trip to Bermuda when Armando walked the first two batters), one demerit for not completing your due diligence — I could have told you Giants @ Mets doubledips are, if not trouble, then almost never wholly satisfying. Hell, I already have.

Now, having staked the nominal historical high ground from the comfort of my couch, you must excuse me. I'm going to the ballet today.

What?

Poster's Note: Asterisks in this post indicate facts/statistics/programs/statements that might not hold up to greater scrutiny.

A few years ago, Emily instituted a sensible rule for herself: No April baseball.

No more freezing through 200-minute marathons with balls dying on warning tracks, pitchers struggling to build arm strength, and long lines for coffee and hot chocolate as vendors proved unable to give away beer. No more announced crowds that provoked horse laughs from anyone lifting their chin out of their coats for a cursory look around the stadium. No more wearing t-shirts and sweatshirts and sweaters and Met gear and a coat and gloves and a rain jacket just in case and then having to run to the clubhouse store for a garish Met towel because it was still too cold.

No more, she said, and I didn't blame her one bit. Since then she's made her Shea debut at a more-reliable point in the calendar. Say, June 3rd. Day game against the San Francisco Giants. Barry Bonds in town, owner of 715 * home runs. Possibly the last chance to see him in the flesh.

You know, June: The trees all have leaves, gardens are bursting at the seams, the water's getting warm enough for swimming, you can wear white shoes. June.

Ha.

We were meeting up with pals Will and Shari, with loge tickets I'd chosen using online ticketing's Best Available * option. That turned out to be the last row in the loge on the third-base side, with the field viewed through a slot between the seats below and the mezzanine above. If you're an old-school fan, you might like it: You can't see the Diamondvision or any of the scoreboards, so you're on your own when it comes to the score, number of outs and the count. You also can't see the upper part of the parabola described by routine fly balls. If I ever have to watch a baseball game through the periscope of a U-Boat, I'll be prepared.

What we could see was rain. Lots of it. Nearly three hours of it, before the tarp came off and baseball could be played. Being so far underneath the mezzanine we were at least dry. We were also cold, victims of a wind funneled through the mesh behind us so as to penetrate the bones. Oddly, later in the game I was standing on the same side of the stadium on the external ramps and there was barely a breath of wind. Who says Shea has no interesting architectural quirks?

Oh yeah, the game. It was unpleasant too. If ever there was a day one would feel sorry for baseball players now that coffee pots marked PLAYERS are officially verboten, this was it. Both the Mets and Giants looked draggy and dispirited, and I could hardly blame them. Alas, the Giants were slightly less draggy and dispirited, buoyed by young Matt Cain and the heretofore-anonymous Eliezer Alfonzo, just up from Double-A, whose first major-league hit was a two-run shot off El Duque that gave the Giants a lead they wouldn't relinquish. Don't tell Eliezer this was no day to be playing baseball. I suppose on some level I'm happy for the kid. I'd be happier for him if his big moment had been Thursday night, or had waited until Monday, or had come when it was 13-3 instead of 4-3. Of our kids, Jose Reyes and David Wright did all they could, but Lastings Milledge looked awful raw.

Survival was Job One today, but the ninth inning still managed to be annoying. As Armando Benitez emerged, my fuming (which began with Oliver letting the Giants tack on an insurance run) quickly escalated to Old Faithful-like proportions, which was probably some desperate attempt to remain warm by being especially irascible. How is it, I asked Emily, that Armando never recorded a single save for us, * and yet since taking off our uniform has been completely and utterly perfect for everyone else? * I've been waiting to engage in some bitter, finger-pointing laughter at Armando Benitez's expense for nearly three years, and it seemed like this finally might be my chance: He walked Valentin, struck out Castro, but then walked surprise pinch-hitter Beltran. And every time he shook out his shoulder or wanted the catcher to run through the signs again or whirled for a lame pickoff attempt at second, I had flashbacks. Yep, that's Armando disintegrating on the mound. Yep, that's Armando trying, in vain, to reset himself by doing something other than throwing the baseball. Yep, that's Armando going down in flames.

Except then he got Julio Franco to foul out on a 2-1 pitch (ugh) and then Reyes grounded out and we were done. And with the babysitter already deep into expensive overtime and my neck windburnt and the weather miserable, I did the unthinkable: I headed home, despite having a ticket in my hand that entitled me to a free baseball game. May the baseball gods forgive me.

If a good excuse is possible, here it is: 363 days ago, the same Will and I stayed for both games of a doubleheader against these same Giants, and afterwards we agreed that despite our adoration for the game, it had come perilously close to too much baseball. Except then it was 25 degrees warmer, and dry, and we didn't have to wait 161 minutes for the actual baseball to begin.

Sorry, I'm not that tough. Emily and I headed home (accompanied out of Shea by a very large chunk of the crowd) to relieve the babysitter, put the kid to bed, and watch the final 2/3 of the second game from the safer confines of the couch. More soggy, draggy baseball, with rain swirling in gouts/sheets/drifts/spirals across the television screen. At this point the mere sight of rain at Shea made us a little tense. I spent the game spitting and snarling at Jose Vizcaino, that vile and traitorous ex-Yankee pain in the ass, and finished it with a fervent apology to Willie Randolph. When Willie sent Milledge in to run for Lo Duca at third I first scoffed, then wondered aloud why he was burning a player we might need in a marathon. Overmanaging, feh. Then I watched as Milledge came home safe on a play where Lo Duca would have been roadkill. Skip, here's a tip of my giveaway Mets hat. (Which, by the way, doesn't have an orange button. Huh?)

So things turned out OK. And the Phillies lost. And the Braves lost not once but twice. So that's even a little better than OK. But after today, my deepest wish is this: Please don't let it rain tomorrow.