The most appropriate way to honor the memory of the impact of the most significant Brooklyn Dodger of them all would be for Fred Wilpon to take the money and run...to the bottom line of any contract for stadium naming rights.

It is Walter O'Malley, not Jackie Robinson, who shaped the baseball world we live in today. Bless Jackie and his courage and his accomplishments, but there would be no Mets without O'Malley.

O'Malley left town. Took Stoneham with him. If that hadn't happened, there's no Faith and Fear in Flushing. I'm writing Hope and Hell in Harlem while Jason is blogging Bats and Balderdash on Bedford. On a personal note, we owe those who skipped out on New York a debt of gratitude.

Bigger picture, O'Malley not only saw California but knew it was a gold mine in waiting. Why let some puny expansion team put down stakes when he could establish the Dodger brand name in a burgeoning market? If selling naming rights to his new stadium there struck him as a good business opportunity, he would have come up with it. Selling the Dodgers to Southern California was a better investment.

Walter O'Malley made baseball a big-money game. He figured out that installing water fountains in the ballpark might keep people from buying soft drinks, so he held off on the fountains. He decided putting just enough games on free television was better than none or all, so he only aired a few. He built an operation that was the first to usher three million through the gates, the first to regularly top two million. He found his audience and he cultivated it.

If Walter O'Malley were still around and he was presented the chance to make money off the name of a new stadium, Walter O'Malley would set new records for windfalls.

The people noisily campaigning to name Shea Stadium's successor after Jackie Robinson are people who are not going to pay their way into the ballpark. They are well-meaning people, sentimental people, semi-informed-at-best people. As decent (as in human decency) a point as they make on behalf of the Robinson legacy, they are misguided both on how these things get done and why these things get done.

The National Tennis Center's salutes to Arthur Ashe and Billie Jean King, held up as our examples to follow, are outstanding. Ashe and King are synonymous with the best of American tennis. When we have a National Baseball Center, by all means name it for Jackie Robinson, synonymous with the best of American baseball. If I'm looking for the best of New York Mets baseball, however, a search for Jackie Robinson yields no matches.

The field is where baseball takes care of those we really care about. We're outside the park for a few minutes. We're inside the park for hours. Jackie's 42 gets more face time everywhere, not just in New York, the way it's set up now. The field is for players. 42 belonged to a great man who displayed his great qualities while being a great ballplayer.

Quick, how many Major League ballparks are named for ballplayers? Ebbets? Shibe? Comiskey? Jacobs?

Bueller? Anyone?

We may celebrate Willie, Mickey & The Duke, but our fathers and grandfathers didn't directly hand them six bits for a ticket. Those went to Horace, Del and Walter. The owners are the owners. The ballplayers are the employees. It's a very proletariat-paradise concept that their name should be on the factory gates, but it's a fantasy. The only player, besides Pro Player, who got a stadium was Bill Shea. And he wasn't a player. He was a Player.

If you're not honoring yourself — I'm guessing the Wilponarium isn't on the table — or somebody or some group (like Veterans) overwhelmingly deserving of a tribute, you're probably making a business decision. What will make people want to come here?

1970: Do we need to let people know it's by the Three Rivers? We do? Then I've got just the name for our new multipurpose stadium here in Pittsburgh.

1994: Is the ballpark in Arlington? Sure it's not Dallas or Fort Worth? Well, we better make sure everybody understands the ballpark's in Arlington.

1912: How are we going to get some pub for this Fenway section of Boston?

You don't get that reasoning much anymore, so the business angle is now a straight cash deal. You give us a lot of money and we'll plaster your name all over our building where tens of thousands of your potential customers come 81 times a year. Strikes me as a sucker arrangement. Did Phillies fans dig their savings (compiled from all those years of not having to buy playoff tickets) out from under their mattresses and put it in a Citizens Bank? Have all White Sox lovers dumped their Sprint plans in favor of U.S. Cellular? Is there a single Padre fan who won't buy cat food at the supermarket because "I gotta support my team"?

The Mets need to take the O'Malley tack and take the money. Find a reputable sponsor and hook up. Something that sounds right, something that will still be here in its present form in 10 or 20 years. Avoid Chico's Bail Bonds. Pass on GoDaddy.com. Think twice before signing with Azek Trimboards. This is New York. There's bound to be a company or two that will meet the requirement.

Then squeeze 'em for all it's worth, get every cent out of 'em and go buy us a good player with the pure profits. If there's anything left over, erect a statue outside of whoever those who don't pay their way into Mets games insist we must honor next.

Did you know eight teams are tied for the National League Wild Card and none has a winning percentage of over .350?

OK, I'm lying, but close enough. I just got finished watching the Wild Card leaders, the Reds, give up their lofty perch after 16 grueling innings at Dodger Stadium. I don't know if it was grueling for them, but the portion I caught — after the Mets disposed of the Rockies — was rather difficult to watch from here. From here at the top, I mean. Mets games involve only one mediocre team. Tune in any other NL contest and you'll find two.

(Oh, and fuck the American League and its superiority complex. Nobody has fewer losses than us there and only the Tigers have one more win. Of course we're huge Tigers fans for the next couple of days; Kenny Rogers, what a gentleman.)

The Reds' loss and the Padres' win means that if our season were to end today and everybody else kept playing, we'd still have more wins than the rest of the league, combined, by October. Seriously though...the Padres? They're the Wild Card leaders? Didn't we just sweep them three weeks ago? That's who'd we play in the playoffs?

Yeah, yeah, I know, Mike Scioscia, Kirk Gibson, Orel Hershiser, the whole bunch of 'em. But c'mon. The Padres? Hey Mike! You and what army?

ANYWAY, the Wild Card race is tight and the Nationals were no help in loosening it, meaning the Phillies didn't lose, meaning our magic number only dropped by one Tuesday. 18 minus 1 equals 17. And if it's 17, it must be time for Metsopotamia's favorite new game show, 17 Fascinating Faith and Fear in Flushing Free-Association Facts About 17.

17.01: Mex, Who Was Great But Also Is Nuts. Keith hasn't worn 17 in New York, except ceremonially, in 17 years. What else is there to say about the number that stubbornly defies retirement despite evidence that would suggest the contrary? Whatever else there is to say, Keith will say it if the hour is late enough and he hasn't eaten. And, by the way, what's a "humididor"?

17.02: Rey Ordoñez Best Keep His Yap Shut. Back when it was still surprising that anybody but Keith Hernandez would be issued No. 17, scrappy utility infielder and amateur team bus boxer Luis Lopez wore it and homered for the only run in a 1-0 shutout over the Expos on Keith Hernandez Mets Hall of Fame Induction Day in 1997. Dave Mlicki threw a gem but the shutout was only preserved when Todd Pratt pulled an acting job worthy of Paul Lo Duca after dropping the ball on a tag play at home. Montreal's dugout was so incensed that their trainer was ejected for arguing. (I don't suppose the delusional Braves would send us Tank as Castro insurance.)

17.03: An Embarrassment of Bitches. What in the name of Wilson Delgado goes through the mind of an equipment manager who throws around the number of the Second Greatest Met of the First Forty Years like it once belonged to Gil Flores? Wilson Delgado was actually serviceable in 17. What to make of Satoru Komiyama, Dae-Sung Koo and Jose Lima wearing the Hernandez imprimataur? Keith really should have tipped Charlie Samuels more generously in 1989.

17.04: I'm Sorry, But Who's Gil Flores? A spare outfielder on the eternally damned 1979 Mets. If I didn't have Keith Hernandez as my automatic answer during my occasional "name a number and a name" mental gymnastic, it would be Gil Flores. And Bob Myrick is my instinctive response to 44.

17.05: Doc's Other Habit. Dwight Gooden won 17 games as a fabulous rookie in 1984, won 17 more games as a slightly disappointing third-year ace in 1986 and wore No. 17 the last time he pitched at Shea Stadium in 2000. But he wasn't a Met in 2000...how could that be possib...oh. Never mind.

17.06: Need a Clubhouse Lawyer? No Met pitcher has represented the 17th district in the House of Victories since Senator Al Leiter (R-NYY) went 17-6 in 1998. Does anybody still think he'll run for office? Shouldn't he be collecting babies and kissing signatures? Is every jock who can string three sentences together that don't involve the cut fastball considered a potential candidate for something?

17.07: I Still Don't Get It. In 1970, Topps put out a nice set of Sporting News All-Star Cards reflecting the Bible of Baseball's 1969 choices. Jerry Koosman got one as LHP for going 17-9. His face burst through a front page. Cool! But the RHP selection was not 25-7, Cy Young, Hitchcock Belt, Sportsman of the Year Tom Seaver, but somebody named Marichal, a name I mangled as a 7-year-old. That was probably the moment The Sporting News stopped being the Bible of Baseball.

17.08: I Finally Got It. That same summer, I was in day camp at the Sands Beach Club in Lido. When it came time to gather our group for a class picture, so to speak, we posed in front of a sign suddenly identifying us as the Sinister 17. There were 17 of us and alliteration's always a winner (as for being sinister, I don't remember if any of us were lefties like Kooz). But then another kid joined the group and we didn't become the Sinister 18. We became the Sinister 70. What was that all about? Probably that it was 1970, I just figured out. Admittedly, I hadn't given it any thought in 36 years from that summer until last night groping for 17 tidbits. Nevertheless, a surprisingly slow grope on my part.

17.09: Janis Ian. At 17, she learned the truth.

17.10: The Late Rick James. She was only 17, 17...but she was sexy. Was he referring to Ms. Ian? We'll never know.

17.11: Resilient Fishies. The Mets beat the Marlins 17-3 in the month previous to this one. Afterwards, rational owner Jeffrey Loria told his trusted manager Joe Girardi to forget about it, we'll go get 'em tomorrow. They haven't lost since.

17.12: A September to Remember. Your 1986 World Champion Mets became your 1986 National League East Champion Mets on September 17. If we ask real nice, maybe SNY will show an edited version of that game a hundred more times.

17.13: A Broadcast to Forget. Carlos Beltran tied the Met record for scoring in most consecutive games, 11. But the National League record of 17 belongs to Ted Kluszewski, as per Gary Cohen or whoever handed him the note in Denver. By the way, have you ever heard Gary as unhinged during a telecast as he was Tuesday? The travel, the thin air, the time change and Keith must have gotten to him. Forget about it, go get 'em tomorrow.

17.14: Ted Turner, All Class. When his superstation was merely UHF WTBS in Atlanta, the Braves' owner thought it would be a great idea to have Andy Messersmith, No. 17 on his baseball team, take the mound as CHANNEL, as in CHANNEL 17. If he owned a state road, I suppose Phil Niekro would have been HIGHWAY 35. Less remembered is he ordered the public address announcer at Fulton County Stadium in 1995 to introduce the Braves' rookie third baseman as Chipper Sucks.

17.15: Save Our Place, We'll Be Back in 88 Years. The Chicago White Sox defeated the New York Giants in the 1917 World Series, four games to two. But nobody makes a movie about the 1917 White Sox, do they?

17.16: Happy St. Bernie's Day. Every March 17 between 1993 and 2005, we would freak out our beloved first cat with a shrill HIIIII BERNIE! This year, on the day when the Ancient Order of Hibernians paraded without him in proximity, Stephanie and I poured shots of Bushmills Irish Cream and toasted heavenward. Bet we freaked him out again.

17.17: Magic Yes, But I Like It Too. My go-to number is 17. Any story I tell that requires exaggeration usually relies on 17, as in "I had to listen to him tell me 17 times" or "we must have gotten 17 phone calls today." My mother liked 14. She wasn't cooking 14 different meals, for example. I don't know why 17 took hold with me. I didn't even realize it until Stephanie pointed it out. I try to mix it up these days. Sometimes 8, sometimes 18. I probably have like 17 different numbers now.

Hey! We're sexy and 17!

A puzzle for bloggers and beat writers alike: What do you say about a 10-5 demolition of the Rockies? Do you praise the continuing firepower of MVP In Waiting Carlos Beltran and resident whirlwind Jose Reyes? Wax hopeful about a good night for David Wright, one that didn't even need a conference of umpires? Marvel about another night in which Steve Trachsel trudged through raindrops, dumped a couple of buckets over his own head and still somehow emerged dry?

Maybe. Another tack would be to look at the Rockies and shake your head at the Peanuts-style pratfalls they staged all over the outfield. It's quite an accomplishment to play two balls into two-run triples with foolhardy dives, but Brad Hawpe managed it. After the second one, I would have been the least surprised to find poor Hawpe lying undressed in the outfield, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth and whirly lines above his head. (Maybe Snoopy would bring the ball back to Peppermint Patty in his teeth.) And what's with the Rockies' bullpen? It's a little disconcerting to have to peer through trees to see who's warming up. What if they turn the cameras that way just in time to see Manny Corpas get mauled by a cougar?

Ah well. You know what you do when 10-5 drubbings start seeming pedestrian, when magic numbers descending seems like a natural right, when the next month's suspense concerns dates for clinching? You enjoy it. You enjoy every last dribbler through the middle, every pitch that nicks the outside corner, every it put in the books, every giddy grin on Jose Reyes' face.

And you count down the magic numbers.