"If we'd had 5 decent starters, his ass would have been out of here 4 years ago!"

Thus spake a disgusted Joe in the midst of Sunday afternoon's Trachselization. When Joe has the clearest vision among 45,000 disgruntled Mets fans (and probably 3,000 jerks who haven't heard the Dodgers don't play one borough over anymore), surely it's time for action.

Stevie Shoelaces untied my 5-game winning streak and slapped me right back under .500 for the year, 24 hours after I climbed back to break-even for the first time since 0-0; Joe and I are 0-4 together...and outscored, he looked up, 38-10 on our weekend ventures. But I'll happily — ecstatically — accept a lackluster 8-9 mark for myself for now if it means this day was not in vain. It is my fondest hope that Steve Trachsel's 3rd-inning exit, down 0-4 with loaded bases bequeathed to Royce Ring, punched his ticket out of the rotation for the playoffs. If I can legitimately claim I witnessed the final start of Steve Trachsel's Mets career, I'll chalk that milestone to my record proudly.

The last time a perpetually berated Mets starter took the ball in the postseason, it was Bobby Jones. But Jones, fairly useless from the middle of 1997 to the middle of 2000, was on an upswing for a couple of months leading to October 2000. He was downright hot down the stretch. His pitching, not his since-'93 longevity, earned him his starts. We were rewarded.

Any ball handed Trachsel next month should be signed by the entire team and melded to a plaque that says, "Good Luck Steve! Fondly, Your Former Teammates."

Loyalty's a marvelous quality and if you've been on a team that has been playoffless since the moment you showed up and you've been with the team the longest of anybody, it would be heartwarming to see you get your chance in the spotlight. But not if it's at the expense of success in those playoffs. Willie's a loyal guy, but to his guys (which is probably why Ricky Ledee is here and Fonzie isn't, though Fonzie's .241 BA at Norfolk might have been a factor). Trachsel's not one of Willie's guys. Just about everybody else is. It will take guts to drop a veteran at this stage of the season. Willie's got guts. Let's see if he has the stomach or judgment to make the move. (Note: Willie and Omar are professionals at evaluating baseball players and what they can do for the team. I'm just cranky and kvetchy, but I do pay attention.)

If Steve is incapable of starting effectively when they need him most, then maybe this was the beginning of the end or the end of the end for Trachsel's 6 years as a Met. He's shown no sign that he could ever adapt to a relief role. I don't want him out there in a Game 4 over Maine or Williams or Perez or George Stone. The 5.17 ERA he left with after 67 pitches and 8 outs wasn't built on just a bad week. If the Tigers can release Dmitri Young in September, perhaps Trachsel can become his batting practice pitcher.

The Dodgers seem to like his stuff well enough.

Of course, Trachsel could have pitched to his earned run average against L.A. and the Mets still would have laid a wreath at the tomb of the unknown lefty. If we face the Dodgers and Little pitches Penny over Stults, he's as big a dope as they believe he was in Boston.

The only intriguing note of a positive nature from this 9-1 throttling was a Julio Franco sighting at 3rd base in the 8th and 9th. He made 2 nifty slings to 2nd. Julio Franco hadn't played 3rd base since 1982. Julio Franco is the Ralph Malph of infielders. He's still got it.

By then, though, most of the patrons had left. When plenty of good seats are suddenly available with a game in progress, it can only mean Steve Trachsel in on his 2nd bottle of pinot.

Marlins beat the Phillies. Through all this yeech, comes a yay. Yay, the magic number is 4.

4.01: Is Acta Practicing the Stop Sign? It was pleasant to see Jose Reyes hit a meaningless 4-bagger in the 6th. It is shocking to realize he has more homers (19) than triples (16). He will need 4 very specific extra-base hits, 1 homer and 3 triples, to get to 20 in the 4 categories that only the greats have reached at once. He's already doubled 28 times and stolen 57 bases. If he has 20 homers and 19 triples on the last day and he hits 1 out, would it be real bad form to trot into the dugout after he touches 3rd?

4.02: Sweep! Sweep! The Mets won the 1969 World Series in 4 straight. Game 1 was practice.

4.03: He's in My Face. In light of the historical theme running through our countdown, it would be proper to salute No. 4 Ron Swoboda or No. 4 Lenny Dykstra or maybe even No. 4 Bob Bailor, but the No. 4 Met who's hard for me to ignore at the moment is the current bearer, Chris Woodward. He's half of the September page on my Banco Popular Calendar Weekend calendar hanging behind my computer. They made him share a picture with Aaron Heilman. Coulda been worse for Woody. Xavier Nady was August.

4.04: B-R-L-F-Q Spells Mom and Dad. In 2002, Steve Trachsel posted a sparkling 3.37 ERA for a last-place team. While he has seemingly regressed, we have, in 4 short years, gone from rags to riches. Bobby Goldsboro said he did the same in "Watching Scotty Grow". Nearly 14 years ago, I was writing a sub-headline for the cover of the magazine I worked for that played off another lyric from the same song. It said that three particular executives "are Watching Snapple Grow". I was asked if we needed the "are" in the sentence. I explained it was meant to recall the line, "Me and God are watching Scotty grow." Another staff member, who would reveal himself over the remainder of my tenure at that publication to be the biggest horse's ass in the rear-end genre, said that's not it, it's "Me and Dottie watching Scotty grow." Dottie? Who the hell is Dottie? This guy insisted Bobby Goldsboro, like him, was from Alabama, and in Alabama, "we don't take the Lord's name in vain." He was extraordinarily adamant about this, adamant to the edge of argumentive. I drove to Tower Records, bought a cassette of Bobby Goldsboro's greatest hits and found the proof. It was "Me and God," not "Me and Dottie". I brought it to work, played the song and pointed out, "See? See? 'Me and God'." The horse's ass' reply? "I don't know why you're making such a big deal out of this." Also, the song was written by Mac Davis of Lubbock, Texas.

Good God.

Yesterday I drove back to NYC from Long Beach Island, so it was another day of catch-as-catch-can baseball. But it was an adventurous one: Emily and Joshua got dropped at Sesame Place outside Philadelphia for an outing with his grandparents, so our friend Eddie and I heard the intriguing Maddux/Duque duel on FAN as we planned an outing of our own. What better way to cap the calorie-fest that was vacation at the beach than taste-testing cheesesteaks (whiz, wit) in South Philly? So off we went to Pat's and Geno's. I drew the Geno's assignment and totally muffed order etiquette, but was treated mercifully enough. (I ordered in English, by the way.) If anyone's curious, my vote was for Pat's, whose onions I thought had more bite. But it was the thinnest of margins. You can't really go wrong.

As previously chronicled, the game was a perfect, modest little affair: good pitching, one big hit, two lead changes. Now that Greg Maddux isn't a Brave he can be appreciated far more -- the story of Maddux intentionally grooving a slider to Butch Huskey in a spring-training game as preparation for the regular season is a classic, for example.

But while I'm not going to vilify him, I do have a question: Why just 72 pitches? I can't believe Grady Little pulled him (insert Pedro/Yankees joke here), so I assume it was Maddux's decision. I know Maddux had just run the bases. I know he's in his twilight and his margin for error, location-wise, is down to nothing. But with a game on the line that the Dodgers have to win, isn't it better for them to have a tiring Maddux on the mound than Tim Hamulack or Brett Tomko?

You were happy to see him depart in favor of those two decidedly mere mortals, and rightly so. Maddux has an aura about him that he earned by being a perennial Cy Young winner, by being a sure-fire Hall of Famer, by being Greg Fricking Maddux. Brett Tomko? If he has any kind of aura, he needs to do a better job in the shower. And yet there Maddux went, presumably on his own or without much resistance, after which Hamulack nearly gave up a home run to Delgado and Tomko gave up the fatal single to Wright. Assuming it was Maddux's decision, I'm not saying it was selfish or arrogant -- the L wound up on Maddux's ledger, after all. If anything, it seems excessively unselfish and modest -- believing too much in a supporting cast you far outshine. Whatever it is, I don't get it.

Regardless, the game turned out right and was over around Trenton. But my baseball day wasn't over. On Thursday night, after the Brooklyn Cyclones earned a trip to the New York-Penn League playoffs in unlikely fashion, I grabbed a couple of playoff tickets online. Last night was the first of a best-two-of-three series with the Staten Island Yankees, and my Internet order landed me seats 10 rows back, behind home plate.

Sounded great late Thursday night, but as I lugged various possessions out of the rental car late Saturday afternoon, I had at least a moderate case of buyer's remorse. Everybody I invited to the game was busy, I was bone tired, I would have to find a place to park the rental car and then either return it to Manhattan after the game or get billed for an extra day, and I would be late getting to Keyspan (after a long haul on the F train) no matter what I did. Frankly, getting rid of the rental car and then taking a cheesesteak-induced nap seemed like the smart plan.

But man, I had an awfully good ticket. I had a chance to end summer with an unexpected Coney Island visit. And the Cyclones were in the playoffs.

Oh, what the hell.

So it was that I strolled up to Keyspan, print-at-home tickets in hand, around 6:15. The game was on, and I saw something drop from the concourse above, land on the pavement with a dull, meaty sound, and roll toward me.

What idiot would drop a baseball out of the concourse? I thought.

I've been going to baseball games for 30 years. I've never left with a foul ball. Never. Eventually, the years of anticipation yielding nothing and reflexes dulled by overthinking everything combined to leave me almost unaware that one could get a foul ball, and all but helpless when one did come my way. At Shea, I've been caught by my wife cringing away from one that wasn't all that close. I've had one come within a couple of feet while I goggled at it stupidly (and did nothing to protect my kid). At a Bowie Baysox game years ago a foul ball skipped up the aisle to where I was ordering a hot dog and hit me in the foot. It spun at my feet for a moment; I stared at it like the ape with the thigh bone in 2001 before a passing kid gave me a strange look and picked it up. (An outfielder did toss a ball in my general direction after an inning at Keyspan, but that doesn't count. Besides, I dropped it.)

Anyway, all of this is to explain why I would actually think someone had dropped a ball out of the Keyspan Park concourse before realizing that was a foul ball rolling along the pavement in front of me. (Hit, it turned out, by recent callup D.J. Wabick.)

After all those years, it wasn't even hard: The ball rolled right to me, like a dog offered a treat. I stopped, put my hand down, the ball rolled into it, I read OFFICIAL BALL NEW YORK-PENN LEAGUE on it, thought "Cool!" and walked on into the stadium.

As if there aren't thousands of reasons already, let that be a lesson. You're tired? You've got a lot to do? You won't get there for first pitch? Whatever. Go to the game.

It's been a great week for the connective tissue of the Metsosphere. Faith and Fear gets to hang with Mike's Mets on Tuesday and then dines al fresco with Mets Guy in Michigan in Manhattan on Saturday.

The world hasn't witnessed this great a concentration of creative Mets energy since Metstradamus blogged alone.

Dave Murray and I have been baseball soulmates all our lives even if we never met until last evening. The beauty of blogging strikes again. We were born within 16 months of one another and grew up within maybe 12 miles of one another and rooted for the same team and discovered we once attended the same Rangers-White Sox game, but who would have known all that without this thing of ours? It's a beautiful thing. That plus the education conference his paper sent him to cover at Columbia.

He couldn't make it to Shea so I brought a little Shea to where he was staying on the Upper West Side. We found a bar with a few outdoor tables and attracted a stream of well-wishers drawn to my DELGADO 21 t-shirt and — here's a scoop — my brand new, custom-made replica 1976 Mets Bicentennial cap. One patron asked if the Mets were home next week, he wanted to exchange some tickets. A passerby who's retiring from the Transit Authority wanted to tell us he's from the same town — Aguadilla, Puerto Rico — as Carlos D. Another pedestrian gave us a little song and dance about the Mets...literally. I gave him a buck for his troubles. (Eating outdoors? Bring singles.) Dave told me he was having trouble finding suitable Mets knickknacks to bring home to Michigan. I sense his next trip here will find a more firmly grounded Mets town.

Check local retailers late next month, if you know what I mean.

Another night, another blogger reveals himself as a first-rate human being, another Phillies loss lops magic matters to 5. How lucky can a Met fan get?

5.01: The State That's Shaped Like a Mitt. In honor of the Mets Guy From Michigan, how about 5 Michiganders who became Mets? 1) Rick Down: Somebody thank him for whatever it is he's done this year. 2) Mickey Weston: Dave's his virtual biographer. 3) Rodney McCray: Even walls fall down. 4) Jim Gosger: '69...'73...23 Skidoo!; 5) Keith Miller: His best position turned out to be agent.

5.02: It Shouldn't Have Gotten This Far. David Wright's No. 5 will be retired if there is justice in this world (didn't say there was). Diamond Dave should be wearing any one of dozens of fabulous numbers right now, however, because 5 should have been retired for the David who didn't mind being known as Davey. Other than winning half the franchise's world championships, guiding them from nothing to everything and attaining more victories than anybody in the same job, Johnson wasn't much of a manager.

5.03: Star Watch. Back to the current and ultimate No. 5. According to the übercomprehensive Ultimate Mets Database, David Wright is No. 41 on the all-time Met hit list. He is also the No. 41 of everyday Met players.

5.04: As Long as We're Blogging Great Met Bloggers. You have to dig anybody who claims No. 5, Mike Phillips, as his favorite childhood Met. And I do.

5.05: He's Not Great at Math Either. Paul Simon promised to share 50 ways to leave your lover. I count only 5 specific options to get yourself free: 1) Just slip out the back (Jack). 2) Make a new plan (Stan). 3) You don't need to be coy (Roy). 4) Just hop on the bus (Gus). 5) Drop off the key (Lee). To be honest, I think Roy got shortchanged on advice.

You can to go a game in which the Mets are facing Greg Maddux and feel clean. You can watch a surefire Hall of Famer at the tail end of an honorable career and come away feeling good. You can say, hey, I saw a 300-game winner pitch, a guy who knows how to work fast and hit the corners and make another generation of hitters guess wrong.

This is not Roger Clemens. I'd have croup from screaming at him for hours on end. Roger Clemens is one of the best pitchers ever but you can't look at him for a second without hoping a light stanchion falls on him. Maddux isn't that. He was a bedeviling intradivisional opponent and it was always sweet to defeat him when we could and there was little shame (if a lot of frustration) in not getting to him. In a jumpy, antsy sports culture where we are quick to vilify anyone who wears the wrong uniform or throws to the wrong base in the right uniform, it's reassuring to see a Greg Maddux take to the mound and give his best effort.

It's even better when his manager pulls him after 72 pitches on a day when Maddux is doing fine. I don't know if it was Maddux, rarely a hurler to extend himself beyond his limit, or Grady Little, still trying to figure out when and when not to yank immortals, but as glad as I was to see Greg Maddux pitch at Shea, I was way happier to see him removed. I'll take my chances with Carlos Delgado and David Wright vs. Tim Hamulack and Brett Tomko.

And Orlando Hernandez, Aaron Heilman and Billy Wagner against everybody in a gray, nameless uniform.

Props to my friend of a decade Laurie for treating me to this treat of a pitchers' duel. I admire Maddux. She deifies him. Her day was both soiled by Maddux's loss and enhanced by the Mets' win (whereas I took my fifth straight victory with no ambivalence). Beyond a general preference for Met success, there's no formula to Laurie's cheering impulses. They are lavished upon Cy Young stalwarts, but also directed toward long relievers teetering on the scrap heap. Laurie's loyal to who Laurie's loyal to. It's like she's running a fantasy team in a league of her own. I can't figure out whether she's tied for first or last.

As if whittling the magic number to 6 wasn't fun enough Saturday afternoon.

6.01: I'm Almost Stumped. In honor of Laurie's ability to love the Mets and Met opponents in comparable amounts, here, strictly off the top of my head, are 6 players I like who never played for the Mets presented in no order except that in which they are typed and not counting guys from history who played before I was paying attention...and also they had to have played against the Mets at some point in their careers: 1) Dale Murphy. 2) Chone Figgins. 3) Hank Aaron. 4) Tim Raines. 5) Vladimir Guerrero. 6) Albert Pujols, though that's conditional through the first three weeks of this October.

6.02: The Worst Trade Nobody Brings Up. Wally Backman, the pre-eminent No. 6 in Mets history, for three nonentity Minnesota Twin minor leaguers in 1988. The idea was to clear out second base for Gregg Jefferies. The Mets stopped being the Mets without Wally, who hung around and contributed to a few more teams for a few more years and never stopped being Wally, though I don't think it ever meant as much to him again. It was great to applaud him on Old Timers Night. Wally Backman's the kind of player you wish you could see play tomorrow.

6.03: The Worst Trade Not Brought Up Nearly Enough. Melvin Mora, the best No. 6 since Backman, for Mike Bordick, the starchiest stiff who ever played short for a pennant-winner. Melvin was Timo with brains, Jose with experience, Joel Youngblood without minding his versatility. Bordick was Kurt Abbott with a rep.

6.04: Can't Listen to It, Can't Live Without It. In its 20th year, the 6 best things about WFAN, Sportsradio 66 (previously 1050): 1) The Mets are on it. 2) When Howie Rose hosted Mets Extra. 3) When Howie Rose did a 5-hour talk show every weeknight. 4) Steve Somers when he was Captain Midnight. 5) Joe Benigno when he did overnights. 6) Scores every 20 minutes.

6.05: Be Grateful We're The Pitchers' League. Imagine the Phillies with their No. 6, Ryan Howard, at first and Jim Thome still around to DH. You shudder to think what their magic number might be. Then again, they had them both and Abreu and Utley and Wagner and a cast of thousands in recent years and where did it get them?

6.06: Movin' On Up. There was a Jeffersons in which a therapist asked George to play free association. You know, "black...white; rich...poor". The doctor said "sex" and George said "seven". The doctor was shocked. George asked, "Didn't you say '6'?"