Don't send the Braves to do the Mets' job.

They couldn't win one lousy game from the Phillies to facilitate our clinching. But so what? Our continuous demoralization of the Fish — poor babies — is plenty for 2 nights. And watching Turner Field in September of 2006 resemble a very depressed Shea Stadium from September of 2002 (1 loss after another, plenty of good seats still available) was worth it.

All our timely hitting, heads-up running and massive advantage-taking is public record and happily familiar. A couple of things I noticed that seem worth mentioning:

Thumbs up for the Dolphin Stadium organist. This person played "Take The 'A' Train" for The Beltra(i)n and "Love Me Tender" for Valentin(e). Thumbs down for whoever at SNY operates the bases diagram, which is always about five pitches behind. Thumbs scratching my head when Keith said that given his cold, he was better off up in the booth than on the field. Uh, Keith...is playing technically an option for you anymore?

And Gary acknowledged the sacks of Soilmaster! I knew it wasn't our imagination.

Now of course we count on nothing and we don't care to choreograph anything, but is anybody here really sorry that a possible Phillies loss tomorrow (no sure thing, they are playing the Braves) won't clinch for us? Who wants to grab the brass ring in absentia?

We play in Pittsburgh Friday night. An hour later Phillies throw down with another personal favorite, the Astros in Houston. Don't know what the magic number will be then. For now, it's a highly satisfying 2.

2.01: A Great Combination. Sometimes, Mary MacGregor would have us believe, you are torn between 2 loves (she actually said lovers, but that's not something I'd know about). Jason said last month there were Gary people and Keith people in the '80s much the way there were John people and Paul people in the '60s (he actually said Mick people and Keef people, but I'm clearly a Beatles person). In this century, are there Jose people and David people? I have to confess that a small percentage of me, like .0000000000000002%, slightly resented the instant popularity of David Wright when he came along in 2004 and trumped the presence of the previous year's savior, Jose Reyes. Reyes is the guy who zoomed up from the minors at not quite 20 and shook me from my brief but steep stupor in 2003 where the Mets were concerned. Reyes is the 1 who made me forgive the untimely, unfair, unclassy dispatch of now-minor league infielder Edgardo Alfonzo (who must be sticking pins in his Ricky Ledee doll every night). Reyes is the one who made me forget the disappeared balleticism of Rey Ordoñez, not much of a hitter, kind of a questionable person, but oh what a shortstop. Reyes is the one, more than any other Met in my estimation, who opened the door to the new and promising Met era that grew just a little up the road from his debut. When Wright came up, Reyes was either on the DL or heading back there from 2nd freaking base. When I attended the Home Opener in 2005, I couldn't believe how many WRIGHT 5 jerseys confronted me. He had been here barely 2-1/2 months the year before and now he's the idol of millions? Ah, but what Wright did for them, Wright did for me. He matured a little ahead of Reyes and in no time at all (remember, my so-called resentment was infinitesimal), I saw why everybody wanted to turn their backs into advertisements for David. I made mine into 1, too. Wright was the recipient of the M!-V!-P! chants right out of the gate this year. It was hard to not want to coronate. That support has since been inherited by Carlos Beltran, yet lately the "smart" talk says Jose Reyes is the real most valuable player on this club. And you know what I find myself thinking? That people are awfully quick to dismiss David Wright. So to answer my own question, I'm definitely a Jose-and-David (Josavid?) person. I plan to spend the next several years as such.

2.02: Love Him Tender. First time in 18 years. First time since 1988. No division title since then. In Octobers 1999 and 2000, I didn't sweat such details. We were Wild Cards and proud of it because it put us into the tournament and that's all that mattered. The man who guided us to that particular promised land was No. 2, Bobby Valentine. Color me aghast on the order of Keith Hernandez Tuesday night when an online poll was hyped during the Snighcast asking fans to vote for the greatest Met manager ever. Choices? Hodges, Berra, Johnson, Randolph. With apologies to the unfortunately omitted Casey Stengel, it should be illegal to have any such discussion without Bobby Valentine. Has it really been so long that the only manager to guide the Mets into two consecutive postseasons (and about a million amazin' memories) is now a footnote? Or was this some sort of sanitization of history, like a few days earlier when the same survey asked which of four Mets should be considered for number-retirement and none of them was Doc Gooden? Whatever. As we edge into that elusive first divisional championship since the last year of the Reagan presidency, let us remember to toast the skipper who gave us a helluva lot to keep us occupied somewhere in between 1988 and 2006.

Bellowed unironically a few minutes ago for the first time since the 1996 World Series:

GO BRAVES!

Atlanta's up 5-0 in the the 3rd in the opener of a doubleheader. Kyle Davies has homered.

Two wins for them and one for us tonight and magic gets a whole lot more magical.

Still don't like them, but who cares? They're just some team playing the Phillies.

UPDATE: In the minutes since I shared this with you, Davies loaded the bases, Howard drove one over the fence that Andruw Jones reeled back, turning it into a monumental sac fly. And then Mr. Marlin Jeff Conine singled home two. Davies is out and it's 5-3 and Oscar Villarreal is in and there's a long way to go.

Did I say GO BRAVES!? I'm sure I meant to hell.

It had only been two lousy losses since the previous Mets win, but it felt fairly major that the Mets asserted themselves in Florida. For you pre-Mentos mint lovers, think of it as Asserts...with Metsin!

For the rest of you, consider a club that was pulling itself back to the pack in its actions if not actually in the standings. More significant than the new, improved magic number having been reintroduced as 25% thinner and a thousand percent more delicious, it was a relief to watch a team whose collective head has been taking a collective nap up its collective rump wake up and get back to the work of slapping around the hapless hopes and distant dreams of all comers, contenders and pretenders.

Given the positive result and apparent attitude adjustment, consider Tuesday night 2...2...2 wins in 1.

The Mets reacted to the Marlins Monday night and much of Tuesday the way the Russians and Cubans recoiled at the Wolverines in Red Dawn. Patrick Swayze and his band of young, courageous freedom fighters attacked the Colorado Commie incursion like the fierce animals named for the local sports collective they were, never giving up no matter the odds that sent them into the mountains scrapping for their and America's survival in the nascent stages of World War III. The invading communist imperialists in their warm coats never knew what hit them.

Well, everything about these Wolverfish is surface-appealing and everybody who isn't an overcat loves the underdog, but a) we're the good guys, b) we never give up and c) the National League is our territory. There will be no teal dawn here.

Delgado, Floyd and Wright in particular asserted themselves. They waited out the close pitches and swung hard at the hittable ones. Our bullpen, with Bradford, Mota and Heilman holding them, Wagner stopping them and Heath Bell enjoying sunflower seeds, resisted falling prey to the Marlins' hackneyed script. We gutted out some very trying innings, but by the ninth, we had persevered and advanced. Let the diehard Florida fan (note use of singular) remember this night the way we can pick a dozen to rue from September 1987 or 1998. They had their chance. They lost to a better team.

Glad to see us acting like it.

And yes, the penthouse is finally vacant. To Cox, to Smoltz, to Jones and Jones, to Giles, to Jordan, to McCann and Francoeur, to all who have attained and defended National League divisional titles for so long, from West to East, from 1991 to 2005, you have been honorable champions and all those who care for baseball will miss your noble presence this October.

I'm just kidding. Take a well-deserved hike you losers. Highway's that way, fellas.

For us, it's 3 for the road.

3.01: Sweet! There was no greater clutch hitter in Mets history than Keith Hernandez, but if I needed 1 Met batter to get on base, I might very well choose the ultimate 3-hole hitter, John Olerud. Back when the Atlanta Braves were an obstacle as opposed to an afterthought, it was Oly's grand slam off none other than Greg Maddux that brought the 1999 Mets back to life after a 7-game losing streak nearly ruined a beautiful season. Olerud's swing was also a thing of beauty and his ability to accept the pitch that came after ball 3 was sublime indeed. While nobody will ever match Mex at 1st base, when Oly was 3 on your defensive scorecard, you were in good, soft hands. It's taken 7 years to ride the ex-Jay highway from Olerud to Delgado and have a guy in that position in whom we can feel confident on both sides of the ball (though it's surely more power than leather where Carlos D is concerned).

3.02: Between Throneberry and Strawberry. Yes, baseball was berry, berry, berry good to Chico Escuela. He was the toast of an otherwise barren Spring Training in 1979 when Bill Murray followed his last-gasp career-extending exploits through St. Petersburg for Weekend Update. Sadly, Chico had become a social leper after choosing to run down 3 separate Mets icons in his controversial book, Bad Stuff 'Bout The Mets. What was worse — Tom Seaver taking up two parking places, Yogi Berra's limited card skills or Ed Kranepool forgetting to return Chico's soap? The real crime, it seemed to us watching the Mets at home that March, was the decision to take 3 young unknowns north that April: Neil Allen, Mike Scott and Jesse Orosco. It was obvious cheapness, the kind of cheapness that has choked Dolphin Stadium of any tangible support as the non-football sublessee make its improbable playoff run. The '79 Mets couldn't match the '06 Marlins for raw talent but as judged by the trio of inexpensive pitchers' future endeavors, maybe Joe McDonald's people weren't as lame as we thought. As you may know, Jesse Orosco debuted as a Met wearing No. 61...and if you know that, you're either me and nuts or you treat Mets By The Numbers like WINS and tune in 2, 3, 4 times a day. If you want to know more about the numerical savant who runs that Mets site of Mets sites, immerse yourself in Paul Lukas' Uni Watch blog, which features a berry, berry, berry good interview with its exceedingly capable keeper.

3.03: Our Old Pal. After beating Florida Tuesday night, the Mets need to win 11 of 18 games to become the 4th edition in team history to rack up 100 regular-season victories. The other 3 had 1 man in common, the quintessential Met No. 3, Buddy Harrelson, '69 shortstop, '86 and '88 coach. Buddy's managerial prospects peaked in the 100-60 year of 1988 when, filling in for Davey Johnson in Los Angeles, the Mets that were temporarily his snapped out of a disturbingly sluggish period way worse than that which has afflicted these Mets for a couple of days, swept the Dodgers a 3-game series and took off on a tear that culminated in a 29-8 stretch run to end that regular season. During the radio broadcast from Miami, Howie mentioned Jerry Manuel and Manny Acta as potential managerial candidates because coaches on winning teams go the head of such lists. Indeed, Bud Harrelson was actually sought by teams that weren't the Mets (or the Ducks) based on how highly valued he was as a Johnson lieutenant. When he got his chance as Met skipper, he was highly successful...for a while. Harrelson ultimately fizzled as a Met manager. But Buddy will forever be a cherished Met icon. Need proof? Chico Escuela had not 1 iota of bad stuff to say about him.

You'd think an epochal game like that one would have felt more like a celebration. Instead, after six hours, 60-odd calls missed by Brian Onora and approximately 60,000 gallons of water falling from the Miami sky, it felt like survival.

But the end result is the same.

The Atlanta Braves are dead, their NL East reign of terror is over. (Their wild-card chances? Mathematicians can find a heartbeat, but they're the only ones.)

A million years ago, before the skies opened up, Oliver Perez was decidedly enigmatic, alternating mowdowns and meltdowns. Our offense was on hiatus. And then, when it looked too late, when it looked like we might spent Wednesday moaning about that 1-1 pitch to Julio Franco, it all snapped back into focus: Our usual buzzard's luck at Soilmaster Stadium turned as Carlos Delgado found the 410-odd-foot zig in the outfield fence instead of the 434-foot zag. One sight I've come to love is Delgado's baleful glare as he tracks the arc of a long drive that may or may not be out -- that ball wisely chose not to give Carlos any lip. Wright's ball wasn't quite so cooperative -- he just missed a home run -- but OK, we'd do it the hard way, Floyd-style. (Limp for another six weeks, Clifford. You've a role yet to play here.)

And the specter of Cody Ross, a night terror I don't think I'd ever heard of until a couple of days ago, and of course Miguel Cabrera standing between the Mets and the chance to crawl back to the hotel. Fortunately, Shingo Takatsu and his funk were nowhere to be seen. We won. Somewhere down in Atlanta, I can only hope Chipper was watching when the inevitable became official.

By now we can agree we're a bit tired of these Marlins, of their semi-anonymous sluggers and their parade of good young left-handers. (Though I must admit if we were duking it out with the Nats, I'd be rooting hard for Girardi & Co.) Looking beyond the immediate business at hand, I'm not so sure the Marlins are the evolving juggernaut we think they are. Young teams can go backward as well as forward, particuarly if the Marlins don't spend a little money to add what Lance Johnson once memorably called "more wolves to protect the pubs." Which they won't. That said, I certainly don't want to see them tomorrow or later this month or in October -- they're playing with house money right now, which can be awfully dangerous.

As for the late, no-longer-so-great Atlanta Braves, I wish I were more excited. If it were 10 pm, I would be. Ding-dong the witch is dead and all that. Still, right now all I can think is, They're no Florida Marlins.