Oliver Perez was reborn Saturday as a control freak. May he remain obsessive, compulsive or whatever it takes to do repeatedly what he did today.

Six and two-third innings. Two runs. Nine strikeouts. No walks.

None.

Barely any balls at all...in the literal sense, that is.

Whatever became of the human WALK sign? That fellow (41 of 73 pitches drifting every which way but over the plate on April 11) went into witness protection. This one (72 of 98 pitches delivered within the defined parameters of the strike zone) regulated traffic properly. The Braves nicked him here and there for singles and doubles, but the damage was minimal. His sluggers gave him a wide berth, but it was the meticulously trained Ollie-cum-Ali who threw the knockout punch at the Braves.

It wasn't a Rumble in the Jungle. It was barely a Melee at Shea. But who the hell wants to lose two consecutive decisions to Atlanta in New York? Not Ollie. Not his trainer Rick who had his protégé throw all those "bullpens" (a new use for the noun, I think) since his last start a hundred years ago until he got whatever was wrong right. Not me and my 55,142 pals, minus the hundreds who always show up in Braves gear under the impression they still root for "America's Team".

No, it was too warm a day to ruin it with bad pitching. Perez and the pen were as pristine as they had to be. Beltran and Reyes flirted with the cycle. Ramon exploded. Damion Easley introduced his useful self. Every Brave was harassed, but Chris Woodward got an appreciative hand. I got to Shea early enough to stroll field level and purchase a salmon roll at the legendary, usually off-limits Daruma of Great Neck stand. Me and Joe broke our mutual six-game losing streak and then worked the ramps and turnstiles to efficient-commuting perfection.

Until 1:10 Sunday afternoon, who could ask for anything more?

Nice to see a little offensive pulse late in Friday night's game, but to paraphrase Jackie Robinson, a hit is not important except in the impact is has on other hits.

Met batters made no impact on Tim Hudson. He made the best lineup in the National League ineffectual and anything Mike Pelfrey did or didn't do moot. So for one night, it was meet the Moots, meet the Moots, step right up and...thanks for coming, arrive home safely.

Does the first inarguably noncompetitive loss of the season — though if Kelly Johnson doesn't make like Ordoñez and rob Reyes from one knee with the bases loaded in the fifth, it's 4-2 — bode anything serious? The Braves are in first by a half-game, they showed off some of that excellent pitching that used to be their regular-season trademark and Chipper Jones reminded us why he is a fungus.

It wasn't pleasant but it can be wiped away pretty quickly.

Oliver Perez, whose last turn in the rotation followed Jim McAndrew's, will have weather and stamina going for him, presumably. I'd mention how well he seems to do against the Braves but then I'd be forced to note how poorly he's done against just about everybody else. Let's go with he's due.

Pelfrey, I think, just needs to get comfortable. If he has to do it in New Orleans at some point, that's fine, too. He has too much talent, too much stuff and, I'm convinced, too much poise to not come along fairly quickly. Whereas Perez may never be consistent to our liking, if Pelfrey gets one excellent start under his belt, others will follow.

Also, if anything can be done to delete the smirk from Jeff Francoeur's face, let's make that happen.