Granted, it hadn't done much to repair or losses or been much of a blessing to us recently. But last night was a night to remember the simple sweetness of what baseball's like when your team isn't trying to remove your heart from your body with a rusty box cutter while you bite through your own hand. I mean, sit on the couch, admire a good pitching performance, take in a little drama and then be able to relax? I could grow to like this sport.

Given our recent awfulness and the late rally that turned this one into a laugher, the Twins were kind of beside the point. Not that I know them anyway -- I kept peering at the screen and wondering if that was Mauer or Morneau. Minnesota Twins ... hmmm. It's the place where Jerry Koosman, Wally Backman and Rick Reed got exiled. The hats say TC, which baffled me as a child. There's a weird stadium and a baggie. Kirby Puckett played there. They beat the Braves in the best World Series I've ever seen. They never beat the Yankees in the playoffs. Bud Selig tried to contract them. Everybody forgets they're an original American League franchise. They're run cheaply and make up for it with smart GM-ing. And that's a wrap. (I know that sounds a lot like my mental checklist when we played the Tigers. What can I say? I'm not going to take AL Central for $100, Alex.)

I'm giving the Twins short shrift not to be insulting, but because tonight was so much more about us, about looking for positives and finding some and then finding a whole lot more and then finally exhaling because there were enough positives that you could select them randomly instead of counting them up. John Maine, last seen handing out souvenir dingers to the entire Dodgers lineup? He was terrific. Carlos Delgado? Hit a home run and came within a Jason Kubel half-tumble of driving in two more. Carlos Beltran? Had good at-bats and actually got rewarded for them with a rifle double up the gap. David Wright? Three hits, nearly hit a home run, continued his sharp play at third. Jose Reyes? Scampered about gleefully. Heck, even Ricky Ledee went deep.

It was a game from the template of April or May. It was baseball like it oughta be. And it was wonderful.

Update: If you followed the link from Deadspin, welcome. To be clear, we doubt there's any truth to the blog post whispering about some kind of racial divide in the Mets clubhouse. Or to Julio Franco stirring it up. By the way, our sources tell us Roger Clemens subsists entirely on a diet of live kittens. Pass it on!