A few years back I decided to torture Greg with a thought experiment: Would you want the Mets to win the World Series if you couldn't watch any of the season or postseason? (At least that's how I remember it. Correct me if I'm wrong, Mr. Prince.)

The answer I was expecting was a flat "no," possibly followed by calling me insane, a jerk, etc. Greg's reaction was to stop and think for a while, then start asking questions. Could he record the games and watch them later? No. Could he buy the season-to-remember DVD? No. Could he ... No, no, no. He would know it was in the record books and part of Mets history, but he could never feel that rush of delight, or even its echoes reliving the moments. That was the deal.

Greg looked tormented, and I decided that he must have viewed the thought experiment as a referendum on how much he loved the Mets -- if he loved them enough, shouldn't he want them to win even if he couldn't be part of it? Which was interesting, though more than a little sadistic, but not what I'd had in mind. All I was after was some half-baked philosophical point about the team's doings being inseparable from the fans' enjoyment of/torment over those doings. If a Met wins the World Series and no one cheers, does the title make a sound? Or something along those lines.

All of this is top-heavy prelude to last night's game, in which I was the worst fan ever. First I groused at length about the shortcomings of various Mets, a bitter monologue that Emily endured with eye-rolling and periodic rejoinders to the contrary. (I believe I called Valentin done, picked on Beltran for playing too conservatively, excoriated Green for his defense while he was at bat, ranted about Milledge not working counts and settled for ad hominem attacks about Heilman, who wasn't even in the game. I don't recall declaring that I didn't like Chip Ambres' face, but anything's possible.) Finally Emily grew weary of this and said she was going to sleep.

I decamped to the study to work on the computer and listen on the radio -- not so much because I had work to do but because the way the Mets have been playing, I figured my full attention would just lead to further indignation and upset. (Honestly, after Beltran doubled off the bag only to have Wright fly out to the Petco equivalent of a coat closet in the attic bedroom, did any of us think we'd break through against Jake Peavy?)

Given at most fitful attention, the Mets began to blossom. I started for the upstairs TV, then reconsidered, a la Keith drinking beer in Davey's office. I paid more attention to what Howie and Tom were saying. Things went south. I paid less attention to what Howie and Tom were saying. Things perked up.

OK then. For the rest of the night I gave the Mets vague attention at best and before I knew it we were home-free.

Just don't ask me to follow this strategy the next time we have a playoff game. Or, come to think of it, five minutes from now.

Julio Franco is back with the Braves. They're desperately giving one last shot to an old, broken-down baseball refugee in the hopes he will rekindle the lost magic both he and they had together...or he and they will revive on contact and wreak all kinds of vengeful havoc on the Mets.

Guess which scenario I'm living in fear of.

Cesar Cedeño was as scrap heap as scrap heap could be in 1985. Then Whitey Herzog picked him up, cleaned him off and inserted him at first base down the stretch. He hit .434 in 28 games for the Cardinals who flew by the Mets for the Eastern Division title. Two years later, a similar (he batted only .233 in 24 games but it was similar enough) phenomenon unfurled, except the washed-up vet who helped do us in was Dan Driessen, also a first baseman. And precisely one decade later, our mini-miracle of 1997 was derailed when the Marlins poached Darren Daulton from the end of the line and stuck him at first.

What position does Julio Franco play again?

Past isn't necessarily precedent. Not every oldie grab is a goodie. The Phillies, for example, picked up Jeff Conine late last year and they didn't make the playoffs. Speaking of Conine, he's on the Reds. So is Brandon Phillips.

Let's get Brandon Phillips.

I don't usually care to indulge in hypothetical trades, but waiting for West Coast starts and a position to be definitively filled is making me antsy.

Let's get Brandon Phillips.

I don't mean to be the big-market team fan who believes small-market teams' rosters exist for our plucking pleasure, but the Reds are atrocious and show no signs of ambition toward being anything but that.

Let's get Brandon Phillips.

I don't like the idea of giving up our own young chips, not so much Ambres, but the ones I've actually seen. Pelfrey I believe has a future. I do like Lastings. Humber was a No. 1 pick for a reason. I'd hate to give any of them up.

But I would for Brandon Phillips.

Not much used to trolling in trade talk, I have no idea if Brandon Phillips is explicitly available, but the way baseball works and the way Omar works, everybody is available. Omar once made Brandon Phillips available, trading him five years ago for Bartolo Colon, one of the gutsiest move the GM of a constricted, contraction-bound club could have made. Didn't work out, but it was the right move for the Expos then.

Getting Brandon Phillips for the Mets would be the right move now.

What would it take? Damned if I know. I don't do hypotheticals normally. But if they wanted one of our pitching studs, go ahead. If they wanted Milledge, too, go ahead. If they need Gotay to help fill the void and ironically chill with Jeff Keppinger, fine. If we have to take Conine or even David Weathers off their hands, I have no problem with any of it.

Let's get Brandon Phillips. This guy has been killing us for two straight seasons. Murdering us. He should be extradited to New York and brought up on charges. Or, better yet, traded to New York to become our second baseman for the next several years.

Brandon Phillips was all that stood between us sweeping the Reds this weekend. (Well, that and our general nimrodedness Friday.) He had a deleterious impact on us last year. I just watched him almost singlehandedly beat the Braves. I'd leave him to do that some more except I don't think Cincinnati's schedule will allow him the luxury.

We need a second baseman. We've needed a second baseman since Roberto Alomar decided to quit the game (albeit several years before he retired). We haven't had a dependable second baseman since Edgardo Alfonzo moved to third. We've had one Danny Garcia after another. Bless Jose Valentin's heart and one good knee and uplifting 2006, but he ain't getting it done either.

Brandon Phillips apparently hits well against not just the Mets and Braves. Brandon Phillips is only 26. Brandon Phillips, unless I'm missing something nobody's told me, can play his position, a position nobody around here has played competently in anything approaching a long-term nature in six seasons. Brandon Phillips is probably due for arbitration soon, which means the Reds could be talked out of him. They love youth movements in Cincinnati. It keeps them feeling hopeful.

We need youth. We need a bat. We need a glove. We need a spark. It's not going to come from Chip Ambres. It's not going to come from Marlon Anderson. It could very well come from Brandon Phillips. He's playing on the Reds. It's not like he has something important to do.

Let's get Brandon Phillips. Now.

When I think of the San Diego Padres, I think of a line from The Shawshank Redemption, what Andy Dufresne says to Red Redding about where he wants to live out the rest of his life:

You know what the Mexicans say about the Pacific? They say it has no memory.

From one season to the next, I remember next to nothing about the Padres. Their roster is forever 70% surprise, 20% Gileses and maybe one or two Gwynnian stalwarts just so I can recognize them if I flip by SNY too fast. Hey, isn't there a baseball player named Khalil? Ohmigod, the Mets are on! Their history is a muddle of Big Macs, fish tacos, fire sales and camouflage. This is the fourth season in a row in which I've looked at that stadium of theirs and thought, "hey, the Padres just built a brand new ballpark!"

The San Diego Padres are the Pacific Ocean to me — less because they play so close to it than because we play so far from them. If the Padres aren't going up against the Mets two series a year, they simply don't exist, and I mean completely out-of-sight, out-of-mind, when did Columbus get a hockey team? don't exist. They exist way less than their California neighbors because the Giants and Dodgers have their roots in our backyard and my subconscious and occasionally materialize on Baseball Tonight. The Padres? They've won two consecutive division titles and are the only National League team at the moment with a legitimate shot at making it three straight. They have the lowest ERA in the known world. They have...

...I forget. Who are we talking about again?

It's not that the Padres don't rate our respect. They do. Anybody whose games start after my wife kisses me good night is potentially bad news. But that's the other thing. The Giants start their homes games a little after 10. The Dodgers either 10 or 10:30. The Padres? They come on after The Tomorrow Show With Tom Snyder, right? They make me sleepy just thinking about them. I went to Jack Murphy Stadium once and couldn't enjoy it without grabbing a few winks at my seat between the fifth and sixth. Every time I see them, they've just completed a wardrobe change. They annually acquire some big shot — Willie McCovey; Rollie Fingers; Gaylord Perry; Steve Garvey; Jack Clark; Rickey Henderson; David Wells; Mike Piazza; Greg Maddux — whom you will never, ever associate with their franchise even if one of them is on your screen at this very moment in Padre...blue is it now? And, furthermore...

...I forget again. Who are we talking about?

Never mind the Padres. How about those Mets? How about that El Duque? If there's one thing I can say about El Duque, it's...it's that he's the Padres of our pitching staff, at least to me. Honestly, I tend to forget he's in the rotation at any given moment. That's on my head, I suppose, but also indicative of the way he'll get an extra day or month between starts and then suddenly reappear from out of nowhere. Plus there's that Friar-like tendency to give you something different every time out. There is no rhyme and less reason to El Duque. Sometimes he's magnificent, as he was Tuesday night; sometimes he's magical, as he was hitting and stealing!; sometimes he's completely unfathomable and gets bombed and turns edgy as he disintegrates in full view; and sometimes...

...who pitched? Of course. That guy. He won. All right!

The best thing to say about the Mets who aren't Orlando Hernandez in their second game in San Diego is they forgot who they had been during their first game. This was a much-improved version, replete with a No. 3 batter who lived up to his spot in the order and a second baseman who, at last, looked like he could hit the side of a wall (and not hurt himself in the process). Keeping with our current policy, I will praise the Mets only lightly lest they become satisfied with one-game winning streaks. They have more business to take care of tonight in...

...I'm sorry — where are we playing again?