How far have we come as a people? We beat the Braves for the fourth consecutive time, in September, in a finishing kick that this franchise has lacked even in many of its good years, and when it came time to mock the visitors from Atlanta, it wasn't...

"WOH-OH-OH!"

It was more...

"Meh. Meh-eh."

There was still some pretty good vitriol made available to the Braves lest they think we don't still consider themselves our partners in a special relationship. But in ninth innings past, with a victory nearing the reasonable assurance stage (and there were a few), there'd be the chant and there'd be the chop and there'd be the Chipper...sucks.

Not in 2007. Not at this point of the calendar. Not while the standings are arranged as neatly as they are. Barely a hint of a chant or a chop at Shea Monday night and no sign of Chipper on the field. No Andruw either. When the Joneses aren't dragged from their sick beds to keep up with the Mets, there must be a towel involved.

You know, the kind the Braves have obviously thrown in.

WOH-OH-OH!

Hey, this feels good, huh? Remember when the only reason the Braves wouldn't have wheeled out their big if dinged guns in September was to rest them up for the playoffs? Unless watching the playoffs requires fresh legs (and those trips to the fridge can take it outta ya), it would appear there is no urgency to Bobby Cox's lineup construction these nights.

WOH-OH-OH!

So no chop, no chant — nothing sustained, at least. Laurie and I did have one guy two rows behind us who let the Braves know they can just go ahead and "SWEEP US! WE'VE GOT THE DIVISION! TWO YEARS IN A ROW!" but he lost his momentum when he attempted to shout agate type involving Pythagorean Winning Percentage and such before the intense curmudgeon to Laurie's left turned around and told him to knock it off and he did (why haven't I ever tried that?). The Atlanta Braves haven't suddenly become the Generic Opponent Questionable Nicknames, but let's say smacking them down in another close one has lost the slightest touch of its edge.

I'm pretty sure Jason or I (or both of us) predicted five years ago, when Angels fans were ThunderStixing their way to a world championship, that the annoying inflatable noisemakers would be all the rage at Shea come 2004, just after the novelty of them had completely deflated. We were only off by three years (though we continue to wait on the Rally Monkey.) In the spirit of corporate synergy, Monday night was Citi Night. Free money? No-fee checking? No, just blue ThunderStix with the Citi logo. How's that for team spirit?

There's nothing written on them that had any connection to the Mets, Laurie said.
It will by 2009, I replied.
"WE'RE NOT CLIENTELE!" the yelling guy later added, possibly in response to the assault of Large Financial Institution Is Wonderful announcements that ran on DiamondVision between Kiss and Smile cams. Or maybe he was telling the pretzel man to move along.

Knock it off. You too, Citi.

Monday was my 27th home game of the year, most of them reached by mass transit, leading me to a rather disturbing revelation: Should I ever stumble from the platform onto the tracks and meet my untimely demise at Woodside, I think I know the way Newsday will identify me in the headline of this latest story of how the LIRR gap epidemic is swallowing riders whole. After their reporter talks to a few eyewitnesses, I will be:

Mets Fan Who Directed Others to Trains

Hence the irony.

What is it about my persona that compels total strangers to ask me every conceivable question as regards public transportation between Long Island and Shea Stadium? Aren't there professionals paid to provide answers? Doesn't anybody else appear they know where they're going?

Excuse me, what's the next stop?
Will we have time to make our connection?
Does the Huntington train stop on this platform?
Is this Track A?
Do the doors open here?
Should I get off at Jamaica or stay on?
Would I look good with a mustache?

I don't mind, per se. I like to be helpful, especially to my fellow Metsopotamians. If I didn't know where I was going, I'd want somebody to set me on the right path. But why do they ask me out of everybody around? This isn't 1997 — there are thousands of people who take subways and commuter trains to and from Shea. The MTA has been flogging a campaign encouraging it for two years. I have thus concluded:

a) most Long Islanders are clueless as to how the system works;
b) I emit an aura convincing them to see me as their map, their timetable and their compass rolled into one.

They view me as the Swiss Army Knife of the Long Island Rail Road.

This has been going on as long as I can remember. And it's not a strictly local phenomenon. It happens, probably once per trip, on our out-of-town ballpark sojourns. I don't know how somebody from Milwaukee or St. Louis or Philadelphia is supposed to look, but do I look like I'm from Milwaukee or St. Louis or Philadelphia?

Is there something clueful about the way I stand and stare? Do I seem a better bet than all the signage designed and posted specifically to issue commutation information? Has anybody else ever picked up a branch schedule and kept it just in case they needed to turn around and go home after the game? Or go to another game?

This is probably an NBC series waiting to happen...pitched as Heroes meets Early Edition — something like that. I can hear the promos now: He was just a baseball fan waiting for a train. Until he was...CHOSEN!

Ask the guy over there for directions. Save the world.

Yunel Escobar was the first batter last night. and Oliver Perez looked horrible against him, throwing two balls very wide before getting a gift of a called strike. Fortunately, Yunel Escobar is young. After the strike call, he seemed to get antsy. Oliver struck him out, and that seemed to restore his focus on his mission -- namely, to drag the Braves' casket out of their dark lair and into the morning sun. The Braves aren't moving, but you can never be too careful with them, as Armando Benitez and John Franco taught us once upon a time. I now recommend the stake in the heart, the communion wafers in the mouth, and about a gallon of holy water.

Along those lines, last night's game briefly threatened to turn into a horror movie, but in the sixth Oliver showed the grit needed to escape the most frightening action sequence (lineout to third, pickoff at second, strikeout) and Billy Wagner made his way across unholy ground (McCann and Teixeira and Francoeur, oh my!) not only intact but also unmolested. In the end, with Wright ("MVP! MVP!") and McCann trading two-run shots, the difference was that first-inning run scratched out on a Beltran groundout.

No Oliver Perez start is without a head-scratcher or two, of course. In the Times' game story, Perez said he's been "trying different things" and changing his mechanics. Wha? I hope that was out of context or the language barrier was at work, because otherwise that's puzzling: Why would anyone who'd been sent down by the Pittsburgh Pirates and survived to resurrect his career start playing around with his mechanics? Perhaps the answer is ( as is often the case with foolish tinkering) that Oliver Perez is young, too. At any rate, he did follow that admission with a certain wisdom, noting that he'd succeeded by keeping his arm slot consistent. And he got this bit of public advice from Carlos Beltran: "You need to look at the tape and continue to pitch like this." From the center fielder's lips to the pitcher's ears, please.

Chipper Jones and Andruw Jones are not young, not anymore. But they were both absent -- Chipper with an oblique strain and Andruw with the flu. Huh. Wow. I can only assume Chipper is very hurt and Andruw is very sick, what with their season circling the drain and all. If Jimmy Rollins and Chase Utley want to sit out with a hangnail and a sore throat, I will applaud their caution. But somehow I think they'll show up regardless of what the trainer has to say.

Chipper's oblique was the subject of fascination for the SNY crew, which had the injury (a innocuous batting-practice swing) on tape. Their Zapruder-like analysis of the infamous swing led to yet another 2007 Keith Hernandez moment -- a passionate denunciation of sit-ups. "Too much swiveling!" Keith exclaimed with indignation, as Emily and I giggled on the couch and Gary Cohen (who's gotten very good at sneakily turning up the heat once Keith gets rolling) goaded him by asking whether today's players didn't have enough body fat.

Keith is an icon, and so his age is immaterial, but he certainly is getting amusingly cranky -- we knew he was off to the races when he groused that "I never did a sit-up." Keith's get-off-my-lawn moments make me wish he could do postgame spots after a few hours at Elaine's. Sit-ups? We never did sit-ups -- did we, Ronnie? Our regimen was shotgunning beers and screwing girls and deep-frying steaks and destroying planes and we won a freaking World Championship doing that -- right, Ronnie? All you kids out there, you watch what happened to Chipper. Don't do that! What's that, Gar? Well, I think it's that the game's changed with the steroids and the sit-ups. And the swiveling! Too much swiveling!

Postscript: The Brooklyn Cyclones battled fog and the Staten Island Yankees and defeated both, ending the Junior Yanks' season and advancing to the New York-Penn League Championship Series, a best-of-three affair that begins Thursday. The game ended after midnight, taking it into Sept. 11 and thereby bringing up an old memory: 2001 was the Cyclones' inaugural year, and they won the first game of the Championship Series and could have won the title on 9/11. Instead, the game never happened. Brooklyn and Williamsport were declared co-champs. Given everything that happened on that terrible day, this is at most a footnote to a footnote. But that's not quite the same as nothing. Now, six years later, a win on 9/11 will give the Cyclones a chance at a new title. It's the least of things, but I found some small measure of satisfaction in it.