Billy Wagner was lost.

His momentum carried him across the first-base line, ball in hand. He got himself stopped, and turned, but didn't find the bag he was expecting -- somehow it was an extra foot to his right, accessorized by a mildly dumbfounded Shawn Green. Oops! Billy kept turning, and Plan B arrived in the form of Kelly Johnson, who walked into the tag and became the final out of the game. Billy had found his way after all. As had his teammates.

One quality of Willie Randolph's that I admire despite the teeth-gnashing it causes is that he's not afraid to take risks in order to find out something important. It always goes like this: The camera focuses on an unlikely pinch-hitter, an unestablished reliever in an unaccustomed spot or an established pitcher trying to get one more out than you'd expect. Discussion ensues in the booth, followed by a shot of Willie at the dugout rail, looking even more stoic than usual. He's administering a test and wondering if his latest pupil will pass or fail.

So it was in the eighth. Heilman was faltering, teetering on the verge of collapse thanks to another Brave two-out rally. (If the standings were different, these would be terrifying instead of vexing.) In came Feliciano with one out to get. To first base went Brian McCann, whom I am heartily glad not to have to see again until next spring. Exit Feliciano, enter ... Mota?

Yes, Guillermo Mota. Guillermo Mota who'd pitched fairly well of late, but only in garbage-time situations. Willie had decided to administer a bullpen pop quiz. I called Emily (attending the game with her dad) and said, "For the last hour I've been envying you being at a wonderful game on a nice night. Now ... not so much." She laughed.

The crowd handled Mota's arrival like New Yorkers often do -- they booed the sight of him thoroughly, then grumpily accepted that for better or worse he was the one with the ball and tried to cheer him through his confrontation with Jeff Francoeur. Which he lost after a succession of good changeups and not-so-good changeups and foul tips and finally a clean single through the 5.5 hole. Tie game. Then Mota got Andruw and the crowd, reversing an earlier motif, roared its approval of the strikeout and then booed Mota to the dugout for his earlier misdeed.

No matter -- Carlos Beltran promptly restored order with a sharp single, a steal of second off a kid catcher just up from Double-A, a wily theft of third beneath Yunel Escobar's nose, and then walked home courtesy of Green's third hit of the night. How about Shawn Green? He either needed a rest, has been revitalized by a move to first or -- most likely -- senses the barn after an admirable career. If he stays hot, he could retire with 2,000 hits, not counting whatever he might earn in a final October. That ought to be worthy of a last standing O.

The rest of the game? Crisp and exciting with occasional spots of worry. John Maine is so easily spooked by misfortune (in this case a muffed fly-ball single between Reyes and Beltran) that I'm surprised more teams don't try to rattle him. And Mota failed Mr. Randolph's exam convincingly. And got a win for his troubles.

But no matter. This is the time to find things out, to figure out what needs to be tuned up and what needs to be rethought. And there was plenty to celebrate. Reyes looks revived, Anderson and Milledge proved jolts of excitement, we beat John Smoltz (again), got up after a punch and responded with a knockout blow, and moved closer to Game 163. All in all, not a bad night's work.

The weirdest part about the inevitable recollections a baseball game played between the New York Mets and Atlanta Braves at Shea Stadium on September 11 summons is the obligatory reference to how remarkable it was that when these teams squared off just shy of six years ago in our city's first large "normal" gathering of any kind, their fierce rivalry was put aside.

Think about it. The horrifying circumstances enveloping the city; the tension and uncertainty; the precautions and the prayers; the dimness in our hearts...and the fact that the Mets and Braves didn't hate each other for a night is considered as historically groundbreaking in context as any of it.

It's a different September now and it was a different Tuesday in New York yesterday, no matter the coincidence of the date and the day of the week. The Eastern Division equation has been shaken like a snow globe time and again over the past six years, never mind what's occurred in the world at large. The Mets have tumbled and they have risen. The Braves rode high until they succumbed to a middle path. The statistical reality is the two teams haven't actually finished adjacent to each other since 2000. Yet these are longstanding rivals still. Maybe someday through another round of realignment or another shake of the snow globe, they won't be quite in each other's heads and faces the way they have been for the last decade.

It would be too bad. Sport thrives on rivalry. These two have earned theirs. I used to think it was a little overstated because it was a lot lopsided. The Mets' ascension has altered that aspect of this rivalry for the better. The Braves' refusal to completely go to seed has been good for it as well. We like a good nose-looking-down where they're concerned — and we'd probably be pretty happy if they were about ten back of the Marlins — but in the abstract as well as in this particular September, the arrangement works. Neither combatant should be a hollowed-out version of itself. You have to hate somebody in sport, and your bile has to be worth your while.

Let's not be shy about how we feel about the Atlanta Braves. Hate is not too strong a world given the sordid interaction between these two teams since approximately the conversion of an Olympic stadium created Turner Field. Yet on September 21, 2001, I couldn't imagine hating a baseball team for the crime of trying to beat another baseball team, even my baseball team. Those were just people down there on the field. They were embracing. How could I hate anyone ever again who wasn't literally out to destroy me? Those feelings came back again with the stories that trickled out of the booth Tuesday night, particularly when it was pointed out there's still that cluster of Braves who were there then and are around now.

Everybody points to Piazza's home run and its healing power from the Friday night game. Yeah, I guess. I have to confess I've never quite bought into it, and I was there, standing and applauding like everyone with a pulse. I was happy the Mets had won a baseball game and I was encouraged that they extended their participation in the pennant race a little longer and I was thrilled if anyone who was in need of a serious lift received it from one swing of the bat...but I personally couldn't get past its marginal meaning in the larger scheme of things.

For that, I needed to hate the Braves. I couldn't hate them Friday night. No, it took Sunday afternoon — Brian Jordan and all he wrought (two-run homer in the ninth, game-winner in the eleventh) — to make baseball real again. To make it OK to hate a baseball team for trying to beat another baseball team. For succeeding at beating a baseball team. For ruining the playoff chances of a baseball team. For doing in my baseball team.

Logically, it didn't click any more than Mike launching his shot Friday night did. Not one more person lived instead of died because of a baseball game. But emotion usually has about a six-game lead on logic in our sport, and my prevailing emotion Sunday was hatred for the Atlanta Braves.

Hate. Baseball hate. It was back. It felt so right.