I'd never make a big thing of it, but I don't really get anybody who doesn't like Coney Island.

Yeah, it's dirty and seedy and you know the games are rigged and when you're being hurtled through the air by some ancient ride your mind inevitably goes to maintenance and whether or not it's been deferred. But it's got a ragamuffin charm I find impossible to resist, from the falling-down bars to the crappity photo stalls to the gruff but still careful way the kids' restraints are checked and the fact that so many people crammed into a fairly small place in hot weather pretty much completely behave themselves. (Come to think of it, that's not a bad description of New York itself.) And then there are things that need no qualifier, such as the wooden rattle of the Cyclone and the view from atop the Wonder Wheel (in the sliding car, of course) and knowing Keyspan Park is waiting just down the boardwalk.

Today we were heading out to meet friends for a Cyclones game against the Staten Island Yankees. I'm proud to say that the Cyclones won, beating the Potential Minions of the Vertical Swastika by a 7-4 score, with Brooklyn hurler Jenry Mejia definitely opening some eyes by fanning nine in five innings of one-hit ball. But the real victory, of course, came earlier.

We heard Ramon Castro put the Mets ahead while on our way to Williamsburg to retrieve stuffed animals Joshua had left at his babysitter's apartment. We heard Mike Pelfrey unravel -- with Marlon Anderson and Castro and Carlos Beltran plucking at the threads -- about halfway down Ocean Parkway, Brooklynites sitting on the benches on either side, extremely still in the heat. I heard the Reds and Mets grind away at each other futilely while looking for gas after dropping Emily and Joshua at Astroland. (Gas, man. It's expensive these days. Maybe you've heard.) And I heard more blows exchanged without much purpose over my handheld radio as Joshua traded in an enormous handful of green tickets he'd won by shooting clowns. (There were 230 of them -- it looked like the kid had pulled up an entire stalk of corn from a farmer's field, or plucked a reed from a waterway. He was very pleased with himself.)

I listened intently to the doings in Cincinnati, but at the critical moment I had a problem: I was taking Joshua on the Scrambler. The Scrambler, for the uninitiated, is one of Astroland's better kiddie rides, in delivering relatively adult levels of speed and excitement while accommodating those under four feet tall. It's a bunch of cars attached to booms that are whirled around the center, whipping you in and out and back and forth as you go round and round. (And round and round and round.) You're flung to the very edge of the underside of the boardwalk, to eye level with the stairs coming down from said boardwalk, to just short of the chain-link fence dividing the ride from the midway, and so on. I couldn't help calculating my chances if our Scrambler cab were to become detached at various points of apogee -- that maintenance thing gets in your head. I decided Joshua was low enough to be protected by the cab's housing, but I felt horribly exposed. Getting flung through the underpinnings of the boardwalk? Not only obviously fatal but it would also involve splinters. A close encounter with the steps would at least be a quick decapitation. Going through the chain-link fence, I decided, might offer me a puncher's chance.

(You should see how much fun I am at parties.)

When we boarded the Scrambler, the Phillies had lost, Robinson Cancel was on second base and I was hopeful. (And kicking myself for being in San Diego for the second and third games of the suddenly epochal Phillies series.) But the ride was loud, I only had one earpiece in, and I was hanging on to my kid. First the radio was whipping around from its moorings around my neck, so it had to be stuffed into my shirt, something gravity wasn't inclined to make easier. Then the volume was too low, but the controls had been stuffed down a neckhole. Then the headphones popped out of their jack. And the machine was grinding and everybody was yelling.

Luckily, if you've heard enough baseball, you can pick up a fair amount from the pitch of the announcers' voices and the pace of their rhythms. I got that Reyes (Jose) was on first. I then got that Reyes (Argenis) had done something significant, or had something significant done to him, or at least been an eyewitness to something significant. But that was it -- this is more or less what I could hear:

NOISE NOISE NOISE NOISE NOISE SOMETHING IS HAPPENING REYES REYES REYES IT'S PROBABLY SOMETHING GOOD NOISE NOISE SOMETHING SOMETHING AND THE METS REYES NOISE REYES

(It sure helped that there were two Reyeses involved.)

Billy Wagner struck out the side to end things as we were exiting Astroland, so I heard that quite clearly and reported it eagerly to anyone who cared within 10 or 20 feet. And then the three of us were off along the boardwalk to Keyspan, with our strides perhaps betraying a slight strut appropriate to fans whose team have just reclaimed first place, and perhaps also a slight hesitation appropriate to fans whose team possesses only a share of that magical status, and will soon have to defend it.

The streak is over! Dave Murray, your Mets Guy In Michigan, just witnessed moments ago his first Mets win in person since 1991. Dave's self-termed Streak of Shame had encompassed eleven losses at nine different ballparks, including two that no longer exist and one that has sat abandoned since Robinson Cancel was a growth stock.

But it's over. Dave attended today's Mets-Reds game at Great American Ball Park and came away with a great Metropolitan victory that he could pack up and drive home to Western Michigan. He leaves behind in the mighty Ohio an Adam Dunn-sized monkey that previously resided on his back. That burbling sound you heard was it drowning. I spoke to Dave ever so briefly after Billy Wagner struck out Jay Bruce and 17 years of disappointment in precisely that order. Dave was not a little happy.

The Mets are tied for first again, their co-leaders the Phillies coming in Tuesday. Pelfrey battled, Sanchez persevered, Castro homered, Delgado continued, Argenis Reyes occupied the middle of things, Jose Reyes tripled a team-record 63rd time and Wagner saved. There are so many positives to bask in from this afternoon in Cincinnati. But Dave Murray seeing the Mets win? That, like Robinson Cancel doubling, happens barely once per decade.

The cats here didn't enjoy Saturday night's game any more than the people did. Mike Lincoln's logging of called strike threes on Wright and Beltran brought howls from this human. The living room noises were so disturbing that I'm told by a reliable witness who was in the kitchen that they sent both Hozzie and Avery scurrying for cover — and those are cats who regularly ride out all but the most severe thunderstorms with aplomb.

My over-the-top sound effects are yet another sign that the 2008 Mets are back, though I'd rather prove it through sustained applause. When I was wandering aggressively ambivalent Met territory, I could handle with an affectation of smirking indifference David and Carlos B. looking at kill-me-now full-count bases-loaded pitches. These nights, however, I'm taking our setbacks personally again, just as in pennant races of yesteryear when it was every cat for himself.

In the wake of the 10-0 run, watching the Mets has re-emerged as serious business, which made surprising to my wife my nodding off during whichever early inning it was that the third-base ump screwed Tatis out of that great catch in foul territory. I had to see it on replay after Stephanie nudged me out of my catnap. She had put down her Redbook long enough to be disgusted by the frighteningly bad call and then wondered how I could have snoozed through it:

"I was expecting you to punch the couch or grunt or something."

Later I was expecting the Mets to do something, too. They did. They lost in excruciating fashion, one of those affairs in which a five-run pounding felt like a one-run squeaker. All the Mets needed was one lousy timely hit, one baserunner not held up at third, one crucial pitch...and they got nothing. They seem to be, at the very least, going through a phase. I'm willing to believe 0-2 is the aberration, that 10-0 is the leading indicator. We shall learn more soon.

Partial to precedent as I am, let me point to one that is, unlike the 1991 model, actually kind of cheerful. The 1986 Mets (like their '91 and '08 descendants) entered the All-Star Break blisteringly hot. Their first game back, a Thursday night in Houston, was a nailbiter into the seventh. They trailed the Astros 1-0 until they exploded like the Astrodome scoreboard used to. Seven in the seventh, three in the eighth, three in the ninth; Mets won 13-2 and appeared (like their '91 and '08 descendants) unstoppable as all get-out.

Then they fell victim to the Astros and incompetent umpiring for three agonizing games in a row. OK, it wasn't so agonizing considering they were double-digits ahead of the pack in the N.L. East, but it rather sucked. They were shut out for the first time all season on Friday night, wasted a four-run ninth that tied Saturday's game when Roger McDowell turned around and surrendered a walkoff homer to Craig Reynolds and were jobbed by a dismal call at the plate in the bottom of the fifteenth Sunday. Also, four of the Mets (Darling, Ojeda, Aguilera and Teufel) managed to get themselves arrested at a lovely club called Cooter's Executive Games and Burgers over the weekend.

What's that? These aren't the '86 Mets we're watching? No spit, Spurlock, but the '86 Mets — bail made — got on a plane to Cincinnati right after that and swept the Reds. Featured in that series was the famous fourteen-inning game in which included Dave Parker dropping the surefire last out in the ninth, the brawl between Eric Davis and Ray Knight in the tenth, ejections galore, Gary Carter playing a flawless third, Roger McDowell and Jesse Orosco switching off between the mound and right field and Howard Johnson blasting a three-run homer to eventually win it. According to Baseball Tonight, that 3-1 letdown turned 6-3 triumph was the last time the Mets entered the ninth in Cincinnati trailing by two runs and went on to win...until Thursday night when they were down 8-6 and won 10-8.

Moral? I have no idea, but finding some way, any way, to connect 2008 to 1986 makes me purr a little.

Quick as a cat, three more points...

• Quasi-cultural recommendation: City Center (55th between Sixth and Seventh) is staging a summer revival of Damn Yankees through July 27. Stephanie and I saw it Saturday afternoon and it had, as its signature song suggests, heart. Good tickets are relatively cheap (starting at $25), City Center is, as always, a charming venue and, best of all, the title characters are neither seen nor successful.

• If I may be blasphemous this steamy Sunday morning, it's far too hot for a sermon. Keep the Commandments and say a prayer for Dave Murray to break his Streak of Shame. You'll recall our friend from Michigan tried (and failed) to get his first Mets win since 1991 at Shea during the Subway Series in June. He was at Great American Saturday night to extend what has become a seventeen-season, nine-park victory drought to eleven games. He's sticking around Cincy Sunday to take one more shot at ridding himself of it. May Mike Pelfrey guide him to the promised land.

• The Reds inducted Cesar Geronimo, Joey Jay and Barry Larkin into their Hall of Fame before defeating the Mets Saturday. The Mets inducted Tommie Agee into their Hall of Fame before losing to the Dodgers on Sunday, August 18, 2002. Those are each team's most recent inductions. Kudos to Gary Cohen for noting during Saturday night's Snighcast how the Mets have completely neglected our Hall for six consecutive seasons and have made no known effort to even convene a meeting to discuss nominees since Agee went in posthumously. May Mets management find a bit of time between polishing the doorknobs to the Ebbets Club and spiffing up the Jackie Robinson Rotunda to someday honor somebody who had something to do with the nearly half-century history of the New York Mets.