I won't claim it's an original thought, but as the final outs ticked down today, I mused to myself: It's 2006's Game 7 in miniature.

There was Oliver Perez, a scarily unknown quantity, pitching on three days' rest and acquitting himself very ably indeed. There were the bats, not being heard from enough. There was Endy Chavez, saving the Mets' season with a sparkling defensive play in deep left. There was the much-maligned bullpen, turning Endy's deliverance into a mere stay of execution. And there were the Mets, going home.

It's not a perfect analogy, I know. This time, there was no furious comeback. (Though the game ended not with a called strike three but with a fly ball that looked long off the bat but wound up short, a la Mike Piazza -- or Cody Ross.) But it was close enough. And an easy enough parallel to spot that members of the mainstream media have already offered the same comparison, as many more will tomorrow. Here's a relatively easy prediction: A lot of those writers will pair them only to invoke broken-hearted Met fans, and most of those writers will then offer snarky talk, with blaring headlines, of a second straight collapse.

Not me. Not on either count. Yes, Shea's final game reminded me of her final game in '06. But for a different reason. For a better reason. I remember them together because now as then, my head is held high. My team fought hard and fought honorably, and the only thing I wound up not liking was the outcome. That time, they struggled to make something out of a shotgunned starting rotation, and came up just short. This time, they escaped a choking malaise that had haunted them for a full year, then struggled to overcome a star-crossed bullpen, and came up just short. The finish line was different, but the bravery of the effort was similar.

Am I sad? You better believe it. I'm sad for the players and coaches. (Howard Johnson looked ashen as he took the field for the closing ceremonies.) I'm sad for my blog partner, the biggest Met fan and maybe the kindest man I know. I'm sad for Laurie and Charlie and Joe D. and Sharon and J M and Jeff and Kevin and Coop and Dennis and all our readers and all the rabid fans who cheered their hearts out at Shea and in front of their TVs and studying Gamecast somewhere far away. I'm sad for Emily and Joshua and even little old me, who sat in front of the TV and stood to sing the anthem and "God Bless America" and "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" as if we were there, and even broke out the rally caps for the ninth. I'm sad for Shea, which deserved extra days and nights with banners and bunting and ceremonies and cheering and most of all crackling tension under October skies.

But if you'll excuse a familiar turn of phrase, I'm disappointed, not devastated. 2007 was a collapse, no doubt about it. (Though it really started on Memorial Day, with a lot more than 17 to play.) I was livid about it then; I'm still angry about it now. And I will be to my dying day. But 2008 was no collapse, no matter what the scribes say tomorrow. It was a comeback that fell short, and that's a very different thing.

It will be hard, this Met-free October. (Though not so hard that I'm not eager to know what will happen to the crawled-from-their-own-wreckage Brewers, or the scary but psychically burdened Cubs, or the counted-out Twins/White Sox, or the amazin' amazin' Tampa Bay Rays.) It will be hard, this winter of remembering the terror of seeing the bullpen door open, of thinking over and over again about Murphy at third and Wright at bat and none out and the Phillies having lost. It will be hard, figuring out what to do with myself during the vast empty nights of those impossibly bleak five baseball-free months on the calendar.

But I will remember other things too. Like watching Daniel Murphy work counts like Edgardo Alfonzo come back to professional life at a precocious age. Like seeing Mike Pelfrey burst into bloom when we thought he might be yet another prospect who'd wither away in his springtime. Like watching a ball streak toward the gap and knowing that Carlos Beltran, the best center fielder in the game, is already on a smooth course to intercept. Like the billion-watt smile of Carlos Delgado, resurrected and majestic in his baseball second coming. Like Johan Santana, standing against the storm and not only refusing to break but barely even bending.

I'll remember these things, and soon enough the days will be longer, there will be old and new Mets in Florida, and then they'll be here, once again, under warmer and warmer nighttime skies, in a place that's different but that we already know how to get to. And we'll have begun again.

"It’s time to be a MAN.” -- Johan

A long time ago I lived in a group house outside Washington, D.C., and the male housemates had a running joke. The premise was that the world's men had formed a union, and our president was Steve Young, then the never-say-die quarterback of the San Francisco 49'ers. If a male housemate decided you were falling short in the cojones department, he'd inform you (with an audience, of course) that you'd had a phone message (this was before cellphones, because I'm damned old). Steve Young had called, sounding disgusted, barked "GODDAMNIT, BE MORE MANLY!" and hung up. (Yeah yeah, Young was actually a Mormon and so undoubtedly neither swore nor ever had any fun. Shut up.)

After what I witnessed yesterday, though, to heck with Steve Young. Johan Santana is the president of the International Brotherhood of Men, as well as our savior and an ace worth each and every single penny of that $137.5 million.

Greg and I, being insane Met fans, tend to stay put when we're at Shea for a big game. We're organized about our food runs (take care of that before the game, ideally) and even our bathroom trips. (Greg can cover the distance between his seat and the john at cheetah speed; I'm not that fast, but will never go unless the Mets are hitting, since by definition things then can't get worse.) Greg doesn't drink much, and while I can't exactly say the same, I rarely drink more than a token beer in the ballpark for fear of missing things on the field while in the bathroom.

On Saturday neither of us left our seats for nine innings. What was going on down there on the field was way too important to be interrupted for any biological demand. Because what was unfolding below us, in the mist of late September, was nothing less than a passion play with the 2008 Mets' survival at stake.

Normally, fans watch the pitcher. They watch the hitter. And the smart ones watch the outfielders, so they don't roar for pop flies. Today, we and all the other Santana rooters (a wonderful crowd, by the way -- nearly all die-hards in full defiant cry) did all that, but in addition we watched the bullpen door. We were trying to will it to stay shut. No Heilman, no Schoeneweis, no Feliciano, no Stokes, no Smith, no Ayala. All we wanted was Johan, our Rock of Gibraltar against the tides of Marlins and Brewers and Phillies and collapses and ill luck. But how long could he go? He'd been good for 87 pitches on short rest once upon a time, but that was a while back. He'd just thrown his career high. How long could that dreaded bullpen door stay shut?

We fretted after the bottom of the sixth, when Johan got the Marlins 1-2-3, then cheered rapturously when he strode to the plate as the second batter in the seventh. We roared and chanted his name as he got through Paul Lo Duca, the deadly Hanley Ramirez and John Baker in the eighth. In the ninth, we were on our feet for every pitch, baying his name, trying to shove him across the finish line. With two out and a runner on second, Cody Ross lifted a potentially dangerous-looking ball to deep left. Some around us groaned. I just stared, my mouth hanging open, the parts of my brain used for calculating trajectories and estimating arcs temporarily shorted out. "IT'S IN THE GLOVE!" Greg yelled, and sure enough, the ball came down cradled in Endy Chavez's eminently trustworthy hands. Game over, a three-hit shutout on three days' rest. Unbelievable.

Greg has a ticket for today; I do not. This is significant, because in recent years I've developed a curious habit: When I know it might be my last visit to Shea for the year, I give myself over to all the silly between-innings stuff. I cheer for the Kiss Cam and the Delta Dental Smile of the Game. I stand up and hope the Pepsi Party Patrol finds me with a shirt. I let Diamondvision and Busta Rhymes tell me when to clap and what to yell. Yesterday, I was too terrified to follow potential-last-game protocol for a while. But then I remembered. And so I sang lustily along to "Take Me Out to the Ballgame." I clapped for "Lazy Mary." (Jesus, do I hate that song.) And in the eighth, I was in full cry for "I'm a Believer." Halfway through, I realized a slight pronoun switch would make it the perfect song for the day, the season, the pitcher and what was at stake out there in the rain:

I thought love was more or less a given thing,
Seems the more I gave the less I got.
Whats the use in tryin'?
All you get is pain.
When I needed sunshine I got rain.

Then I saw [his] face, now I'm a believer
Not a trace of doubt in my mind.

And before I knew it I was wiping my eyes with the back of my hands. Jesus fucking Christ, I thought, I'm misty-eyed about the fucking Monkees. Somebody get Steve Young on the phone.

If Greg noticed, he was politic enough not to say anything. What got to me? Well, everything: The sheer audacious bravery of the man on the mound, throwing a team and a terrified fan base on his back and demanding they measure up to what he was accomplishing; the dull pain and wild hope of seeing an undermanned, overachieving team trying to cheat the hangman; the memory of 2007 and how everything turned to ashes before our eyes; and the thought that if Johan could do this, if these Mets could back him up, then whatever happened on Sunday Shea would have a marvelous memory to offer so close to her end.

I am not sentimental about Shea -- quite the contrary, in fact, though that's not something to discuss right now. But looking out over Shea's familiar bowl in the late innings yesterday, I found myself thanking the baseball gods for making the old park once more a showcase for what human beings of extraordinary ability and supernatural will can do with a ball and bat and some gloves. Baseball is our most beautiful game and, to my eyes, one of our highest artistic achievements. On Saturday, at Shea Stadium, it was played about as beautifully, thrillingly and heart-stoppingly as it can be. Nothing that happens today, whether it brings us joy or misery as Met fans, will erase that.

On the way out, as Greg has already told you, he and I quietly debated where Santana's day ranked with great Met clutch pitching performances. Al Leiter in the play-in game? Superb, and our backs were against the wall, but he wasn't on three days' rest. John Maine a year ago in this same Game 161? Terrific, but he did have a heck of a cushion. Sid Fernandez in Game 7? Heroic, but a relief stint. Maine in Game 6 against the Cardinals? Fantastic, but he went 5 1/3. Oliver Perez a night later? Wonderful, wholly unexpected, and on three days' rest, but he went six and we lost. Jerry Koosman in Game 2 of the '69 Series? Great, and stopped the bleeding from Game 1, but not back-to-the-wall stuff. Bobby Jones dismantling the Giants? Marvelous, and we didn't want to go back to San Francisco, but we had some wiggle room.

Santana, we decided tentatively, might just stand alone. And then we quietly considered that as we went down the ramp, out into the mist of a season that has at least one more meaningful day after all.

As we went from the upper deck to the mezzanine to the loge and to field level, I let my eyes linger on the familiar ramps and blue girders and Mr. Met signs and scary-looking puddles and stopped escalators and stalled food carts and boozy, happy fans, knowing this might well be the last time I saw them in such familiar surroundings. And at ground level, at the gate, I let my hand rest on Shea's tan bricks for a long moment, ignoring the grumbles from the sudden pile-up I'd caused behind me.

"Thanks, old girl," I said quietly. "I hope I see you again."