Kiss My Aesthetics

Clinch today. Clinch in Pittsburgh. Clinch in front of Xavier Nady. Clinch in front of Jeromy Burnitz. Clinch in front of Ty Wigginton and Marvell Wynne and Tim Foli and anybody else who used to be a Met. Clinch and send them a check.
Clinch today. Clinch on your own. Or clinch by the hand of Wandy Rodriguez. Clinch when the Astros beat the Phillies if you can't beat the Pirates.
Clinch and call Keith Hernandez's car service and get home. Clinch and trot out onto the field Monday night as division champs.
Clinch today. Clinch on the afternoon of September 17, 2006, not because of the neat symmetry of clinching on the 20th anniversary of clinching our second-most recent to date National League Eastern Division championship (though that's well and good) but because of what might very likely happen on the night of September 17, 2006.
Clinch today. Because if you don't accomplish that small task with a magic number of 1, then another team, whose magic number is momentarily 4, will clinch before us. They get to play their 2006 patsies (speaking of dogs) during the day and again in the evening. A win for them is a loss for the team directly behind them. Who doesn't think it's quite possible to probable that the Yankees will sweep the Red Sox Sunday? They do that and they've clinched on September 17.
We must clinch September 17. First. In the daytime. Before them. This is not negotiable. This is not “gee, it wouldn't be as much fun to clinch while they're in the clubhouse” or “gosh, I have a ticket [and I do] for Monday night” or, heaven help any Mets fan, “Zach Duke is on my fantasy team.” This is one of those few times in the course of this extraordinary season when there is a MUST win. For us. For Houston. Whoever. Preferences are no longer an option.
I do not want to live in a world in which we are not the first New York team to be division champion this particular season.
I do not care how it is done.
Clinch.
Now.