Timing Is Everything

Tonight's game was one of those contests with a crowd that heartily deserved a reward: Anytime a bunch of people have to hang around two extra hours in 45-degree weather, there's nobody left but the diehards by the time the grounds crew pulls the tarp. And it certainly sounded that way: The crowd pointedly but good-naturedly chanting “WALK! WALK! WALK! WALK!” when Reyes looked at ball three is one of the funnier things I've heard in some time. Go on, tell me they do that in any other baseball town. I refuse to believe it. I can only hope Fran was in full cry about the electricity at Shea — tonight I wouldn't even have made fun of him.

All those hardy crazies got a good one: This was one of those neatly scripted little thrillers that may not be remembered next year or even come September, but is the kind of game baseball fans deeply appreciate on any night on the calendar (and appreciate somewhat more shallowly should they wind up on the short end of things).

Continuing storylines? Intrigue? Take your pick:

* Beltran's theatrically timed rescue of Pedro from No Decision Land, courtesy of the three-run homer — note that Pedro departed having thrown exactly 100 pitches, which must have had some Red Sox fans out there revisiting the urge to scrape something dead off the street and FedEx it to Grady Little;

* Clifford's stuntman catch and delivered-with-an-exclamation-point notice that yes, he was going to extend that hitting streak;

* another masterful night for Pedro, cool as the other side of the pillow in dissecting an NL lineup;

* Reyes pulling a Lance Johnson to silence all the OBP nuts in Met Land for a night (and only a night, since it's awful hard to go 4-for-5 162 times);

* the continuing struggles of Victor Diaz, with Mike Cameron's footfalls now audible;

* Personalcatchergate continues — by Memorial Day Willie's going to have to start reusing reasons that Mike not catching Pedro is a coincidence; and

* the latest chapter in The Enigma of Kaz Matsui, one of very few men to drive in a man from first and end the play on first himself. That took doing, Kaz. Please don't do it again.

Much as it's a delight to watch (OK, hear) Reyes frisking around Shea (“Whoo! Look at the spring in his step as he waves at that 1-2 outside slider!”), it makes me happier to hear a healthy Cliff Floyd. Yep, this is indeed the player we feared when he was the Man of Teal. His body is finally doing what he tells it to do without a lot of 15-day backtalk, and what he's telling that body to do is carry this baseball team through Beltran's adjustment and Piazza's last hurrah and Wright's sophomore season and Kaz's growing pains and Victor and Reyes learning on the job. Who knows how long all Cliff's parts will hold together (sound of frantic wood knocking, salt whistling over shoulders and what-not) — while they do, you can practically hear his delight at just being able to play all-out again.

Truth be told, I think most of us wrote off Floyd sometime in the middle of last year: We admired his gutting it out and appreciated his blunt take on things, but had quietly abandoned the idea that he'd ever again be more than a gritty third-tier player. That's one of the nice things about being a habitually pessimistic Met fan: It sure is wonderful being wrong.