SECTION: SPORTS; Pg. 64 BLEACHER CREATURE

LENGTH: 570 words

HEADLINE: NO ANGELS IN OUR HEAVEN

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:
The first order of business last night, before the Creatures could go about our annual business of intimidating unworthy opponents and winning another World Series, was to kick around the Mets a little.

"Their own fans do it, why not us?" Tina Lewis said. And, as always, Tina was right.

Several of the Section 39ers were more than a little disturbed that the Mets would choose this day, our day, to do their housecleaning. It was a cheap power grab at The News' front page. Worse, the purge at Shea wasn't even a good scrubbing-down. "If they were going to throw away the trash, they should have picked the garbage off the floor, too," Sheriff Tom Brown said. "Steve Phillips . . . Mr. Met . . . They should have fired them all."

Anthony Griek suggested that Bobby Valentine ought to wear his fake moustache in the unemployment line. Mostly, though, we just laughed at the Mets' pathetic melodrama, at what one Creature called "their little tumult in their little world."

The main reason we were talking so much about the Mets was that it was very hard to concentrate on the Anaheim Angels, who are the latest in a series of generic division series victims. As D.U.I. James demanded, "Who are these clowns?"

Beats us. They're not the Red Sox. Not the Mariners. We see Edison Field on TV, and it looks nearly as dumb as the domed resort in Arizona. Instead of the pool, though, there is what appears to be Fred Flintstone's quarry beyond the wall. Or a miniature golf course. A stuffed elk would fit nicely there, make it look like an exhibit inside the Museum of Natural History.

The Angels are a novelty, if nothing else.

"It's like when you're watching Batman, and Riddler is on every episode," Sheriff Tom said. "But then, you turn the show on, and suddenly you get King Tut. The Angels are King Tut. It's kind of fun, just because it's different."

That's what we tried to tell ourselves, anyway. And we got agitated a little by repeating Tim Salmon's quote about how Yankee Stadium is so loud, you can't pick out individual heckles.

We picked our spots. Tim heard our individual heckles.

Mostly, though, we were careful to pace ourselves. The postseason is a marathon, not a sprint. We're not going to waste our best material on the Angels, Game 1.

Steve Krauss was already looking at his World Series tickets. He decided he didn't like the design. Too busy.

Tony Capone was on a fitness campaign, hoping to get in top shape for the Giants or Diamondbacks. He already has lost 20 pounds on a Weight Watchers program, which allows him up to 33 points per day. Tony had a light, six-point lunch yesterday so that he could drink 13 beers at The News Room before the game and still keep with the program.

Finally, there was an attempt by the Filip Creature (always searching for fresh material) to broker a book-signing appearance by Mike Lupica with the Creatures at the secret bodega before Game 2. Lupica demanded the guaranteed sale of 50 new books. In return, the Creatures demanded an apology for Lupica's quip, years ago, about how he looks into the right-field bleachers and wonders who will be the next owner of the Islanders.

The book signing is off, for now. We'll just have to concentrate on the Angels in our outfield.

If the appetizer is a little bland this year, the view from Section 39 is still the best in the world every October. A great place to catch another winning home run.

LOAD-DATE: October 2, 2002