So Kim Cattrall leans back and whispers to my 14-year-old son, "I think you've got something there."

But perhaps I should start at the beginning. It's Game 3 of the 2000 World Series, first game of the Subway Series at Shea. My sons and two friends are seated in the reserved loge section along the left field line -- not bad seats, but not high-roller either. They're Mets fans, so they're nervous, as well they should be.

Then they notice Ms. Cattrall, the attractive star of Sex and the City, sitting in front of them. There are many celebrities in attendance -- Harrison Ford! Bruce Willis! Andrew Shue! -- but apparently only the megastars and cast of Fox's Boston Public get the sweet seats. Earlier in the Series, Pete Sampras and his actress wife walked out of Yankee Stadium in a huff when they found their plebian positions. Kim, though, is one of us. (Actually, I was sitting somewhere else, but you know what I mean.)

No need to go into the game details. Suffice to say, THE METS LOOKED LIKE THEY WERE GOING TO BLOW ANOTHER ONE. In the seventh inning, manager Bobby Valentine brought in lefthander Dennis Cook to face David Justice and keep the score tied at 2-2. No need to go into Cook's personal history. Suffice to say, HE IS A LOW-RENT, FAR LESS EFFECTIVE VERSION OF ROGER CLEMENS. Even during a regular season game, his emergence from the bullpen sends my son into a state of panic. So you can imagine his reaction when Cook came trotting in from the bullpen with THE ENTIRE FATE OF THE AMAZIN'S RESTING ON HIS RED NECK AND SHOULDERS.

Kim -- they're on a first-name basis now -- notices Bo's agitation.

"This isn't a good move?" she asks him.

"No, he's not exactly a clutch performer," he tells her.

Upon which, Cook hits Justice in the leg.

So Kim Cattrall leans back and whispers to my 14-year-old son, "I think you've got something there."

Cook did get out of the inning, but when he took the mound to start the 8th, Kim asks Bo, "Why is he still in there?"

"Good question," he replies.

That was pretty much the extent of their conversation, and it wasn't even the highlight of the evening. Suffice to say, THE METS WON AND SHUT UP THOSE DAMN YANKEE FANS...FOR A DAY, AT LEAST.

It was a great game, equal to the Subway Series hype, worthy of the 44-year wait. I know that most of America couldn't care less, but we in the Greater New York area are enjoying the mostly friendly rivalry, the debate over whether Roger knew or didn't know what the hell he was doing, even the exchange of yawns the next day at work.

To sleep, perchance to dream...ay, there's the rub. As I walked the happy kids to our ride home at 12:45 a.m., sifting through all the Lincoln Town Cars -- this is actually The Car Service Series -- I cursed the 8:35 first pitch and the 12:30 last pitch. Man, close to four hours to play nine innings of a simple, 4-2 game. (And we thought doubleheaders were dead.) I felt guilty that the kids had school the next day, that they should be home in bed. The City That Never Sleeps should be home in bed, too, at that hour.

Watching Sex and the City, of course.