Anne Marie Cruz stuck around in the Mets' clubhouse long enough to witness a Mike Piazza breakdance routine.

The mad rush to the Mets locker room was split into two lines: media and loved ones. "Hope you don't treasure that sweater," said one reporter to another. He was wearing a yellow rain slicker.

Funny, I was heading in there to get soaked.

Inside, plastic sheeting covered the whole clubhouse, making it look like something between Grandma's house and E.T.'s quarantine. The lockers, the walls, the TV cameras, everything was draped in clear film, rivulets of cheap champagne dripping down.

Overheard

"You're not going to let Hillary in here, are you?"

—Man in suit to elevator operator at Shea, after the attendant mentioned Rick Lazio was in the stands.

Because everyone was spraying everyone else: Robin Ventura ambushing his family; his kids soaking Todd Zeile's kids; NYC über-fans Susan Sarandon and Tim Robbins sinking their hands into vats of ice-water to dig out bottles to arm themselves against Al Leiter; John Franco launching sneak attacks on Mike Bordick.

The soundtrack to the NL championship leaned heavy on the oldies-but-goodies, like "Copa Cabana" and "Thank God It's Friday."

Players shouted to whomever would listen:

"Has anyone seen the mayor?"

"What's the fire code? This is a hazard!"

"Where's the good stuff? I'm not going to drink that."

(The good -- or at least strong -- stuff ended up being a secret, bright-red concoction poured into innocuous-looking bottles of Tropicana's -- appropriately named -- Season's Best.)

As for last season's best, the Mets want the Yankees, too. Of course. "Yeah, I've been rooting for them," admitted Zeile. "Except last night. I wanted us to clinch first."

But really, the Bombers were a just pesky sidelight to the pure joy of making the Series.

Bobby V. worked the room, hugging and kissing everyone on the neck. Benny Agbayani gave his skipper a hard embrace, squeezing his eyes shut. You could feel him sifting through the season, from the anxiety of April to the wondrous disbelief of October. Girlfriends waved stems of baby's breath while wives held infants curled up in their arms. Families squealed and repeated to each other, "They're going to the World Series!" The cameras circled, and reporters grabbed at whoever was available.

I ducked out to check on the deadbirds. My eyelashes were stuck together from all the sticky sap, and I was vaguely aware of the waft of champagne I was bringing with me. I hoped my drenched look wouldn't scream, "THEY'RE GOING TO THE SHOW AND YOU'RE NOT!" too loudly.

Didn't matter: The air had been sucked out of the Cards locker room.

The team blackboard read simply:

Bags 12:35
Bus 12:50

The room seemed too stunned to react to the finality of that message in chalk. No anger, no tears. Maybe a couple of expressionless interviews. They were as lifeless in the clubhouse as they were on the field.

I didn't linger. When I got back to the Mets locker room at half past midnight, most of the camera crews and the reporters on deadline were gone, leaving the party with more room to breathe. Players gathered around Bobby V., drowning him in yet more bad suds, as he spun around in circles. They whistled and hooted while he bobbed at the waist to the beat, getting wetter and wetter.

Then Bobby V. found Benny again, jumped up and shouted, "From Japan to champagne, and it's not Champaign, Illinois, baby!"

Pat Mahomes sat on the floor by himself, behind the now-abandoned TV stage, trying to process what was happening. Glendon Rusch picked him up, slapping his hand several times while Pat strutted about like George Jefferson, chest up, butt out.

"Unbelievable, G," said Pat, pulling his hand away after each slap, as if it was on fire. "I kinda feel like breakdancing. I'm in the HOUSE!"

Then someone stopped the music. People groaned in disappointment, until...

WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?

The whole room mobilized. Lenny Harris, Joe McEwing, Darryl Hamilton and Bobby M. Jones waved their hands in the air like they just didn't care. Pat, Timo Perez, Dennis Cook and Edgardo Alfonzo, bounced like tricked-out low-riders.

Then DMX hit the room:

Y'all gon' make me lose my mind
Up in HERE
Up in here

Amidst a circle of Mets, Pat bust out with the Running Man and the Worm, breakdancing right alongside...

Mike Piazza.

(Hey, there he is.)

The monster wasn't just out of the cage. Tonight, the monster -- that creeping beast of a franchise squatting unceremoniously on his sore, sore shoulders, that bugaboo of a Hall of Fame career without a Series -- was vanquished. Poof.

Leaving Mike Piazza temporarily stripped of the burden of keeping it together. So Mike unleashed one of the world's most awkward breakdances, like a puppet playing Twister on time-lapse film. He mercy-killed his 15-second routine with a stumbling backspin on the tacky carpeting, landing on his side, with his head propped up on his hand, Kenny Mayne-style. His Mets roared approval. Mike was clowning, and completely immersed in the moment.

This moment, swathed in plastic, shining with alcohol and flashbulbs, is where Mike's mind had disappeared to after Saturday's loss. He knew this was just right around the corner, if only his Mets -- the best home team in the league -- could fight through any clouds of doubt and string together just two more wins.

And tonight, two remarkably easy wins later, Mike Piazza was on the other side of those thoughts, a bit stunned. Still, he raced through the fog, from teammate to teammate, whooping and hollering, emptying bottle after bottle after bottle, looking like he'd never tire of this magnificent game.

Anne Marie Cruz writes for ESPN The Magazine. She has no curfew.