Maybe Darwin was right. It's difficult feeling sorry for the meek Met who won't stand up for himself.

I've never shared a lunch period with him, but I'd bet that Mike Piazza never got his lunch money taken. He's six-foot-three inches of muscle, and weighs 215 pounds — and he had to have been semi-huge in high school, too.

But if Piazza allows himself to be bullied as the leader of the New York Mets, then he deserves the painful repercussions.

In case you've been living beneath the No. 4 and No. 7 trains, our bully in this classic case of unfettered aggression gone rampant is Roger Clemens, a starting pitcher for the New York Yankees.

In Sunday's Game 2, Clemens decided not to let old wounds heal, but to completely open another sore. After the bean heard around the world in July, where Clemens pegged Piazza in the noodle with a blazing heater, every eye in New York was watching their next at-bat.

So this was the bully's third chance to make amends. After all, Clemens did call Piazza a few days later to apologize back in July. But Piazza didn't accept the call, saying Monday that he "didn't think it was very sincere."

But a bully never changes his ways — dominating weaker wills becomes addictive. Clemens fell to his horrific hobby again when he threw a fragment of Piazza's bat back at the nine-year veteran.

As Piazza fended off one of Clemens' trademark heaters, his bat shattered and sprinkled itself onto the field, landing around the mound. And Clemens, instead of dodging the winged wood, picked up a large piece and threw it back in the direction of Piazza.

And bang, there's the story of the Series. It was like one of Mike Tyson's signature outbursts on a baseball diamond. The bad scene got even worse.

But in the wake of Sunday's Batgate, I disagree with baseball's know-it-all's who are lambasting Clemens and demanding disciplinary action.

I don't celebrate the success of a bully nor do I condone Clemens' actions, but if that kind of aggression helps him get up for the World Series, then so be it.

If there is anyone within this melee that I fault, it's Piazza. He's the sinewy catcher. He's the clubhouse leader that butterfly-stomached rookies look to for guidance. And if Jay Payton and Timo Perez see Piazza backing down, then what's next?

You see, baseball is a game centered around physical dominance, especially at the plate. It's man versus man, throw it by me if you can. And in this Subway saga, Clemens took advantage of an edge he created months ago.

Piazza looked tentative at the plate, as if he still saw that white ball racing toward his helmet from months ago. And when millions of dollars are on the line along with a World Championship, these athletes know that virtually anything goes.

So Clemens did what you would do. He recognized an upper-hand, and played his cards accordingly. He threw at Piazza yet again, this time missing him by several feet. But the message was clear.

After the game, Clemens did his best spinster impersonation, and said, "I hope this doesn't become a distraction. I don't want this to be bigger than the games we're playing."

But Clemens knew what he was doing. He was getting every single advantage he could for his team, as Piazza was sucking his thumb in the dugout.

Just ask Met pitcher Mike Hampton what a real man would have done.

"Different people react in different ways," he said. "Somebody throws a bat at me, I'm gonna fight. But some people aren't that way. Me, I'm a hot-tempered guy."

Spoken like a true competitor, Mr. Hampton.

So riddle me this: If Piazza had swung at Clemens and possibly knocked him out of the game, would this be a different series?

The apparent inferiority complex that the Mets possess would have certainly mitigated itself, and Piazza would have won a personal battle, too.

But instead, the bully prevailed yet again and showed one more time that the whimsical wimp has no room to whine.