ATLANTA -- Three Mets veterans -- Cliff Floyd, Mike Cameron and Marlon Anderson -- had returned to their lockers almost simultaneously one Spring Training afternoon in 2005 to find copies of the team's just-published media guide resting on their stools. They began turning pages. And, not coincidentally, each stopped at the Willie Randolph bio to learn more about the man who would be their manager, the man who, weeks earlier, had issued edicts banning music in their clubhouse and hair on their faces.

Some place in all those words and numbers, there had to be the information they sought, an explanation of how this neophyte manager had come to impose such restrictions on men who preferred radio to razors and sideburns to silence. Where did this Willie-Come-Lately come off, banning music and facial hair?

Then Cameron ran his index finger down the page that included the statistical record of Randolph's playing career. He was struck by all the new man had done in 18 summers of big league accomplishment. "Oooo," he said, "Willie had a career." His question was answered.

And Floyd pointed to the totals, the bottom line as it were. "Yeah," he said, "more hits than games."

Mets Life with neither music nor mustaches became more palatable that afternoon when Cameron, Floyd and Anderson understood where Randolph got the juice to control their environment and their appearance. Opposition to the new statutes ended, at least in that corner of the clubhouse, that day. Randolph had rules, but he had a resume as well. And their respect.

Willie had been there; he'd played that. He already had walked more than a mile in shoes the three never had slipped on their feet.

Floyd recently recalled the day Randolph had delivered the edicts, smiled and identified that time as "when we hated him." He also ran his fingers through the whiskers on his chin. The rules have been relaxed. The respect has remained, though.

"He was preparing us," Floyd said.

Ten minutes later, Carlos Delgado, looking stately with his trimmed beard and mustache, recalled Spring Training '06 and how young he had looked without facial hair. He didn't like it either. But shaving for the first time in 10 years had left no emotional razor burn.

"It's all about compromise," he said. "You give a little to get a lot back."

Delgado will play in the postseason next week for the first time in his career. A few clean-shaven months were a bargain price to pay for the opportunity.

Randolph had relaxed his rule "because we didn't need it anymore." So, truth be told, Paul Lo Duca's early-season politicking was unneeded. The deal the catcher had broached with his manager -- "We'll all shave if we go under .500" -- came after Randolph was convinced "I had their attention."

He has their attention and their respect. And he has them in the playoffs, too. This 52-year-old, second-year manager who seldom has spent an unoccupied October has the Mets where they haven't been since 2000, having achieved what they hadn't since 1988 -- a division championship.

The Wilpon treasury and the sometimes bold, sometimes genius moves of Omar Minaya clearly are components in the '06 Mets equation. But lots of teams have had payroll, personnel and potential and not reached October.

"We've come this far for a lot of reasons," Lo Duca says. "Willie's played a huge part in it."

So too, the no-music, no-facial edicts. "I think discipline can carry over from one thing you do to another," Randolph said last month. "I think we play the game right most of the time because we're a disciplined team, and maybe some of it did come from that [the edicts]. Players respond to challenges and they respond when they know what's expected of them."

It is a different sort of expectations Randolph brings, less burdensome than the ones imposed by people outside the clubhouse who merely talk, write, read and watch the game. Those expectations involve results measured by winning percentage and batting average. What Randolph expects -- demands -- is proper play, attention to detail and focus, focus, focus.

"When we play the game right, with all the talent we have here, good things happen," he said. "When you play the game right, winning takes care of itself."

That has been the overriding message he has communicated to his players since his first day. They get it. See the Mets execute their outfield relays. See them throw to the right base. Does any other team run with equal precision? Rundowns, too, for the most part. And Mets pitchers get their bunts down.

"He has a word for you every day, and he listens. He treats you with respect. Very respectful. He played the game. He remembers that it's not easy."

-- Carlos Delgado

Proper play is not easily achieved these days when prospects are routinely rushed to the big leagues without a complete baseball education. Dallas Green, like Randolph a baseball traditionalist, occupied the office that now is Randolph's from May 1993 through August 1996. He too insisted the game be played properly. Some of the players on his rosters didn't have the skill to do that, much less excel. And Green's high volume, uncompromising, John Wayne manner didn't always work. He yelled.

Randolph talks. Nearly everyday during his pre- and post-game sessions with the media, this man of moderation says, "I talk to my players all the time." And they say the same. He put his finger in their minds' eye in his first Spring Training and occasionally he puts it in their chests. But mostly he elicits the respect and performance he wants by simple conversation.

"He's been awesome that way," Delgado says. "He has a word for you every day, and he listens. He treats you with respect. Very respectful. He played the game. He remembers that it's not easy."

Through the one-on-one conversations, Randolph learned which players need a day off (Lo Duca, Carlos Beltran) and which need a day on (Julio Franco).

Through his one-on-ones, he explains what he intends to do. "He came to me one day in St. Louis [in May]," Chris Woodward recalled Sunday, "and told me Jose [Valentin] was going to play second base and not to think about it. At that time Jose wasn't in the mix. I was the backup. He didn't have to tell me that. He's the manager. But he took the time, and that was appreciated.

"It didn't make not playing any easier. But it was out of respect that he told me, and that made it just nicer."

Randolph played regularly through most of his career. But he knows what the understudies need to hear, how much they have to play to retain their effectiveness. And at the same time, he may keep them tethered to the bench if a regular needs his at-bats.

"I know he has what's best for the team in mind," Woodward said. "And when the team's winning, what are you going to say? You don't want to be arguing with success."

Since Cameron last tried to have the music ban lifted last year, Randolph has had few disputes, precious few that became public. One did July 3. A voice seldom heard in the Mets clubhouse, that of veteran relief pitcher Pedro Feliciano, had questioned Randolph's thinking and gone so far as to call one of the manager's moves "stupid."

Pedro Martinez regularly tests the limits of Mets life, mostly in benign ways. And rookie Lastings Milledge thought he didn't need to be the first man to the clubhouse one June day in Philadelphia. Otherwise, the '06 Mets have been free of behavior issues. But there in newspapers, the morning after the first game of the second half, were the words of a borderline reliever calling the manager's decision "stupid." Nothing benign about that.

Though stung by Feliciano's remarks, Randolph responded in measured words and tones. He neither was flustered nor panicked, a trait his players admire. A conversation -- it would be more of a monologue, he promised -- would happen. He said the reliever probably had spoken in frustration and suggested "It's understandable."

But after additional probing, Randolph acknowledged there was more to be said: "I've been around winners my whole life," he said. "That's not what they do."

Those words, simple and powerful, communicated his displeasure, reinforced the image he created as a player and coach with the Yankees and softly scolded his pitcher in a way that other players appreciated.

"Willie didn't embarrass Pedro [Feliciano]," one of them said. "He scored a lot of points in here the way he handled that.

"He probably remembered some time when he was playing when he wanted to scream. But he didn't. Pedro just let it seep out. Willie handled it like he'd been through it himself."

Several players were more stunned by Feliciano's indiscretion than Randolph was stung by it. But once their surprise abated, they all but dismissed it. It never became more than a soft speed bump in the clubhouse. Any ridicule that grew from that episode was directed at Feliciano alone. The manager had handled it deftly, like a pivot in a 1977 Yankees double play.

"No big deal," one of the veterans said. "Willie's as smooth as a manager as he was as a player."