PHILADELPHIA — Before we get to the crazy, surreal and borderline pre-pubescent portion of the day, we should focus on the match that lit the fuse, which fed the dynamite, which fueled the inferno. That is also the 800-pound neon elephant that stalks the Mets from city to city, from game to game.

I asked the question to Brodie Van Wagenen this way, a few hours before the Mets would prove to be a splendid tonic for the reeling Phillies at Citizens Bank Park in serving as 13-7 patsies, a few minutes after he feigned ignorance at a subtler version of the inquiry:

“Do you tell Mickey what to do?”

It is one of the narratives that nourishes Mets fans constantly as they try to figure out if their baseball team is a contender or a pretender, dueling roles they seem to inhabit on an inning-by-inning basis sometimes. Mickey Callaway is a manager on a hot seat for a reason, because his team loses more than it wins and because, often as not, he makes decisions that are unconventional at best, inexplicable at worst.

But are they his decisions?

Or is he simply following the corporate blueprint, authored by his boss: on bullpen use; on using Edwin Diaz for no more than four outs; on sitting scorching-hot Jeff McNeil (plus Michael Conforto) on a day when they could’ve won a series from the Cubs; on sticking with Robinson Cano, whose season-long extended middle finger at both baseball convention and Mets fans continued Sunday when he opted against running to first base after a dropped third strike and then went 0-for-5 Monday (dropping his batting average to .223).

Mets fans have little love and less loyalty to Callaway, but the fair-minded ones plead to know: Does every Mickey misstep go solely on his ledger, or can the general manager — who assembled the roster he must choose from — have a say in things? It was, after all, a sharp question regarding the Mets’ “very good plan” — Callaway’s words — that seemed to be the Mrs. O’Leary’s Cow that started all this in Mrs. O’Leary’s old hometown.

So I asked. And this is what Van Wagenen said: “This organization is about teamwork and collaboration and the ability to trust the manager on an everyday basis.”

This is what he didn’t say: “No.”

As you will read in a story by Post colleague Mike Puma, that has become an open secret. A few weeks ago, Callaway was vilified for seemingly going against Jacob deGrom’s wishes and removing him from a game in Phoenix, where it seemed he’d hurt his hip. Only it turns out, the genesis for doing that was a text from Van Wagenen, reportedly sent through someone at the ballpark that ordered: “Get him out of there.”

Monday, confronted with that story, Van Wagenen hedged, and said it is common for all GMs to be in regular contact with training staffs during games. Asked again if he tells Callaway what to do he did offer a flat “No,” but by this time it was — and is — harder and harder to trust anything he says.

This is no way to run a baseball team, even if in 2019 it feels like this is how 28 of the bosses who run teams — those who don’t employ Joe Maddon and Terry Francona — want to run their teams. So maybe it’s best to get that out of the way before we try to find some crawl space inside Mickey Callaway’s brain Sunday afternoon at Wrigley Field.

So there’s the Zippo lighter.

And what followed from there?

Well, let’s put it this way: The last quarter century or so of Metsdom has produced some — shall we say — idiosyncratic moments. Bobby Valentine pretending to be stoned has always been a favorite. Omar Minaya’s meltdown was, too. And Tony Bernazard’s meltdown. And Willie Randolph getting axed at 3 a.m. And Francisco Rodriguez’s bout with his father-in-law. There have been others.

This one will forever be hard to top. Callaway was asked several times if he wanted to apologize for his outburst Sunday. He demurred. Because I specialize in “press conference questions for dummies,” I asked him: “Are you sorry?” He talked about heat of the moment, and about how he “can’t control the actions of others.”

He mentioned Billy Martin, who did indeed once punch a sportswriter, though that happened when Martin was between jobs and, to little surprise, in a bar in Reno. It also happened while Martin was compiling a career winning percentage of .553, or 78 points higher than Mickey Callaway’s.

Next came Jacob deGrom — who wasn’t even a witness to the clubhouse shenanigans and isn’t even the team’s player rep (Michael Conforto is) — to serve as a de facto team spokesman. From his mouth came the words, “We know we all have a job to do” but from his eyes came a message that sure seemed to say, “Am I completely sure that extension wasn’t signed in invisible ink?”

Then Jason Vargas was kind enough to stop by for a few seconds. He called what happened “an unfortunate distraction” and was gone.

Back home, according to organizational sources, those non-apology apologies were greeted in the corporate offices the way Citi Field lately reacts when the bullpen door swings open and Jeurys Familia appears. So perhaps it wasn’t surprising that, just past 6 p.m., the media was re-summoned to Callaway’s office.

He apologized. And you couldn’t even see the Mets’ army of PR folks move their lips as he did it. Callaway actually seemed relieved. Maybe it was a relief, not having to think about his relievers for a change.

Or, more likely: Who in his bullpen he would be told to use later on Monday night.