Clapping With One Hand

Tonight I head out to Dodger Stadium for the Met-Dodger contest. Following the Friday night tradition, there will be a stop at Phillipe's for a little French Dip sandwich. Maybe some of that delicious potato salad and cole slaw. Then, back into the car for the short drive up the hill into my reserved parking spot. I'll then settle into my Aisle 144, Row G, Seat. Given the always superb Southern California weather, it will be a letter perfect night, surrounded by swaying palm trees and soft warm breezes cascading over the hills that adorn the outfield landscape of the stadium. I'll pull out my scorebook and start loading in the line-ups. An evening of pure bliss.

And, within 30 seconds, I will be an absolute mental mess.

It's Mets vs. Dodgers.

I repeat. It's Mets vs. Dodgers.

I no longer handle this well. We're talking my two favorite baseball teams, both in first place in their respective divisions, playing head-to-head. Someone will counsel me. "Hey, you're lucky. One of your teams will win tonight."

From my glass half-empty department, I will counter. "One of my teams lost tonight."

I never thought this would happen. When I moved to Los Angeles ten years ago, I was a fully-baked New York Met fan. That was my allegience since childhood. Usually, a father will dictate the team you grow up rooting for. My dad was a New York Yankee fan. I've already written previously that my first baseball game ever was in that dump on River Avenue in the Bronx. But, one week in April, I was out of school for a week with a itchy little case of German Measles. The Mets were playing all day games. Something hooked me. We dated that summer and married in the fall.

I went through bad times. 1969. 1973. More bad times. Even worse times. 1986. 1988. And then really crappy times. All the while, I was sitting in the same Shea Stadium seats every Saturday. Next year will be the 40th year for those Loge seats in my family.

Even after relocating to Socal, I kept those seats and still managed to go to 4 or 5 Saturday games a season. I'd hook up with the Mets when they played here. I'd watch regularly either on television or the computer. I was managing. Until...

A good friend of mine from church here invited me to a Sunday game at Dodger Stadium. It seems she and a few friends had been doing this Sunday thing since Fernando first popped out of a car trunk from Mexico. They would doll themselves up in some sort of blue regalia. Dodger hats. Dodger shirts. Dodger pins. I became a regular Sunday fixture.

Hey, this isn't so bad. Great ballpark. Usually a decent team. Fabulous hot dogs. With fresh onions and relish. While I wasn't bleeding Dodger Blue completely, a slow transfusion had become.

I actually felt like I was cheating on somebody.

I rationalized that it was certainly easy to do. I could have a team on both coasts. Of course, they meet for a few games during the season. I root for the Mets, right? Well, usually. I mean, how many times will they meet in the playoffs?

Hello, 2006.

Last September, I was in NY for a Saturday game when the Dodgers were in town. The Mets were way ahead in their divisional game by a couple of hundred games. Meanwhile, the Dodgers were embroiled in a pennant race with the Padres. The game was a lot more essential to the Dodgers' well being than to the Mets. Could I actually sit in MY seats at Shea Stadium and root for the Dodgers?

I was a mess. I ended up rooting for the vendors. Gee, I hope the soda guy does better than the pizza guy.

Sophie's Choice as directed by Abner Doubleday.

I feel like I'm in a second marriage but I am still very much attracted to my first wife. And the second wife is really hot. And then there are the kids. Specifically, my Saturday seats at Shea. And my full season seats at Not Endy Chavez Ravine.

I go out of my way to not show any favoritism. When I have gone to a Met-Dodger contest in the past, I make it a policy to wear all non-team-specific clothing. Usually something very basic from the Eddie Bauer collection. But, tomorrow, I may go the other route. A David Wright t-shirt and a Russell Martin jersey---honoring my favorite player on both teams.

Why am I even thinking about this?

Because I'm a bi-coastal baseball fan. This can't go on forever.

And, indeed, it may not. Newsday sportswriter Wallace Matthews wrote a story yesterday. It seems that, when the Mets move across the street to Shitty Field, partial season ticket holders like myself may no longer have those plans at their disposal. The Shea Loge seats will be gone.

I've lost joint custody of the kids. The longtime tradition that still tied me to the Mets will be toast.

I don't want to think about that right now.

Go, David.

Go, Russell.

Dinner last night: salami sandwich and side salad.