My Final Days as a Met Fan

I'm on my way to New York where I will most certainly shed a few tears as I sit in my Saturday seats, Loge Section 7, Row E, for the final time. And, unless Fred and Jeff Wilpon show up in my section tomorrow to personally escort me to an equivalent seat in a similar Saturday plan at Citi Field, this weekend will also mark my very last days as a fan of the New York Mets.

Just writing those words caught in my throat. Just thinking those words makes my eyes glisten a tinge. This is something I never thought would happen. It was always me and the Mets. The Mets and me. A passion for a baseball team that I thought would last forever and forever. There are probably readers out there wondering how I could even write that. Or think that. Or feel that.

Remarkably, it is very easy. I am done. If my 40 year plus tradition as a Met Saturday plan holder is coming to an end, it effectively severs my emotional ties to the team. Even living 3000 miles away and only going to several games a year for the past decade, those Loge seats were mine. My stock options in a baseball team. I was tied to them in a financial marriage. And, since they may not be interested in me in a world behind Shea Stadium, I also won't be interested in them in a world behind Shea Stadium.

Oh, ultimately, they will invite me to the party. Once they sort out how much dough they can soak from full season ticket packages, there will be a few crumbs left. Probably in December, I will get a heartfelt note from one of the Wilpon stooges. They will tell me how much they appreciate my support. And here's a Saturday plan for you. In some nifty seats out in the upper deck circa left center field. Yes, it's not the "behind home plate" location you have had since 1968. But, really, cherished Met fan, there's not a bad seat in the house. And more leg room. And cup holders! How could I refuse to continue?

Easy. I'm at a point where I am ready to let go. No longer valued by the organization which I don't really value myself anymore. I've documented before how I can't connect with this latest concoction of bloated egos. They've pushed for a pennant this season, but acted almost criminally in the process. With a faction commandeered by possible MVP and definite dirtbag Carlos Delgado, the lights went out and Willie Randolph was found dead on the clubhouse floor. Despite how the Mets played the second half of the season, I know why those chips fell into place. And the ugliness behind them.

Oh, sure, there will be probably be some future Met teams that I could love as much as the ones I held dear for almost 45 years. But, for me, 2008 was the perfect storm. All the factors coming together at this time and this place which brings me to trade in my blue, orange, and regrettably black.

While the present saddens me, the past does just the opposite. Going up that escalator to the Loge Level on one final Saturday prompts so many visions and thoughts and mental pictures. Of a life well spent at that land fill on Flushing Bay.

I remember my first ever visit to Shea. A rainy July Friday night. My dad's friend was married to a woman who worked for Rambler which was, at that juncture, the Official Car of the New York Mets. We got a field level box behind the Braves' dugout. In my youthful obnoxiousness, I was merciless in my taunts toward their third base coach Jo Jo White. But, he had the ideal way to occupy my mouth for the rest of the evening when he tossed me about a dozen Bazooka Bubble Gum pieces.

I think of my first Saturday game in my seats in April of 1968. Oddly, their opponent is the Los Angeles Dodgers. I remember going to a weekday doubleheader against the Houston Astros in July of 1969. The Mets got creamed in both games with levels of lethargic play that would make the Bad News Bears cringe. Manager Gil Hodges walks to left field to take Cleon Jones out of the game. What gives? A school chum with me had the answer. Jones was leaving because he was scheduled to appear with Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show. That night, I anxiously awaited for Cleon to pop out from behind Johnny's curtain. It never happened. I never went to a game with that kid again.

Yet, the moments and games and memories blurred together into one massive smile. Games with my dad. A single game attended by my mother, who learned all about baseball from watching Met announcer Tim McCarver. More importantly, there were games with my friends. Leo. Danny. The Bibster. Malcolm. I probably saw more Met games at Shea with that quartet than anybody else. Over time, there would be others. And a foulball caught by me in Seat 1. A foulball caught by Danny in Seat 2.

I wrote about all of this much more eloquently in that article for the Shea Stadium commemorative book. But, as my Shea and Met life comes to an end, I realize that those memories are all snowflakes. Each one unique unto itself. And will never be duplicated.

I have another team in my life. A second wife, if you will. And, as a full season ticket holder for the Los Angeles Dodgers, I'm making new friends and new memories there that may find mental shelf space for the rest of my life. Perhaps Tommy Lasorda and Vin Scully will take me out to center field of Chavez Ravine for an official baptism. I will now be a practicing Dodger fan.

But I was born and raised a Met fan. And I will never ever forget a single moment of that very special journey.

Dinner last night: Fittingly, a super Dodger Dog and onion rings at Chavez Ravine, the home of the 2008 NL Western Division Champions!!!