I remember it every July 24, which was just this past Wednesday. I was on a plane winging west after a week in the summer sauna that is New York. But, on that date, my heart and mind always goes back to that amazin' night many decades ago.
The first time I entered Shea Stadium to see a game.
My mood this past week was particularly rooted in the past. I had my annual reunion with my two grade school pals, Cheryl and Diane. I visited a former work colleague for the first time in about ten years. And, on July 23, I ventured out to Flushing, Queens for a rare Mets game with my college buddy, the Bibster. Back in the 80s when there were the likes of Gary Carter, Darryl Strawberry, Keith Hernandez, and Dwight Gooden were trolling the fields of Shea, we enjoyed many a game together on either his season plan seats or mine. As a matter of fact, it was on July 24, 1984 that we watched one of the best baseball games we had ever seen in person. It wasn't a no-hitter or a game that decided any pennant aspirations. It was extraordinarily ordinary. But one that we have remembered as a hallmark of our friendship ever since.
But, still not as memorable as that July 24 decades before. You see the photo at the top? It was purchased, likely with my saved allowance money, on that maiden voyage to Shea. I found it again during my recent New York sojourn.
And stared at it. My very first Mets souvenir. It probably cost no more than a dollar. And it was remarkably unremarkable. You held it one way and it said "Go Mets." You held it another way and it morphed into the Mets logo. Like one of those religious badges where Jesus Christ's head alternates with a cross.
What had made me choose this relic on that night of nights? I must have deliberated for a half-hour in front of the concession stand. Perhaps I wanted the ink pen in the shape of a baseball bat. Nope, I would ultimately buy that on my next visit to Shea Stadium. Or I could save up for a Mets jacket. That item would be ordered over the winter via mail order by my mom.
On this night, it was this badge. A mere trinket.
But so much more.
I've remembered that evening here before and the memory is rerun again in my mind. And how it all started a few months before.
I was basking in the afterglow of my first days in love with the New York Mets, which had developed along with a case of German measles that kept me home from school for a week the previous April.
Yes, that's how a baseball fan began. With immediate misgivings from my father who probably was hoping I would follow in his footsteps and pinstripes with the New York Yankees.
Those first months in Metdom were all consuming. I devoured anything and everything about the team. I figured that, to be a true Met fan, I first needed to memorize all the uniform numbers.
Done.
I tried to commit to memory their batting averages.
Done.
But, wait. I soon discovered that the numbers changed every day.
Oops.
Well, a new baseball fan was bound to make a mistake or two.
I even tried to impress my dad with my baseball knowledge.
"Mickey Mantle wears number 7," I announced to him with pride.
Dad was starting to smart a little less about my baseball devotion. It wasn't long before he made the ultimate parental sacrifice.
He started to pay attention to the Mets.
I guess that he figured if his son was this rabid, he might as well get involved as well. And, in short order, he got sucked in as badly as I did. I don't remember if there was a formal ceremony, but my father became a Met fan. He joined me on weekends in front of the TV. Games immediately popped on the radio as soon as we got into the car.
On a very hot Father's Day, my family made their usual holiday visitation to see all the dead relatives at Ferncliff Cemetery. Alongside the street where "Uncle Fritz" was buried, everybody hopped out of our car to do the necessary grave trimming. Grandma bounded out with hedgeclippers in hand.
But my dad and I sat in the car, glued to the Met game on the radio. This was no ordinary contest. My father explained.
"This is history happening. The guy has a perfect game in the ninth inning."
I was a baseball fan, but I still didn't the complete significance.
"But the Mets are losing."
Minutes later, we listened to Phillies pitcher Jim Bunning strike out Met John Stephenson for the final out in this masterpiece. I didn't understand why this was such a big deal, but Dad did. That was good enough for me. Outside, Grandma continued to pull weeds out of "Uncle Fritz" and called out to my grandfather for assistance.
"Pop, get the shears!"
With summer upon us, my lobbying began in earnest. Since Dad was now on board with the Shea Faithful, it was time to complete the circle.
I wanted to go to a game at my other church.
Shea Stadium.
For one of the only times in our lives together, Dad didn't use his usual response to our going any place.
"It's too far."
"There's too much traffic."
"It's too hot/too cold."
I guess he really wanted to go, too. None of those old standards seemingly applied. And he had a direct connection to some nifty seats. The guy he carpooled to work with had a wife who worked for Rambler, then the "Official Car of the New York Mets." Her dealership had a season box right behind the visiting dugout. She got four seats for a July Friday night. Her husband and her son. My father and his son.
Me.
I counted the days, the hours, the minutes, and the seconds. I started to plan out the Met rotation to see who would be pitching on this hallowed night. It would be Jack Fisher, wearing my favorite baseball number to this day. #22. This date would cement the love affair for all time.
The Mets. Me. Together in the same place. I could reach out and touch them.
Well, sort of.
This would be the best day of my life.
I could barely sleep the night before. Full of awe and wonder?
Nope, it was the rain pelting my bedroom window.
How could this be happening? God, why have you foresaken me? I mean, I went to Sunday School every week. I said my prayers every night. Rain??? Doesn't everybody in the universe know that I'm supposed to go to Shea Stadium tonight?
And I dreaded the inevitable. This was totally playing into my father's back-up excuse for the usual trilogy of reasons why not to do something.
"It's too wet."
Uh oh.
My father had already taken the night off from work. His friend still wanted to go. The game was still on. Downpour or no downpour, we popped into the car around 6PM for the trip to Flushing.
I can still remember traversing the Bronx Whitestone Bridge with the sparkling lights of Shea piercing the raindrops on our windshield. Coming down the Van Wyck Expressway, the car radio came on with a song that is forever emblazoned in my memory as the tune that guide me to Shea Stadium.
"Wives and Lovers" by Jack Jones. Yes, my dad listened to WNEW-AM in the car.
Listening to it again, I can see myself in the front passenger seat of that Buick. Peering through the windshield wipers at my own version of Heaven.
This is where I was going. I had a ticket. Nothing could stop me now.
Thunderclap.
Lightning bolt.
Perhaps my first utterance of a curse word.
"Shit."
Not audible enough to be slapped across the kisser.
When we arrived at the blue and orange aluminum paneled palace, the grounds were a soggy mess. One puddle after another. We huddled under an umbrella. The game would be delayed but only a little. I stared with amazement at everything I saw as I entered Shea for the first time.
"Scorecard, scorecard here."
I wanted one. I would learn how to score that summer.
The souvenir stands. The amalgamated smell of hot dogs, pretzels, popcorn, and spilled beer. Like no other aroma. The escalators that raise up to the heavens. Well, in my case, the field level behind the third base dugout.
Billy Crystal has made a career talking about his first visual memory of Yankee Stadium. Walking up the ramp of darkness and suddenly emerging in the sun-kissed stands and the field with the brightness shade of green that God ever created.
Unfortunately, it was a little different for me that evening at Shea. Coming out of the tunnel onto the field level stands, I saw more darkness. And rain. And a soaked canvas covering the playing area. Indeed, having seen the Mets in nothing but Zenith black and white hues, the colors at that moment were almost the same. Muted, dull, and unimpressive.
It would grow on me in a matter of minutes.
Looming up in front of me was the gigantic scoreboard.
"Number 10, second base, Rod Kanehl. Number 42, centerfield, Larry Elliot. Number 23, right field, Joe Christopher. Number 2, in left field, George Altman. Number 25, at first base, Frank Thomas. Number 12, catching, Jesse Gonder. Number 1, at third base, Charlie Smith. Number 11, playing shortstop, Roy McMillan. Number 22, and pitching, Jack Fisher."
With a less squeaky and even less juvenile voice, I could have replaced the public address announcer.
Around the third inning, little obnoxious Me decided to use my proximity to the Milwaukee Braves dugout and give them a child's version of Hell. No epithets. Just some good natured booing. At one point, their third base coach, Jo Jo White, was amused by me. As he headed back to the dugout, he stuck his hand in his pocket. And pulled out a handful of Bazooka Bubble Gum pieces. He tossed them into a rain puddle on the dugout roof. I grabbed them quickly. The comic strips were soaked and not legible. The gum, however, was delicious.
And I suddenly didn't hate the Milwaukee Braves so much.
Truth be told, other than the sense of shock and awe, I remember little about the game itself. Retrosheet tells me the Mets lost, 8-5, in front of a crowd that numbered 20,646.
As far as I was concerned, it was me, my dad, and 20,644 other people.
This game was my first. It would not be my last. I went home wearing that little badge.
I had no clue that, for years to come, I would remember it all every July 24.
Dinner last night: Hollywood Bowl hot dog.
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