My life as a baseball fan had been a short one. I have written this before. My father, a lifelong Yankee fan, had tried to bring me into his fold. The very first baseball game I attended was a weekday afternoon Yankee game. I was home from school with an ear infection, but my dad's cousin had gotten us some tickets from their oil burner company. My ears were stuffed with cotton and off we went. I finished the day wearing a...gasp...Yankee fan and screaming through one of those megaphone cups that had once contained popcorn.
I had no clue about anything that happened that day. And I had little interest in anything New York Yankee.
It would be another school illness that propelled me to the New York Mets. German measles landed me at home for a week in April. The only thing on television were some early season Met games. Shea Stadium was brand spanking new and so, too, was my baseball fandom.
Hmmmmm.
I got into the lovable loser tag that was fastened to the Mets. Maybe that's why I was drawn to them. They didn't win every game like the Yankees. As a matter of fact, they barely won any game. So, it became a huge event if they did. At the time, there was a gag that made the rounds when the Mets in one game scored an inexplicable 19 runs.
"19 runs?? Wow. Did they win?"
And that's what it was like to be a Met fan. But, I didn't care. In my neighborhood, they were uniquely mine. And I have the emotional scars to prove it.
All the kids "up the block" were Yankee fans. Or rooted for some team other than the New York Mets. As for me, I walked around and met disdain at every corner. It was as if I was wearing a big scarlet letter "M" on my chest.
"The Mets suck."
Yes, I know. But they are my Mets.
"Your team stinks."
Yes, I know. But they are my team.
And, then, the mimicking of the team's fervent stadium chant.
"Let's Go, Mess. Let's Go, Mess. Let's Go, Mess."
The team couldn't win and neither could I.
Except for my lifelong buddy Leo, who was a Yankee fan but a fairly normal and tolerant one, I was the local baseball pariah to everybody in my neighborhood. And I didn't care. By this point, I had already sucked my father into my own personal vortex of misery. Given my love for the Mets, he decided to join in, figuring that he better enjoy the team he would have to take me to see. And I soon would start my partial plan holder status at Shea Stadium with tickets for every Saturday game---a tradition I would maintain till the place closed for demolition.
Yet, it was not easy being the underdog.
Until 1969.
Out of the blue and orange, the Mets were...um....good. Led by manager Gil Hodges and a pitching staff anchored by Tom Seaver and Jerry Koosman, the Mets found themselves 5 1/2 games behind the division-leading Chicago Cubs on Monday, July 7. I didn't know how to handle the good fortune. And, coming to town for a three-game series would be the Cubs themselves. With a couple of wins, the Mets could find themselves in a pennant race.
A pennant race? The words ping ponged around my head. I barely knew what one was. Except fans of the Yankees and the Red Sox and the Dodgers and the Giants and the Orioles knew what it felt like. I certainly did not.
I walked proudly around my neighborhood the morning of July 8. The Mets would be playing the Cubs in a bizarre Tuesday afternoon game. It was a typically hazy, hot, and humid New York summer's day. You could break a sweat by combing your hair. Outside was no place to be. But I needed people to see me as I prepared to watch the Mets in a.....er......pennant race game.
Both of my parents were working that afternoon, so I could be alone with my excitement. Back in those days, the only air conditioner we had was in the living room. I cranked it up, closed the accordion doors that kept the chill isolated from the rest of the house, and tuned to WOR Channel 9 at 2PM.
It seemed that I was not alone in my euphoria. About 55,000 people had sweated their way into Shea Stadium for that day game. Lots of folks calling in sick all around the New York metropolitan area.
And, by the eighth inning, we all had been jolted back to reality.
Cubs 3, Mets 1.
I knew my euphoria wouldn't last. The voices from "up the block" echoed in my mind. I would hear them tonight for sure as we waited for the Good Humor truck.
"Let's Go, Mess!!! Let's Go, Mess!!!! LET'S GO, MESS!!!!"
Ouch.
I didn't want to watch, but I couldn't leave the television set. I decided to multi-task through my anxiety. I pulled my dog, Tuffy, into the living room. I started to brush her, which was one of my regular summer chores. If the Mets had to lose, well, at least, my dog could lose some excess fur and pant a little less in the summer heat.
And then it happened. The bottom of the ninth inning.
Ken Boswell hits a double.
Even at this early age in life, I was already a cynic. Watch him score, I thought. The Mets will lose, 3-2.
Tommie Agee popped out, but Donn Clendenon, hitting for Bobby Pfeil, also hits a double. Except Boswell only gets to third base. Huh? Part of the reason was that Cub centerfielder (and soon-to-be-sacrificial-lamb) Don Young was having trouble with the sun and everybody thought the ball would be caught.
I was paying attention now, but still brushing the dog.
Cleon Jones joined the double parade and now both Boswell and Clendenon scored to tie the game.
Shea Stadium looked like a lunatic asylum on television. I was in my own personal rubber room on 15th Avenue in Mount Vernon.
Before I knew it, Ed Kranepool had laced a single to left field. The Mets won, 4-3. Within a second of that ball landing safely on the Shea grass, I jumped out of my skin. Tuffy, scared for her life, ran clean away through the bottom of the accordion doors. Her hair brush wound up behind the couch. My mother found it two months later. Meanwhile, the commotion I was causing upstairs could be felt downstairs.
Grandma.
"What's going on up there? It sounds like the beer truck coming down the block."
I thought about explaining what happened. Nah, she would never understand. I had simply interrupted her concentration in the middle of her "stories." No one knew at the time that, elsewhere in the New York area, the Met game had become the focal point of another domestic situation. A woman had come into her living room while her husband was watching the ninth inning. She turned the channel so as not to miss an episode of the "Dark Shadows" soap opera.
The husband proceeded to kill his wife.
Heck, all I had done was scare the dog and annoy my grandmother.
I remember going "up the block" after dinner that night. I felt a little taller than I had the previous day. Unfortunately, most of the kids were ready to act as professional buzz killers.
"The Mets still suck. They will lose tomorrow."
Except....
See the picture that adorns this blog entry? There are a lot of zeroes next to the Cubs' name. Wednesday night's game vs. the hapless bunch from Chicago was even more glorious than the one on Tuesday afternoon.
This time around, I was still playing outside when the 8PM game started. As big a baseball fan as I was, nothing could deter me from a summer's evening. And the 845PM arrival of the Good Humor truck. The Mets were great, but they could wait. There was a Strawberry Shortcake on a stick with my name on it.
Nevertheless, I hadn't completely shunned my team. I was armed---or eared, really---with a transistor radio. And something special was already happening out on the shores of Flushing Meadow.
By the end of the second inning, the Mets were already winning 3-0. And 50,000 fans, perspiring in the humidity, were delirious. But, there was another story brewing as I listened to, inning after inning.
No Cub had reached base yet. And Tom Seaver was absolutely masterful on the mound. Hmmm. The Mets didn't no-hit another team. They were the ones who usually got no-hit themselves.
By the eighth inning of this perfect game, I needed to add some visuals to the audio. It was time to check this out on television. And, not on the junky portable black-and-white job in my room. Nope, I needed to savor this moment in good ole living color.
Except...
My mother was home. And usually commandeered the television set to watch the David Frost talk show.
Grrrrrr.......
I made the request for a temporary take-over of the living room television set. As usual, my mom was her accommodating self.
"Go watch in your room."
Er, do you have an idea what is happening at the Met game tonight?
At that time, my mother knew a baseball was round and that was it.
I proceeded to explain the importance of a perfect game, and, even more so, my need to share in the importance of this particular perfect game. I was allowed to change the channel from Channel 5 Metromedia to Channel 9 just in time for the top of the ninth inning. Tom Seaver was just three outs away from baseball heaven. And a feat that none of the kids "up the block" could even hope to ignore.
The first Cub was Randy Hundley and he tries to bunt for a hit. Unsuccessfully.
Two outs to go.
The next batter was a pinch hitter. Jimmy Qualls.
A single to left field.
It was over.
I cursed the screen. Not a wise move in front of a parent.
Shit.
My mother was lost.
"Is that bad?"
Despite the fact that the Mets had just hoisted themselves into the pennant race with two wins against the Cubs, I was demolished. All I heard the next day from the chums up the street was how Tom Seaver sucked.
Yeah, despite my recent validation as a baseball fan, I would still face an uphill battle.
Until that moment several months later. When the New York Mets became the World Champions of baseball.
Happy July 8th to everybody.
Dinner last night: Hamburger on pretzel bun.
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