The Sunday Memory Drawer - Me and No-Hitters

So, Roy Halladay pitches the second no-hitter in postseason baseball history and my biggest regret is that this gem was wasted on the Philadelphia Phillies and, even worse, those neanderthals, miscreants, and slobs that root for this franchise. 

At this point, I have now seen the last out of this game replayed more times than I've seen the clip of Don Larsen's perfect game in the World Series, which, by the way, is still the only perfect game thrown in any postseason game.  But,  I suppose Halladay deserves the accolades regardless, even if he was representing the City of Brotherly Hate.

Venom aside, it got me to think about some other pitching masterpieces.  The odds of the average fan actually attending a game where a no-hitter is thrown are probably pretty high.  Not Mega-Millions-I-Hit-The-Lottery high, but pretty tough to achieve nonetheless.

I'll tell you how those dice have rolled for me over the perhaps two thousand baseball games I've attended in my life.  Here come the memories.  And, ultimately, a confession.  Read on, Macduff.

I'm sure everybody remembers Tom Seaver's flirtation with perfect game immortality in July of 1969.  8 1/3 perfect innings until the Chicago Cubs' also-ran outfielder Jimmy Qualls ducked one into center field for a base hit.  There were 56,000 cheering lunatics in Shea Stadium that night.

I was not one of them.

I, however, was there on July 4, 1972 for the first game of a day doubleheader.  Back in the day when I would troop off to Shea on the 7 Train with a couple of school chums.  And back in the day when I literally could get through two baseball games in one sitting.

On this day, Tom Seaver came close again.  Certainly not a perfect-o because he walked four.  But, still, there was one out in the ninth and a huge zero under the hit column for the San Diego Padres.  I remember how lofty I was feeling.  I would be there for Mets history.  In ten years of their existence, no Met pitcher had ever thrown a no-hitter. 

Leron Lee singles in the ninth.  Jimmy Qualls moves over one space in the record book.  No Met no-no on this day.

I had it happen again.  Much later on.  A different coast, time zone, and stadium.  Yet, again, it was a Met pitcher batting his eyes at smoke rings across the scoreboard.

Dodger Stadium.  Sunday afternoon, August 14, 2005 in my old season seats.  It's one of those hot summer afternoons and I'm even in more of a tizzy.  Mets vs. Dodgers.  Always a problem for me as I waver one more time between the first wife and the second wife.  And complicating my emotional divide even more? 

Met pitcher Pedro Martinez takes a no-hitter into the eighth inning.

D'oh!

I'm torn like a pair of pants in the Goodwill bag anyway.  With impending Met history at my feet,  I'm a mess.  In 43 years of their existence, no Met pitcher has thrown a no-hitter.  I suddenly look at my scorebook and start to write more slowly and more neatly.  These pages may be ones for the ages.  Maybe Cooperstown will want to enshrine my scrawl under glass.

With one out in the eighth, it all scoots away like an ant who has faintly detected the scent of Raid.  A misplayed outfield fly goes for a triple.  Jayson Werth...yes, that Jayson Werth, sends one over the outfield wall.  Dodgers win, 2-1.

And, oh, yeah, no Met no-no on this day either.

So, Len still has yet to be there for a no-hitter thrown by his favorite home team.  But, that's not to say...

We head back to 1969.  And a long overdue mea culpa.

It's the second year of my Saturday ticket plan in the Loge, Section 7, at Shea.   It's September and the Mets are now a meteorite headed for the World Series.  Magic numbers are being removed daily as the Mets look to clinch the division title. 

And I'm one euphoric kid.  My fandom was paying off at a very early age.  I was, at last, validated.  I could walk through a neighborhood full of Yankee fans and hold my head up at least semi-high.

My ticket plan puts me with a pair of ducats for Saturday, September 20.  The magic number is down to the shortest of hairs as the Chicago Cubs keep on losing and losing and losing.  The Pittsburgh Pirates are in town this weekend.  And I invite a school buddy to sit in Seat 2 for the afternoon.

The only trouble is that, as soon as I asked him, I felt pangs of remorse. 

The Mets had gone on this amazing run that I was living and breathing every day.  Yet, it had been months since I went to a Met game with my dad.  Suddenly, I wanted to share a little piece of this September heaven with him. 

I needed to consult a textbook entitled "How To Disinvite 101."

It became a Beaver Cleaver moment for me.  How do I tell a friend that I would rather go to the game with my father?  This is not something somebody my age readily admitted.  I couldn't possibly tell the truth.  My school chum wasn't even a Met fan.  He rooted for the Yankees.  Why would he even be offended?  I rationalized my decision for hours. 

Ultimately, I told the truth.  Well, sort of.

I told my friend that my father was going to the game.  But, because he demanded to.  As the semi-truth...really, semi-lie...came out, the story started to make my father seem like this ruthless ogre.  He wanted to go to the game and he didn't care who I had invited.  After all, he paid for the tickets.  He had finally said.  Blah, blah, blah.  In reality, if my dad knew I was stiffing somebody over these tickets, he would have had nothing to do with the game.

My friend didn't take the news well.  And I couldn't blame him.  But, I figured that, five minutes after he got the news, the sting would wear off quickly.

Er, not so much.

That afternoon at Shea Stadium, my father and I got to watch the Pirates' Bob Moose (tragically killed in a car crash a few years later) pitch a no-hitter against the Mets.

Even though the Mets were the victims, my dad and I got totally wrapped up in Moose's triumph.  The Cubs had already lost that day and the Mets' magic number was dropping anyway.  Let's enjoy being a part of baseball history.

And my father and I did.  One of the greatest life moments that I shared with him.

Naturally, there was a phone call that night.  From my friend who was wounded all over again. 

"I hope your father enjoyed the no-hitter I was supposed to see."

And I took the heat which I had no doubt earned.

I still wouldn't trade that pain for anything in the world.

Dinner last night:  Grilled chicken sandwich at the Hard Rock Cafe.