The Sunday Memory Drawer - Random Summer Thoughts From 50 Years Ago

A few weeks back, I wrote about the 50th anniversary of the Apollo 11 moon landing and how I was completely preoccupied on that day by the Mets playing a doubleheader in Montreal.

Back when I was a kid, it was baseball first and everything else second.  Plus, for the first time in my life and theirs, the Mets were actually good that summer.  I lived them.  I breathed them.  My life circulated around them regardless of the current events that were enveloping us.

No better example of this happened a few weeks after Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin strolled through some craters.   My folks and I had traveled to my uncle's house in the upstate New York boonies for some sort of party or celebration.   Nestled in mountains, the spot was idyllic if you loved quiet.   

Not me.

The Mets were playing in Atlanta that day and Tom Seaver was pitching on that Saturday.   

Now with a major party going on in the house, watching the game was not an option for me.  Nope, I had to resort to desperate measures.   I needed my father's car keys.

"What do you want them for?  Last time you were playing in the car, you rolled up the window and got your fingers stuck."

Yes, that was true.

I explained that I wanted to know what the Mets were doing and the car radio was my only connection to them.  My father handed me the car keys.

"Just don't drain the battery."

Yes, sir.   

I wasn't in the clear yet.  Given the hilly location, connecting to the Mets' radio home would not be simple.  Back in this day, the Mets' radio station was WJRZ in New Jersey.  There were some days that I had problems tuning them in while at home.   Who knows what it would be like here in Upper Slobbovia?

I fiddled with the radio tuner endlessly.  If I was a fan of static noise, this was the outlet.   But baseball play-by-play?  I could hear it faintly.

But what I did hear were lots of scary news reports.

GRUESOME MURDER.

ACTRESS IN HOLLYWOOD.  

PREGNANT WITH CHILD.

SEVERAL BODIES FOUND.

MOVIE TOWN IN PANIC.

Yep, that's how I learned about the Sharon Tate-Charles Manson murders.  And the reports were so chilling that this youngster got frightened sitting alone in a dark car.

The Mets would have to fend for themselves.  I ran into the house.

Flash forward.  A week later.  Again a Mets pre-occupation.

My family was in their second year of having a Saturday ticket plan at Shea Stadium.   I had a game that day.   They were playing the San Diego Padres and the Mets were about to go on their pennant surge.  Oddly enough, my dad was going to the game with me that Saturday as some of my neighborhood pals had other plans.  

Except a violent rainstorm blew down from upstate New York as was usually the case during hot and humid summer nights.  The Friday night game at Shea was rained out, necessitating a doubleheader on Saturday.  Sweet.

Except my father had a warning.

"We're only staying for the first game."

Yes, sir.

Normally, when my dad and I would drive to Shea Stadium from our home in Mount Vernon, New York, his car radio station of choice was WNEW-AM.   But, on that ride, there were news reports replacing the sounds of Frank Sinatra and Dean Martin.

ROCK FESTIVAL.

NATIONAL GUARD SENT TO UPSTATE NEW YORK.

QUAGMIRE OF MUD.

HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS OF PEOPLE STRANDED.

Hmmm, what's a quagmire of mud, Dad?

"Stupid hippies."

And that's how I first heard about Woodstock.

As it turned out, the same violent thunderstorm that had postponed Friday's Mets game is the one that soaked all those folks upstate into mounds of mud.  A quagmire, indeed.

I didn't really care.  The Mets won the doubleheader that day.  In fact, they won 14 of the next sixteen games on their way to the World Series.

And, as predicted by Dad, we only stayed for the first game.

It's amazing how it all ties together.

Dinner last night: Beef tri-tip and macaroni salad.