The photo above is an original taken just last year when I was back East. I still have this badge. One of those "changing images" things. If you look at it one way, it's the Met logo. If you look at it another way, it morphs into a combination of Casey Stengel and Jesus Christ. What's remarkable about this little device?
It was the first Met souvenir I ever purchased. On my very first trip to rainy Shea Stadium which we discussed last Sunday. I was allowed a scorecard and one item with a price tag of up to three dollars. This little badge was probably no more than 75 cents. Obviously, I have it to this day. Although, truth be told, I am wearing it a lot less now than I did back in that momentous summer.
I spent the rest of the money that infamous night on a Met Yearbook which cost about 50 cents back then. (The 2010 edition is $12.00). I devoured its contents the rest of the summer. Curling up against the kitchen fan, I committed to memory the career won-loss record of Galen Cisco and the career stolen bases of Joe Christopher. Sad to say, however, there is no recent photo of that particular Met Yearbook. During an extended losing streak the very next season, I ripped it to shreds. Today, it is now worth over 200 bucks on eBay.
Such was the emotional ebb and flow of a new baseball fan.
The only problem with my new love affair is that I was virtually alone in my passion. Oh, sure, my dad had his ticket punched for the Met bandwagon. But, around my little world, few others had. Like the fact that I was the lone Protestant in a neighborhood full of Catholics, I was the solitary Met fan on a block crammed with Yankee fans. And, because of my fandom, I was treated like a pariah.
"The Mets are a bunch of faggots."
Er, okay, same to you.
"They suck the big one."
Er, okay, same to you.
"They fuckin' blow."
Thank you for your opinion. I almost always had to slink away. Except for my always amenable childhood buddy, Leo, my Mets and I were about as welcome as a skunk at a picnic. Leo was a Yankee fan as well, but certainly much more tolerant than the rest of the angry mob of moppets. I might as well been living in the days of the Old Testament so that I could be easily stoned in the village square.
So, I had to love the Mets in secret. Quietly. By myself. In the sanctity of my own living room. Or so I thought.
Enter my uncle.
My father's older brother used to blow through our house on his way to and from work. He, too, was a baseball fan and had himself gravitated to the Mets side of the New York fan ledger. On the surface, he would have appeared to be a great conversation for me. Chatting up the Mets.
Er, no. My uncle would be my very first experience with a typical New York baseball fan. The guy that regularly calls WFAN today as "Vinnie from Bayonne." The fan that looks at the sports life as a half-full glass and sees it as almost empty. And with a crack in the side. And dirty water inside. I couldn't win.
"What's wrong with those Mets of yours???"
Er, are they really mine? I don't officially own them.
"They stand at the plate and don't take the bats off their shoulders."
Um, I'm also not the team's batting coach. Just to be clear.
"I could catch a ball better with my eyes closed."
Okay, let's try that. Next time I see you taking a nap on the sofa, maybe I'll throw a ball at you.
I had no place to turn. I was Romeo lost in the House of Capulet. The only people I could talk to about the Mets were their announcers Ralph Kiner, Bob Murphy, and Lindsey Nelson. Except they never talked back.
My dad and I did get to another Met game that first season. This time, the Rambler box seats behind the visitors dugout were not available. My father had to make due on his own by walking up to the box office. We were right behind home plate.
In the upper deck.
As we headed up the escalator, my father looked down at the ground floor which was quickly disappearing from view.
"Your nose is going to bleed."
Thanks, Dad. Let's think happy thoughts.
This was one of those famous twi-night doubleheaders that had been forced by a rainout earlier in the season. I was in my glory. With my scorecard and wearing my Shea Stadium Mets badge. And seeing two games in one night! Double the hot dogs, double the fun.
"Is your nose bleeding yet?"
Er, no. That's the ketchup on my French Fries. Frankly, I didn't care how high our seats were. I could see perfectly fine. There were over 45,000 other fans there, but I was the most important one. I was THE Met fan.
My beloved team got shut out in the first contest, but scored four runs in the bottom of the eighth to win the second game 6-5.
My first ever Met win in person. The opponent that night?
Ironically, the Los Angeles Dodgers. As a matter of fact, the winning pitcher in the complete game shutout was none other than Don Drysdale.
The Mets lost 109 games that year. I didn't care. I was now a full fledged baseball fan subscribing to the tried and true adage.
I couldn't wait till next year.
Dinner last night: Double Double from In and Out Burger.
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