I was basking in the afterglow of my first days in love with the New York Mets.
Despite 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. 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, which is spotlighted in the original artist rendering that tops today's entry. To me, at my tender age, it was nothing short of magical. Colors danced around the white backdrop. It had baseball scores from all around the country. I looked at the Met lineup and immediately recited to all who would listen those players we would be privileged to see that night.
"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.
To be continued.
Dinner last night: Beef with broccoli.
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