[We wished Jose happy birthday when he came out on the field. Chip Hale says, "It's your birthday?" "Twenty-five, baby," was Jose's response.]

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I wake up excited. Unreasonably so. It’s not even a game. But still, to wake up and pull out my Mets jersey and drive out to Shea for the first time this year is undeniably exciting.

I park under the Grand Central scurry across the parking lot towards gate A. While it is bright and sunny and unseasonably warm (and I am dressed accordingly), on the far side of the stadium it is windy and FREEZING and we have an hour and a half to wait… before the gates open up and I scurry down onto field level to the first section where I can get front row.

After all of that, and the anticipation of waiting, it was a little bit anti-climactic; just like watching batting practice with the Pepsi Party Patrol thrown in, nothing organized, no introductions, and without a yearbook most of us can’t tell the brand new players by face (and most of them are wearing jackets over their batting practice jerseys so we don’t have numbers to help us out).

We were there until 3, and it was warm enough to get sunburned, and I got a ton of great photos. Most of all, it was just great to be in the park again, the vivid blue and green reminding me of last summer, watching baseball.

And taking photos of David Wright’s ass.