With time and distance comes peace and acceptance, or something like that. Here below are my favorite baseball memories of 2010:

• Ike Davis’ Debut
• “We Believe In Home Field Advantage”
• Beating the Yankees, especially Francisco Cervelli
• Visiting Target Field
• The “roadtrip” part of going to California & Arizona
• David Wright throwing me a ball during BP at AT&T Park before the game where we had amazing seats
• Getting Rob Dibble fired
• Mike Pelfrey & a puppy
• Baseball’s best mascot starring in the best commercial in the world

My favorite Mets memory of 2010 remains the Jonathon Niese one-hitter. There was enough magic in that night to make up for a lot. Not everything, but a lot.

See you in 2011.

YANKEES’ JOBA CHAMBERLAIN AND METS’ DANIEL MURPHY JOIN DELTA TO SEND FANS TO THE SUBWAY SERIES FOR “FIRST CLASS” EXPERIENCE

New York Yankee Joba Chamberlain, New York Met Daniel Murphy and Delta Air Lines are sending fans with the most team flair to this weekend’s Subway Series at Citi Field to watch the game in truly “first class” seats at the ballpark.

The players will join Delta, the official airline and proud sponsor of the New York Yankees AND the New York Mets, to host “Fan Flair at Pershing Square” on Friday, June 26, 12pm at Pershing Square in Manhattan. Yankees and Mets fans are invited to dress in their best team-themed attire for a chance to attend Sunday’s game, the grand finale of the Subway Series.

Joba Chamberlain will be on hand to pick the Yankee fan with the flashiest flair and award one pair of tickets to Sunday’s game at Citi Field, while Daniel Murphy will award one pair to the Mets fan with the most festive attire. The lucky fans will sit in the Field Level premium area with access to the Delta Sky360 Club, a 22,500-square-foot, club-level space behind home plate that offers upscale dining and superior views of the game from behind home plate.

The first 50 Mets fans and first 50 Yankees fans to show up in their best team attire to Pershing Square will be eligible.

–
Is it me or are they really pimping the Delta Sky360 Club lately? Gary choked through an infomercial on the broadcast the other night, Ron went down there for part of the game, and now this. Do they not realize that people aren’t buying tickets there not because they don’t know about it, but because the tickets cost NINE HUNDRED DOLLARS?

I thought Brian Schneider was going to do it.

I confess, at the end of the 8th I fell back into my chair, dejected. But a guy who came down the stairs to take a photo saw my face and said, “Cheer up, it’s not over yet,” and TBF muttered something about two outs in 1986. So I looked at the lineup and thought to myself, Okay, Easley can get on, and Endy can bunt him over, and maybe Church can just get HBP, which leaves it to Schneider, and he’s been having these wondrous inexplicable 2HR hits when no one expects it, he can do it again.

You see, I had it all worked out.

It had every potential to be a glorious day, despite the rain, despite the late start, despite everything. We took the train instead of driving, because there was no way we couldn’t ride the 7 today, this very last day. We started at 10am with a tailgate with ex-Section 12, joined the Crane Pool Forum a little after 11, and picked up our complimentary lanyards at 12:15. People stood around on the concourses calmly during the rain delay. Once you got to your seats, people were friendly and pleasant and chatty and a downright pleasure to be with. The crowd was loud and proud and didn’t need Diamondvision prompting. One side was cheering Ollie, the other was staying true with LET’S GO METS. People were on their feet at every second out. The crowd was the best of the best today. The very very best.

Another good thing: In the space after the third inning, Diamondvision announced MR. MET SAYS GOODBYE TO SHEA, and rolls the film. Mr. Met comes out of the dugout carrying a little Mets duffel bag. The park is empty. He packs his bag, and starts walking out across the field from home plate. He stops at critical points along the way to remember everything worth remembering : Endy, Robin, Mike, Buckner, Jesse Orosco, you could name them all yourselves without thinking. He looks around. He stops at the warning track and fills a Shea Stadium tin with dirt. He gets to the 410 marker, looks around one more time, and waves goodbye.

That was it, but that was all it took to turn on the waterworks. There were no corporate sponsors. No elaborate production values. It was wonderful, genuine and heartfelt. 1:30 of footage that wasn’t difficult to conceive or shoot, but incredibly effective. I could not stop crying. I felt silly and was incredibly embarrassed. I ask TBF, “Am I the only one crying right now?” and looking a little misty himself, he said, “I seriously doubt it.” I wish they would put it up on mets.com.

There were other good things, things I only remember now that i sit down to go through the photographs and to write this, “Twist and Shout” when Beltran got that HR, Endy out in left field and Jerry looking like a genius, and other moments when it truly seemed possible. When BELIEVE was something I felt in my bones so hard it hurt.

The flashes when Church was at bat simultaneously saddened and repelled me. Were they all taking photos because they thought it was going to be the last out or because they thought it was going to be the start of the rally? My camera was down but I picked it back up because I put into my head that it was going to be the start of the rally. I didn’t even have it up when it counted. I just couldn’t.

My last memory is the ball flying through the grey clouds and then my heart landing in my stomach like a stone as that last ball was caught. Just like Game 7, the fact that it can be over so quickly still astounds me. I sat back, stunned, and didn’t try to pretend that my eyes weren’t filling with tears.

[The Flickr set for the pre-game and game is here. The Flickr set for the Closing Ceremony is here. I do not have a lot of energy left right now to embed the latter. I took 853 photos today and getting them whittled down to 250 was about all I could manage. I am so sorry. I will pick out some favorites later in the week.]

Someone stood in my way while the Marlins gallivanted on the field, so I was spared that. I had running commentary courtesy a woman a few rows behind me who kept screaming at them to get off the field, celebrate somewhere else, and to put back the dirt they were stealing off the warning track. TBF briefly considered emailing the NARC ALERT email address to inform the Mets that someone who hadn’t paid for it was stealing Shea memorabilia, and then didn’t have the heart.

People left while the Mets took an interminable (and inexcusable) amount of time to prepare the field for the closing ceremonies, but more people stayed. The most people left on the field level. The most people stayed in the upper deck. The truisms always repeated stay true at the end: the upper deck are the People’s Seats, and always will be.

However, we could have replaced all the missing people in the field boxes with the insane amount of NYPD who were lining the field and the aisles of the upper deck. When I got up to run to the bathroom and had to ask, twice, for two cops standing around with nothing to do to move out of my way so I could do so, my next thought was, “…And there better not be any crimes being committed in New York City right now.” It was insulting and ridiculous. “HERE’S A HINT,” yelled a gentleman who became the voice of our section, “NO ONE WANTS TO RUSH THE FIELD WHEN YOU LOSE.”

But, let’s take a different tack. Here’s what was good in the closing ceremony:

1. The fact that the fans let the Wilpons have it by booing loudly during the delay between the game and the ceremony and every time Alex told us that it would be starting soon. And, most importantly, after Mr. Met took down that 1 and Alex announced something about Citi Field coming. Only Mets fans would refuse to be polite because they were angry and pissed off (and had every right to be).
2. Howie Rose narrating.
3. The players who were there, and giving everyone their moment in the spotlight.
4. Getting to watch the players socializing amongst themselves, Al Leiter posing people in groups for photographs, one or two of them taking infield dirt. I am sure a lot of that didn’t get caught on camera.
5. The fireworks. I thought the guys scurrying around the roof during the game were security (although I caught one or two of them cheering at appropriate moments).
6. Using Southside Johnny’s “It’s Been A Long Time” as the soundtrack to the highlights reel. This one song choice alone makes up for every single musical sin by the Mets, ever. I have no idea where it came from, or who picked it, but they should be promoted. Bruce Springsteen even shares lead vocals on it. Lyrically, there were few things more appropriate:

   It’s been a long time since we laughed together
   It’s been a long time since we cried
   Raise your glass for the comrades we’ve lost
   My friend it’s been a long, long time

   It was our one very personal, very shared consolation in this entire day.

7. Getting to cheer “DARRYL… DARRYL” for my first and only time.
8. And finally, getting to watch Tom Seaver throw a pitch from the pitchers’ mound at Shea Stadium. I am not downplaying the fact that he was throwing it to Mike Piazza. But to me, getting to see Tom Seaver throw a pitch at Shea Stadium will be one of the highlights of my baseball life.

Honorable mention goes the fact that no one was rushed out of the stadium that we could see. We even were able to walk from right field to home plate to take photos and no one tried to interfere. And there were still a lot of people left when we finally made our way out of the stadium.

And now, let’s get to everything the Mets did wrong:

1. The delay between the game and the ceremony. OMFG, what were you THINKING? When they started carrying out those cardboard cutouts onto the field, in my mind they were going to play some kind of integral part of the ceremony. The fact that they were dragging out MEASURING TAPES ensured to me that they had to be placed exactly where they were because those were the historic locations where those plays happened. It wasn’t until I saw that Jesse Orosco was kneeling on the pitcher’s mound out along the left field line that I realized that the cardboard was set dressing. I didn’t time how long it took them to start the festivities, but beyond a 15 minute delay, anything else was UNCONSCIONABLE and disrespectful. Finally, Alex came on and told us it would be 5 minutes, and then after 10 minutes, told us it would be another 2 minutes.
2. The ridiculous amount of police on the field which prevented us from seeing a good part of what was going on. Look at the photos to see what I mean. I am quite sure this looked thrilling on TV, but in person, the experience was horrific. When Mr. Met (the only person wearing a current Mets uniform who wasn’t going to get booed today) went out to take down that last number, IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE TO SEE BECAUSE IT WAS BLOCKED BY A MOUNTED OFFICER. Someone tried to get the horse to move over, a little, but it was still mostly obstructed. Tell me, please, who was going to be rushing the field FROM THE BACK? It was even worse when personnel (like Ralph and Joye Murphy and the Shea family) were brought out onto the field and positioned in front of the dugouts. WE COULDN’ T SEE THEM. There were too many officers and security guards on the field to see anything.
3. I didn’t need TBF to point out that Bobby Valentine wasn’t mentioned in the “not present due to other commitments”. This was the day that you stopped holding grudges. And, while it’s important to mention the names of the people who couldn’t make it, couldn’t that have been done at the end on Diamondvision, instead of taking up 10 minutes at the start of the ceremony? It wasn’t like they put up the names or photos or anything. Howie just read a list.
4. So if you saw the ceremony, the old timer’s came onto the field from the bullpens, alternating, walked down the field lines, turned at first base or third base and then stood along the infield. Again, because it was a colossal mess down there and because they certainly didn’t get a chance to rehearse, i understand that you need a production assistant in a headset to gently guide the players in the right direction. Over on the first base side, the PA did just that: gently guide. This means that the players were free to say hello to each other, shake hands, hug, or otherwise socialize on their way out to their place in line. Over on the third base side, the PA was an absolute twit. He was rushing people along, and doing his best to interfere with, say, Al Leiter taking photos. I don’t care how you want the players spaced exactly evenly and arching perfectly along the edge of the infield. These are Hall of Famers, or if they’re not, they are men who are respected in this place and some black garbed, headset mic’d weasel of a PA doesn’t get to push them along to make it look prettier. Whoever was in charge of that should be fired. Whoever didn’t get on the walkie and tell him to stop doing what he was doing should be ashamed of themselves (she says, as she gets herself on the SNY blacklist for 2009).
5. While I realize the Mets made a nice little video thanking fans for record attendance and welcoming us to Citi Field, we should have been thanked again during this ceremony specifically, and definitely at the very end.

–

When it was all said and done, and the lights had come back on, we took some more photos, walked around a little bit more. I was ready to go right away, but tonight, the minute of our departure was governed by TBF and only by TBF. There were times while we were waiting for the closing ceremony that I briefly considered walking out and going home alone, because I couldn’t face it one second more, but I stayed. I took video down the ramps as we were leaving, and we didn’t talk much, not on the way out, not up the stairs to the 7, not on the train ride home. Some people are happy and chatty and smiling and I looked at them as though they were monsters from the deep. I had no idea how they could act so blissfully NORMAL, how none of it mattered.

A few hours ago I walked back into the kitchen and looked at TBF sitting at his desk, doing something with his scorecards from this week, and I said, “Thank you for making me fall in love with baseball. Even after all of this.” This week was magic. It was heartbreak and defeat and elation and joy and loyalty and determination. We sat with friends and strangers, we danced and sang, we shouted, we cheered and we cried. Every night, we took the 7 train out to the ballpark and cheered our team on. While heaven knows I wish it had ended differently, I wouldn’t have traded this week for anything, and i will remember it forever.

And as my father will no doubt remind me tomorrow, his mantra as a child: Wait Till Next Year. I grew up with Brooklyn Dodger fan lineage without ever knowing it, and a fine thing it is.

“They’re throwing Santana tomorrow,” TBF said, shaking his head, when we got home Friday night.
“Jerry wants to win.”
“It’s a mistake.”
“What would you do?”
“I’d just follow the rotation.”

I am too tired to argue that I am not sure that throwing Jon Niese on Saturday is the right thing to do. That I am sure that the announcement of Jon Niese on Saturday afternoon will engender the result of 55,000 fans standing up and screaming, “YOU’VE GOT TO BE FREAKIN’ KIDDING ME.” That the Mets have to win TOMORROW. Not Sunday. TOMORROW. Add to that the fact that. inconceivably, I seem to know that Santana has done well in key situations on short rest before. Johan is my guy. I believe.

We are cranky and tired when the alarm goes off at 10am and we are cranky and tired when we go to get bagels and we are cranky and tired when we get on the 7 train in Long Island City. We are not talking much, because we do not want to argue, and the only reason we would argue of course is that we are tired and cranky and it is the second to last day of Shea, which is fraught with emotion enough without adding to the pile the fact that we are both desperately scared that the Mets will not win today.

It started to mist as we got on the train and by the time we come down the stairs at Willetts Point it is officially raining, e.g., the quantity of water falling from the sky necessitates an umbrella. We go in with no problems at Gate E. There is extra security, different faces, but they do not check our bags with any more rigor than the normal gents ever did.

We enter Shea Stadium for the second-to-last time in the regular season, and begin our climb to the upper deck. Surprisingly, we are allowed to meander there via the loge and the mezzanine without being stopped or challenged, and I am grateful; I do not need to get cranky for arbitrary and idiotic things outside of my control today. We are even able to ensconce ourselves under the overhang in Row R, and that’s when we discover – despite the rain hotline’s declarations to us during the 7 train ride to the contrary – that the game start time is delayed. It is now 1:25, but no sooner did we sit down than they announce that it is now 1:45.

But, astonishingly, the rain did stop. We moved down to Row H, toweled off the seats (causing everyone around us to mutter something about us being prepared as they futilely wiped theirs down with handfuls of napkins), and settled in. The girls in seats 3 and 4 are here today, but our old friends, Statler and Waldorf from the row behind us are conspicuously absent, and the section blowhard is also not in residence. A gentleman comes up the aisle wearing a Phillies jersey and a Yankees hat. I announce to no one in particular that he is the very definition of a dickhead (sorry, but would you call him anything else?) Waldorf arrives just before first pitch, sans Statler, and informs us that his compatriot couldn’t face coming today. Mr. Blowhard arrives shortly after that.

Jerry Koosman removes the number. “HEY JERRY,” yells the local comedian. “YOU’RE STARTING TOMORROW.”
We laugh, but laugh through gritted teeth.
The ceremonial first pitch is thrown out by Cleon Jones, which was another nice surprise. The lack of corporate assholes this weekend is lovely and refreshing. Even the music today had nothing to do with a WCBS 101 anything. It’s “Shout It Out Loud” and Let’s Get This Party Started instead of “Saturday In The Park” or the ridiculous, milquetoast Hall and Oates (who I will point out are FROM PHILLY and therefore NEVER APPROPRIATE) that were played on 80s night earlier in the week.

I hate forced patriotism just as much as the next gal, but you just don’t talk during the National Anthem. I mean, sure, you can make a quiet comment under your breath, but you don’t have a loud, extended conversation. Of course, that was exactly what was going on two rows behind us. Multiple looks of death did nothing to shut them up. It wasn’t until after the game that we noticed that one of them was wearing a Yankees shirt. You will then of course understand when I tell you that we suffered throughout the first few innings of the game while the Anthem idiots and Mr. Blowhard decide to discuss baseball, the Mets bullpen, and in-game strategy. It was one of those “Hey, don’t let facts get in the way of your argument” kinds of discussions. I kept urging TBF to ignore them but the sheer ignorance kept overwhelming him and he kept turning around to try to correct them, only to be told that whatever fact or statistic he offered was “irrelevant”.

Eventually I just went catatonic. Dead still. Silent. Focused. Laser beams trained on the field. I didn’t want to eat, and when I did, nothing had any taste. I agreed to split a soda with TBF, but then my half sat on the ground next to me. I didn’t even notice when it stopped raining. (TBF had to mention that perhaps I should take off the poncho because I kept hitting the guy in front of me in the head with it every time I stood up.)

5 innings, 6 innings, 7 innings. No one is up in the bullpen. Santana’s pitch count is low.

“Oh my god, is that game in Milwaukee going to start already?” said one of the Anthem Idiots.
Despite myself, I held up 4 fingers.
“Oh.”

8 innings. JO-HAN, JO HAN, JO HAN, we are chanting. I wonder if they ever did this in Minnesota. I cannot imagine what it must feel like right now to be Johan Santana and to have the fate of the season hanging over your head. Then again, I reason, that is why he is here.

Johan rings up the last batter and on the way off the mound does the tiniest little fist pump, the first visible emotion we’ve seen.

And then, number 9.
First out.
Second out.
First pitch. Second pitch. Third pitch – walk. Fourth pitch – walk. Fifth pitch, and the stadium explodes, while “Smooth” comes on the PA, and BELIEVE is on the scoreboard again. I notice with some satisfaction that the final victim is Cody Ross, who I hate even more than I hate Hanley Ramirez. I am shooting the field, until Johan finishes the line of handshakes, and heads back towards the dugout. We are still screaming and cheering and chanting JO-HAN, and he takes the game ball and throws it into the stands, and then tips his cap before heading down the stairs.

I put the camera down, high five TBF, and then throw my arms around him and burst into tears into his shoulder. It is relief and ecstasy and elation and excitement and exhaustion all rolled into one. I take what feels like the first deep breath I have taken the entire game.

“That was the best pitched game I have ever seen,” TBF says, as earnestly as he ever has stated anything. Statler behind us agrees, as we shake hands and wish each other well.

Unlike every other game we have ever been at, we do not charge down the aisle and snake through the concourse before making time down the ramps as efficiently as possible. We slowly make our way down to the walkway and at the bottom I realize I need to stop to change lenses, so I can shoot on the way out. So we move down into the boxes, which are filled with people standing and staring and posing for photos, sitting and taking it in, leaning over the railing for one last look. I look around and realize that it is happening everywhere, in every box, on every level. No one is in a hurry to leave today, and thankfully, gratefully, the Mets are not being assholes about this. People are walking slowly, carefully, no one is rushing, and they are not being rushed.
“We’ll probably have to get the local,” TBF notes as we stop for the 15th time on one of the ramps.
“I don’t care.”
“Me neither.”

–
The Flickr set from the game is here. Shea photos here.

Yep, I looked like a freaking GENIUS tonight.

We were settled into UR Section 16, Row A, and as TBF filled out the lineups on his scorecard and I struggled into the first layer of polar fleece, he made some comment about “wanting more of a positive attitude. C’mon, let’s remember the immortal words of Tug Mc Graw.”
I rolled my eyes.
“No, seriously. You gotta believe.”
“I’m HERE, aren’t I?”
“I think we need a little more enthusiasm than that.”
I put on another layer of fleece and sighed. I was not going to ever meet his level of enthusiasm or willpower. He was imprinted at a young age, he was going to sit at Shea every night this week for every single minute there was baseball and nothing would budge him. Nothing. But there was no shame in heading home early for illness or cold or crappy on-field performance, and I am not him.

I would see how the night would go. After all, the Cubs had presented us with their Suck-Ass Lineup.

Famous last words.

But I didn’t leave, not when the first drops of rain drifted aimlessly down from the sky, not when they fell with more intensity, not when it officially was Raining and we got increasingly nervous that once we hit the 5th inning that this would be An Official Game and we would be sent home. I didn’t leave when a steady stream of people started to make their way towards the tunnels and up the steps of the 7 train. I didn’t leave when the Mets left ducks on the pond, when Rincon replaced Pedro and promptly threw a pitch that got knocked into our bullpen and brought home those same runs we took Pedro out to avoid. I didn’t leave when the score seemed impossible to catch, or at least, impossible for the 2008 Mets to catch.

I did not have my camera out as Pedro left the field for what might be the very last time. We knew it, he knew it, and he waved and tipped his hat to the bedraggled rats who were still left.

The rain fell, and the fans left, and for some dogged reason I sat there and screamed and yelled and clapped and cheered and chanted LET’S GO METS. I danced in my seat under the rain poncho. I sent text messages back and forth to Seattle and Houston, who were pulling for us, too.

Truth be told, it was actually kind of fun. It was fun because I wasn’t miserable, because I was layered and warm and toasty and dry. I had gloves and an extra hat and in my bag there was still a scarf and a shawl. Maybe if I had been soaking wet and cold it would have been different.

The 8th inning. I am watching Ryan Church run down the line towards home and I see the catcher standing there, and I know it is pointless and fruitless and my heart is in my stomach and I am regretting eating anything earlier because it’s just making me nauseous right now… but What? WHAT? WHAT???!!! He reached for home THREE TIMES! Or at least that was what I remember, each time me thinking, “They’re surely going to get him NOW, right?”

“FUN-DA-MEN-TALS CLAP CLAP CLAPCLAPCLAP!” Your loss is our gain!

And then we came to the bottom of the 9th inning.

Daniel Murphy, god love him, had what seemed like one of the worst at-bats in the history of at-bats.
David Wright, god love him, just couldn’t make it happen. People are yelling, “David, you suck.” TBF turns around, like he has all week, and points out that David is having his best season ever and just broke a Mets record the previous night. This line of reasoning does not register with them.
“Okay, this is what we want anyway,” he says as Delgado steps up… and the Cubs promptly pitch around him. I will not share with you what I yelled at that moment, but it had to do with their lack of manhood and general cowardice.
And then, Carlos Beltran. You know, I like Carlos Beltran just fine, unlike many other members of our fine community. But I just did not think he would do it. I didn’t. Even though I was on my feet and screaming with the kids standing on the walkway below us, and yelling LET’S GO METS with the crazy guy in the MARTINEZ 45 jersey and rally cap who was banging beer bottles against the railings so hard he had to keep looking for new ones, and offering words of wisdom along the lines of DON’T FUCK THIS UP, WE WANT TO GO TO THE POST SEASON, YOU MOTHERFUCKERS, deep inside there was a little voice telling me that we were going to the 10th or the 11th inning in this bleeping rain and I was going to get home at bleeping midnight and the Mets were going to lose AGAIN.

It was like a rocket took off from the infield. Screaming, jumping, and I am braced against the rail trying to get the mob on the field in my viewfinder, while the rain falls on my face. I don’t know what’s raindrops and what are tears.

And like last night, the scoreboard reminds us:

BELIEVE.

And right now, I think the Mets actually do.

–
The Flickr feed is here.

It was a grand night out at Shea tonight, one of those classic late-season games that starts to feel like something else, ripe with potential and taut with anticipation. The weather was warm but not hot, cool but not cold. The crowd wasn’t the sellout a Sunday afternoon game would have been, but it was plenty full and wonderfully vocal, chanting “Let’s Go Mets” before we even sang the anthem.

[the flickr set is here.

Selfishly, TBF and I love the ESPN Sunday games, because it's a buyer's market, and you can get great seats for under face. As soon as the game time gets announced, we fly onto eBay and bide our time. We never get bad seats for an ESPN game. This time, we ended up in the front row of the upper boxes, Box 571, Row A, Seats 3 & 4. Here's the view from our seats:

I show that view to you not just because it is an unusual perspective for the third-base denizen that is MetsGrrl, but because the last time we sat in those seats was for the game at which that vantage was priceless. No joke, we were back in those exact seats, an eBay purchase snatched up by TBF at some point over the last week and a half. Unlike that game, the people sitting in seats 1 & 2 were Mets fans; the woman told me that they bought the seats from a season ticket holder who wouldn't sell the seats to Phillies fans. We had a few in our section, woofing all the louder the further they got away from a win. "Dude. You're down by three runs. Sit down, and shut up," TBF lectured. Later in the game, when I finally turned around to get in my "Beat the traffic" line, I noticed that they had mysteriously vanished.

The crowd was loud and in fine spirits. We didn't need Diamondvision to tell us to MAKE NOISE or GET LOUD, we were already loud. The upper deck was shaking gently, bringing back fond memories, and wistful thoughts of how the Promenade level over yonder probably doesn't move at all. The yellow security shirts were running to and fro all night, but like the residents of our box, most of the Phillies Phans skulked off into the night early.

Tonight we finally made and brought K cards. We've talked about it the few times that we'd ended up in the front row of a box, but never got around to it; the closest we've come was the banner I fortuitously (and heartbreakingly) brought to Game 7. However, during that first inning, I have to confess that I wondered if we had jinxed things by our industriousness. This was not Second-Half Santana we were seeing for a few pitches there.

Charlie Manuel getting run within what seemed like two minutes of the game having been played was a tactical error. It didn't fire up the Phillies, it just fired up the entire stadium. It was a fine performance, worthy of an award from the Lou Piniella Academy of Excessive Dramatics, and while I loved every minute of it, it took entirely too long during an ESPN game which is, to my tastes, already long enough. Not quite AL long, but long enough without needing to add to it.

There was a gentleman sitting behind us who I kept referring to as Ralph Kramden, because of the gravelly tenor of his voice and the volume of his commentary, which kept running the entire night. In the second inning: "GOOD D JOHAN - DID YOU SEE THAT, EVERYONE?" to the next inning's "I WANT A BOBBLEHEAD - THERE AREN'T ANY MORE KIDS COMING, YOU GOTTA HAVE SOME EXTRAS." Whenever there was the smallest lull in the crowd's roar, he would remind us "YOU SUCK [NAME OF PHILLIES PLAYER AT BAT] or “THE PHILLIES SUCK… YOU KNOW YOU SUCK… OH, YOU SUCK.” But most priceless had to be his christening of the Phillies right fielder, who will now forever be known in our house as “Sphinctorino.”

I’ll wait while you digest that touch of genius.

While this was going on, I was busily trying to work up some material about how that double-flap helmet of his makes him look like the Great Gazoo. (Come on, click on the link and then tell me if I’m wrong.) That material fell on deaf ears, because TBF was chuckling like an 8-year-old over Mr. Kramden’s commentary.
“It’s not that funny,” I protest.
“Oh, yes it is.” More chuckling.

I know Ralph sounds annoying but I gotta tell you that I hate games where no one does anything except maybe clap a few times, but then turn around and look at you funny when you offer some comment about the opposing team, the manager’s in-game strategy, or a particular player’s performance. (Of course, these same people look at you incredulously when you refuse to participate in the wave when the game is 2-1 and the tieing run is at the plate.) There is a certain charm in the upper deck that is going to be lost next year in the favor of club level bs. Sometimes I think people don’t understand that a ballgame is a ballgame and isn’t the opera, or even a tennis match. There should be a place where you are going to be treated to your neighbor’s loud and grating vocal commentary about the game. Hell, at least it means he’s paying attention, and isn’t playing with his iPhone or his Blackberry in the middle of the inning (and before you get down on me, I have TWO devices, one for me and one for work, but I’m not answering it while David Wright is up to bat, you know?)

I have in the past tried to explain my hatred of the Phillies and have not ever really succeeded. I think Chase Utley and Cole Hamels are smarmy. Pat Burrell is Chipper Jones in a different shade of red. Shane Victorino could play a serial killer in any low-budget late night film. I dislike that little miniature excuse for a baseball stadium. I think the Phillie Phanatic would have been a cool mascot in the 70′s. And don’t get me started on the fans. Every time I have been in Philly, the default insult involves around the Mets’ alleged homosexual tendencies. Guess what, it’s the 00′s, and calling someone gay or insinuating that he likes to sleep with men is no longer an insult in civilized company. It’s an overwhelmingly white, suburban crowd; there is zero diversity – the terrified faces of the teenagers on the 7 train today wearing power blue and maroon made that patently clear. TBF would rather go to the Bronx any day than go to Philly, and given the gestapo regime in that place, that’s a pretty incredible statement.

I don’t know how I could have survived this game if the offense had been AWOL yet again, especially with the recent innovation where the Phillies fans have discovered that I-95 runs in two directions. I would have had to leave early. I couldn’t take seeing the unmistakable symptom of the season melting out from underneath us again. Yes, I would have rather seen 2 out of 3, and yes, tonight’s game should have been the one we should have been worried about. But the Mets stepped up and said, okay, we’re not letting them sweep us, and they brought it. Yeah, Jose had a crappy game, and is officially in The Land of Slump, and who knows what’s up with D. Wright.

But the rebirth of Carlos Delgado? I keep waiting for it to stop and it doesn’t stop. He hits a home run and I hold my breath the next time he’s at the plate because I don’t want to think that he’ll get another one, but I equally don’t want to think that he won’t – and yet he does. Again. The fans chant “MVP” and TBF mutters under his breath that he’s not the NL MVP, and while I understand that he’s not, I equally understand what the fans are trying to say. We can’t say, “Hey, Carlos Delgado, we’re unbelievably glad that you’re playing like the Carlos Delgado we originally signed to the Mets, with all the reasons we wanted you here in the first place. Way to go, dude.” Our conversations are shorter than that, they happen through a filter and through distance, and the only way we can say, “We’re really sorry for doubting you and not believing in you and my goodness, you are making us so happy” is to chant “MVP,” and to demand a curtain call from a man who hates them, but gives one to us anyway.

The mechanics of the K cards were interesting. We were thorough in our planning, thinking through size and materiel and I dictated to TBF over the phone exactly what type of marker he should be purchasing, for durability and economy. We had duct tape. We had electrical tape. TBF snuck a tiny pocketknife in in his sock, and I will tell you that if I had to do it again, I would somehow get scissors in or precut the tape, because I almost-punctured my left index finger six times before I finally drew blood. But we were in the middle of hanging up a card, so I wrapped the piece of duct tape I had just been in the process of cutting around the finger and carried on. I mean, I didn’t want to get blood on the K cards, now did I?

“Where are you? We’re in the top level behind the dugout. Can you see me? Above the K’s,” said one of the girls behind us. “No, no, right above them. The K’s. Where are you? What you wearing?”
“I’m wearing a shirt that says METS on it,” one of her friends answered, giggling at the ridiculousness of the entire exchange. However, we were childishly glad the cards were visible on the 3rd base side, which was battleground central from all appearances and by all accounts.

And then before I know it it is the 9th inning, and there is one out, and then there is the second out, and everyone is back on their feet – security is still dealing with fights over on the 3rd base side – but there is that last strikeout, and TBF picks up a K card and waves it, while my camera is trained on the infield for the celebration. Once it was in the books, he went to work pulling down the cards while I took photo after photo, and we made our way to the train tired and glad – but also just a little wistful. One more night of Shea magic for the memory books, with a whiff of September, just like the proverbial cherry on top – but one night closer to the end of it all.

DEAR TONY LA RUSSA STOP
BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN STARTED ST LOUIS CONCERT AT 8:47PM TONIGHT STOP
REPEAT EIGHT FORTY SEVEN STOP
THE TICKET SAYS 7:30 STOP
(YES I KNOW HE USUALLY GOES ON AT 8:15) STOP
BECAUSE CARDINALS GAME RAN LATE DUE TO RAIN DELAY STOP
RUMOR IS BRUCE WAS WAITING FOR YOU STOP
PLEASE TELL ME THAT ISN’T THE REASON STOP
I KNOW BRUCE ENDED UP PLAYING THREE HOURS AND 10 MINUTES ANYWAY STOP
BUT THAT’S BESIDES THE POINT STOP
WHAT TIME DOES THE BAR OPEN YOU SUCK STOP
I HOPE WHOEVER STOOD BEHIND YOU SANG LOUDLY AND OUT OF TUNE ALL NIGHT STOP
GO BREWERS STOP

**UPDATE: Debunked by La Russa himself, although I find it hysterical that it went all the way from E Street Nation to the mainstream media.

It was in the Kingdome in 1995. I had been in Seattle for a little over six months. The startup I was working for had just moved from the marina on Lake Union to a building downtown. Our sysadmin was a guy named Steve, who loved baseball and the Mariners. He had season tickets right behind home plate, in the front row of the upper deck.

When we moved downtown, we went from being 4 people and Steve to being about 14. And somehow the idea of a company outing came up and Steve suggested we go see the Mariners. In August or September of 1995.

So we bought 14 tickets and headed to the Kingdome. Three of us were from New York, and two of us, at least, were offering various opinions on the umpires in a very New York fashion.
That was until a gentleman who was leading cheers in our section – he wore gloves to do so – came over and informed us that he was certain we were from out of town, and so he’d give us the benefit of the doubt, but baseball fans in Seattle did not conduct themselves in that way.
As he turned his back and walked away, one of us commented that he was lucky we hadn’t brought the D batteries that day.

I didn’t know what was going on. How could I? But I thought I did. And I was from New York.

I don’t remember much of what happened before the home run, but I do remember that instant when the bat hit the ball because that was the moment the Kingdome got to its feet. I haven’t been to the Metrodome but TBF tells me of the great home field advantage anyone has there in playoff games because it is so loud, and that is the thing I remember most about the Kingdome, how LOUD it was compared to any outdoor baseball game I have been to. In my minds’ eye I can see the ball sailing into the outfield but I will be gentle and say that it is likely my imagination.

And the fireworks! Indoor fireworks! The smell and the smoke and the – INDOOR fireworks? Wow, Dorothy, you’re definitely back IN Kansas if the fireworks are *inside*, I thought.

I remember it most of all because at that moment I felt a little more like I belonged to my new hometown. That I could cheer with the crowd and mean it.

Of course, I did not take this. It is by my friend Alan, and the occasion should be obvious to any of you who are reading. You can see the entire set here. And, read 600 Words For Junior, which made me realize I had something of my own to say.

“Upper Box 22, row 1. $8″ he yelled at me Saturday night.
“The upper boxes have no legroom in the front row and that’s too far out.”
“Mezzanine Section 2 Row B, $15.”
“Possibly.”
“There are these field boxes on eBay that have no bids.”
“Fine, let’s wait them out.”

Of course, now that the Mets were actually winning games, nothing on the secondary market was staying not-bid-on for very long, and by 10pm TBF was scowling because Buy It Nows were no longer valid and ignored pairs of tickets were now up to $58. It was late, and I was tired, and had had a lot of baseball, and wasn’t that sure I wanted to drag myself back out to Shea to sit in crappy seats.

So I started poking around, and found two seats behind home plate for $136 each. I wasn’t really going to buy them, but Miriam from Section 12 had sat on the field level Thursday night – something she wanted to do once before Shea was no longer – and that had planted a seed. I have sat on the loge and in the loge boxes and TBF had been on the field level, but not in front of the main aisle – but we had never gotten anything really, really good at Shea. But there was nothing out there, so I was willing to leave it as: We tried to play the system and we didn’t win. I can live with this, was my attitude.

However, I forgot that I was dealing with TBF. When I woke up the next morning, he had been up for several hours already, and before I had even gotten coffee into my system, presented me with several options, both of which had the same result: field box seats behind the dugout for half price. I know this doesn’t seem reasonable, or logical, but keep in mind that this was an afternoon game that got moved to 8pm and frankly, it sucks getting home from Shea late on a Sunday night.

So of course, we had to buy them.

So once, before I was MetsGrrl, I bought TBF loge box seats as a way of saying, “I’m sorry for being a crappy girlfriend.” We were playing the Nationals but it didn’t matter, we were right at the first base line and TBF was over the moon. We have had great seats in Pittsburgh and in Seattle and in Philadelphia and I had amazing seats with Coop in Milwaukee. But the only time we came close to being on the field level at Shea for an extended length of time was after we clinched the division in 06, and that almost doesn’t count. (Well, it does, but in a different way.)

When I walked out of the bedroom, dressed and ready for the game, TBF glanced up at my #30 jersey and said, “Uncle Cliffie, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Some good mojo, that.”
“He’d like to be there tonight.”
“He would be happy to be part of a winning team.”

Walking onto the field level at 6pm, in the middle of batting practice, sitting down in our seats, waving the ushers away – these are OUR seats – and realizing that I could take photographs from my seats was like Cinderella and the pumpkin turning into a royal coach. It is another world down there. Yes, the legroom sucks, and the padding on the seat just made my butt wet, but the cupholders, and – dare I say it – the wait service – were nice touches.

And the view! Right there! I don’t need binoculars. Close enough to reach out and touch. Close enough to see it almost as well as watching it on tv. Shea was full, the lights were on, the sun setting and the glow bouncing off of Citi Field. I am focusing my lens on third base and can read the “I Live For This” logo on the side. I am going to be able to take 30 million beautiful photos of Johan Santana pitching right from my seat. The mezzanine seems so – far away, even though it doesn’t seem that high up when we are up there.

I sat back in my seat and beamed. It was absolutely magic.

And when the game started, it was only more so. Everything is just right there, clear and crisp and under the lights it just doesn’t seem real, it feels like being in a movie. And I guess it is fine to be all jaded and gruff and you’ve sat in the American Express seats and even my fucking SISTER has sat in her corporate box at Fenway for Matsuzaka’s first start (trust me there have been words on that) but if you don’t do it all the time it is wonderful and special and you feel like you are somewhere else, like it is not real. You feel like you are in the middle of it on the field level.

I’ve said it before, but Santana’s pitching is poetry in motion, it is elegant and grand and imposing in every movement and moment, leaning in, winding up, delivering. I love photographing it because it allows me to focus on the movement and disregard anything else.

And the game: it felt different, it felt electric, it felt like people were paying attention and playing to win. When Luis Castillo has a web-gem worthy assist, you know it’s a great night. The home runs traveled farther, the players ran harder. Taking photographs at that angle was a joy. The only thing that was missing was the camaraderie I am accustomed to on the Mezzanine level, the neighborliness of it. It didn’t seem like anyone sitting in the seats around us normally sat in those seats, and that seemed like a shame.

Reyes stealing.
Johan at bat.
Church hitting a home run.
Beltran hitting a home run, and me losing track of it, insisting it hit off the top of the scoreboard where it says NATIONAL LEAGUE. Maybe I just wanted it to hit there. It doesn’t matter.
Watching the dugout celebrations mere feet away.
Facial expressions in detail.
That double play, which I could not even start to photograph, caught up as I was in the emotion and the action and the crowd leaping to its feet and throwing its hands into the air.
The return of Ryan Church.

And, of course, the other benefit.

Luis Castillo approaches the plate.
“HEY, LUIS! DON’T BUNT! NO, SERIOUSLY, DO NOT BUNT!” TBF sounds like he has a megaphone, but no, that’s just his outside voice.
“I’m sorry,” I say to the guys across the aisle. “He’s been yelling that all week.”
“But he couldn’t hear me before,” TBF insists.
“Just don’t start talking about Kenny Lofton,” I mumble. (TBF became convinced late this week that Kenny Lofton was the answer to our current outfield woes, and it had been an almost-hourly topic of conversation since Friday evening.)
“Wait for it. No one who mattered could hear me before.”

We caught a t-shirt; Mr. Met did not come to our dugout for the 7th inning stretch; and no foul balls came anywhere near us. We availed ourselves of one food item from the menu, because how could we not? And I do not believe we got on television, but plenty of people around us did – just like the Kiss Cam.

< warning: chick stuff ahead >

TBF hates the kiss cam, and I, in a rare spurt of girlishness, like it – although I would be happier if we didn’t have all the between-innings entertainment, the Kiss Cam is funny. My refrain is no longer “but i want to be on the smooch-cam” because I realize they are not going up to the mezzanine. However, tonight should have been our night. Was there a cuter couple in the field boxes? Was there a more Mets-themed-and-attired couple available? Noooooooo. But did we get on the smooch cam? NOOOOOOOO.

At least the dumb girls wearing designer sunglasses to keep their hair back – at 10pm – didn’t get on screen.

(Not that I noticed, anyway.)

< /chick >

9th inning, and TBF says, “We should stick around a little bit, to get the onfield celebration, and there will probably be a nice graphic,” and we are standing on our feet and cheering into the stars, and the last out and the place explodes. SANTANA 100 flashes on the screens, and the players come out onto the field, Ramon Castro body-slamming anyone who will let him. The Mets are now off to the West Coast, where they are not facing great teams, and hopefully the feeling from this week and this series will carry them where they need to go, just like it carried us home through the Brooklyn midnight, not much caring about how early we had to get up the next day.

The Flickr feed is here.

That was the thought pattern in my head when I crawled out of bed at 6:20 this morning, and yet, at 4:30pm, I am on the phone with TBF discussing food options and meeting places and times and by 6pm we were on the 7 train out to Willetts Point. When we got on the train at Bryant Park, I was completely in afternoon commuter mode, barreling down the stairs and into the train and letting him hopelessly follow me. And then by Grand Central I was apologizing, and by Vernon-Jackson it didn’t matter too much, and by the time the express was speeding by Sunnyside, I was laughing and making jokes. The closer the train got to Shea, the better I felt.

Even then, I admit that my attitude was, it’s baseball, and I am happy to be here, those April games at Shea that are not crowded and we can spread out across the section comfortably. I will inform you that that is no longer the case, maybe on Tuesdays we’ll have that room, but our overly zealous usher (dude, when people are handing you season and plan tickets, don’t treat them like criminals if they’re sitting in seat 6 and their ticket is really for seat 5). I didn’t even bring a camera, there was just too much to bring and manage, work clothes and game clothes and shoes and enough warm clothes so I did not turn into the iceman round about the bottom of the 5th inning. I was just going to chill out (literally) and enjoy things. TBF was just praying we get through 5 innings so the game would be official.

As we walked to our seats, TBF noted the Brooklyn Lager stand on the mezzanine, not far from our seats. He points, I nod. We never drink at the games, but tonight we are starting the evening with a beer. I think this might account for why I was cheering the pitcher on in this fashion:
“Alright, FIGGY!”
“Let’s go FIG NEWTON!”
“Okay, FIG MAN!”

Within a few innings my theme had caught on, and we were hearing cheers of “Figgy” from all around us. TBF shakes his head reproachfully.
“It’s the sensation that’s sweeping the nation,” I offer.
“Perhaps the section is what you mean.”
“Can I make another joke about Corey Hart wearing his sunglasses?”
That look again, and he turns back to his scorecard.

I watched some of the game when we got home, and I think it probably seemed worse lower down, but for those of us sitting up in the cloud layer (as I write this, the little weather module over to the left says ‘Clouds: vertical visibility to 100 ft’ ) it seemed odd but not as dire as Gary, Keith, Ron and Kevin made it seem out at Shea. We did wonder at what point it was going to become so foggy that it might impede the game. Miriam asks TBF if a game was ever called on account of fog. We do not have an answer, and my PDA is not getting signal out at Shea.

She is struggling with her scorecard tonight, because Ned Yost bats his pitcher 8th and his catcher 9th. TBF offers that he is going to create a special scorecard just to accommodate the Brewers and the Cardinals, who do the same thing. With that, he hands me the scorecard as he runs out between innings to get a snack. I look at the scorecard and panic. It is one of my 2008 Baseball Resolutions to really learn how to score, and we are going to make me my own custom scorecard one day soon, but right now I am panicking at the thought of getting things right. Luckily, since all of 50 people are at Shea tonight, TBF returns with ice cream in a helmet before the next batter reaches the on-deck circle.

I think it had all started to dawn on us what might be happening when one of the twins behind us says something that causes TBF to yell through clenched teeth, “But WE’RE NOT TALKING ABOUT THAT,” and then it dawns on everyone, and we all start briskly discussing the Yankees vs. the Red Sox and the moronic hordes of Yankee fans at Shea tonight, and how are Miriam and Julia’s parents, and anything except the thing that we’re all not going to talk about or otherwise acknowledge. My own superstitions get the best of me and I rule out even thinking about what we’re not talking about.

And then we got to the fifth inning.

After that first hit, we stood. We applauded heartily. We tried to get the people who were doing the whole OMG IT IS FRIDAY AND I AM AT A BASEBALL GAME DRINKING BEER! WOOO! to stand up and cheer with us but now they are not interested. They weren’t completely hopeless, because the next inning they started a “FIG-UR-O-A clap-clap-clap-clap-clap” chant, for which we like them.

At this point it feels a little bit like the bizarro world. The cloud and the half-empty stadium make it seem like we could be anywhere, because there are no identifying landscape features in the distance, since they are all obscured by the fog. And I start to think about how almost every night of the week, there is a baseball game playing somewhere, and there are people who go almost every night and people who go as often as they can, and there are places that get crowds like the one we have right now even on a weekend, especially if the team isn’t very good or is losing or isn’t very popular. But it doesn’t matter how many people show up, the game still goes on. The groundscrew takes care of the field, they rake the infield and the warning track, they chalk the lines. There are 9 men on the field and the game has the same rules. I could go to a baseball game anywhere in the world and mostly know what was going on, even if I didn’t speak the language.

This is what I think about sitting up in my cloud, watching Aaron Heilman be mighty and Joe Smith be okay and Billy Wagner kick serious ass. And then “Taking Care of Business” plays and I am sorry I did not watch the handshaking on the field more closely, after I came home and watched that fifth inning and then that 9th inning and the Kevin Burkhardt interviews with Nelson and his family and his father and hearing Ronnie’s voice crack in empathy and identification just a little.

And I resolve to remember this all the next time I think I’m too tired to go to the game.

–

My reaction to the 8th inning singalong (Billy Joel tonight):