Saturday, April 18, 2009

YOU NEVER CAN TELL. [4-17-09].

Mets v. Brewers
4-18-09

C’est la vie, said the old folks, it goes to show you never can tell

My fifth journey to our new world-class ballpark started with an inauspicious attempt at watching batting practice.  Once that was done and over with, I got some food and headed up to the Promenade.  Citi Field doesn’t feel like home yet; it’s like going to a new school - after a while it becomes cautiously familiar, but it’s not yet on comfortable.

I learn tricks, like the right field escalator near the World’s Fare Market goes all the way up to the third level. I try the garlic fries from that location (fail); I grab two hot dogs and navigate the topping station, only to take what should have been a satisfying bite and almost want to spit it out immediately. Nathan’s hotdogs should be Nathan’s hot dogs, but yet, they are not. It is good to learn these things. The novelty of the food offerings has officially worn off, and I will be bringing $5 footlongs from Subway from now on.

I am with my friend Seth tonight, as TBF is on the road. Seth comes from a broken home (Yankees father, Mets mother) and he knows me even before I knew a damn thing about baseball. He is seasoned; he is cautious; he is a Mets fan, born and bred. So even after the Mets take an early lead, neither of us are relaxed or confident. We want 8 more runs on that board before that will happen.

It is the same old song, the gathering of momentum only for runners to be left on base, for people who need to get on base or get a run or at least advance the runners to not do so. We joke that fans will be calling WFAN tonight to demand Carlos Beltran be traded; it would be funny if it wasn’t so very, so painfully true.

And then, of course, the Brewers, who are not a bad team ,who have their own little Murderers’ Row going in their own way, get the better of us. People in 514 are dejected. They go to get snacks or beer or walk around. They sigh. They look at their phones. The game dissolves into doldrums. The only good thing about this interlude is that the morons who were doing the wave earlier stop doing so.

I ran out for a bathroom break at one point tonight. I didn’t make it back before the inning had started, so I did what well-mannered baseball fans do everywhere else in the world: I stood at the top of the tunnel and waited for the half inning to finish. I am told by the security guard that I cannot stand there. I point out that it is rude for me to make an entire row get up in the middle of someone’s at-bat. I am told that if his boss saw me, there would be trouble. I am bemused, especially given that they were SUPPOSED TO START DOING THIS HERE. I tell the guard that at every other ballpark in the country, security stops people from walking up and down the aisles in the middle of the at-bat. And then there is a pitching change so I go up, fuming. Can we not even get this right? Is there a reason that every other ballpark in the country does this as a matter of course, of consideration, of good manners, as sound crowd control, and Citi Field does not? No seriously. CAN WE NOT GET THIS ONE VERY BASIC THING RIGHT?

I return to my seats and find that the woman sitting behind me just had the same experience with the security guard. I despair, and return to the game. Seth and I discuss the untimely demise of Fire Joe Morgan. We discuss the fact that Soundgarden will never reunite because Chris Cornell turned out to be a real jerk. I wonder if this will be a typical non-TBF outing, which usually means that the game goes to extra innings and the Mets still lose. I mention this to Seth in the hope that it jinxes that pattern. We try to decipher the out of town scoreboard. We lament that the pitch speed gets on the screen for half a second. We look at Ramon Castro’s statistics and sigh ourselves. We aren’t leaving and we aren’t going to wander around but the game is hardly galvanizing our attention at that particular moment in the 7th inning.

I am telling you all of this so you understand how I didn’t notice for a split second that Gary Sheffield was at bat. I noticed all the flashes going off and then it clicked at the same minute that his bat made contact and no I do not yet know our outfield like I knew Shea, when unseasoned folks would jump up and raise their arms triumphantly and I would yawn while the fly ball was caught, this time I knew and we knew and Gary knew, and like some mythological giant awakening from a magical slumber, the stadium rose and exploded into cheers simultaneously, as Gary made his way around the basepaths and the scoreboard read SHEFFIELD 500 and everyone is screaming and high-fiving as though he was one of our own (he is, I know, but you know what I mean).

Now, at least, we were tied. We had a fighting chance. We did. No, seriously, we did. We had three more innings, but - okay, I’m not going to tell you that I suddenly had faith or that I knew in my bones that the Mets were going to pull it out and win. Because as soon as Gary took his curtain call, it was back to business as usual and we all knew that. He hasn’t been with us long enough for anyone to be that emotionally attached to this milestone. We were just more awake because we’d had a chance to stand up and be happy and cheer and yell and high-five.  The kids in front of me put their rally caps back on again.

We suffered through “Sweet Caroline” again. We watched as once again no t-shirts made it anywhere near the promenade. We prayed, as much for the pace of the game to pick up as we did for the Mets to get ahead.  I wanted to make a joke about their eminences (is that right?) being at the ballpark giving the team favor but refrained.  Tonight, JJ Putz got the full “Thunderstruck” treatment: music on full blast (it is distorted and not loud enough in the Promenade! This is something the Mets can fix - please DO THIS) and cheesy graphics of his face surrounded by flames. I love it. I am ashamed to admit it was exactly what I wanted.

Bottom of the 9th, and I think to myself, at this point this game will either end in sheer triumph or utter heartbreak. There is no middle ground. There is no “Well, at least they fought.” Go large or go home. I say things like “Well, at least they need to advance the runners,” because there’s no way Delgado is scoring from second.

That happens.

And then it’s Luis Castillo, and if anyone in that ballpark says that they knew Luis was going to be the game hero (to steal a term from Japanese baseball), they are lying. They were annoyed and angry and pissed off at this point. “At least get it out of the infield,” was Seth’s quiet request.

It didn’t get out of the infield but it did just fine.

“Louie Louie” played long enough for me to be satisfied, followed by the old, tired and stale “Taking Care of Business”. (That was 2006’s song. Playing it in 2009 does not make these the 2006 Mets. Find a new song.) Luis was in the dogpile, the Mets got to celebrate for real, for good, with intent and feeling. The fans got to celebrate for real, for good, with intent and feeling.

I walked out of the ballpark thinking, you know, it’s supposed to be in the 70’s tomorrow. I was going to stay home and clean my office and put bookshelves together and listen to Howie and Wayne. Maybe I should….

And then I came back down to earth. It’s only April.

Tonight’s Flickr set (not that great. Still getting used to stuff.)