Skip to main content

Play Ball!

Things as critical as this, the selection of a favored baseball team, are not, as some suspect, a matter of choice; one does not choose a team as one does not select his own genes. They are confirmed upon you more than we know an act of heredity.
-- David Halberstam


I am reasonably certain the Mets will win the pennant in 2010.

Truth be told, I’ve believed that same thing every year since 1965. That was the year my father first took me to Shea Stadium and “confirmed my favored team upon me”. We still had black and white television so I had never seen a game in color before. Like so many kids of that era I was struck by the green grass, the brown dirt and the bright colors of the uniforms before a pitch was even thrown.

I was, however, dumbfounded, by my first in-person look at my favorite Met; a third baseman named Charley Smith. Twenty-seven-years old in 1965, he was already a journeyman having played for the Dodgers, Phillies and White Sox before coming to Shea. He went on to play for the Cardinals, Yankees and Cubs later in his nondescript career.

But he was burned in my mind forever for something he did that night that did not show up in any box score. During infield practice he removed his baseball cap and revealed a head of prematurely gray hair. I was speechless and a bit uneasy.

Through Channel Nine’s grainy black and white telecasts, I had assumed my hero was blonde. I equated gray hair with senior citizenship and my six-year-old logic could not fathom how an “old man” could be playing for the Mets. I nervously wondered if anyone else had seen what I saw. I did not mention it to my father and later hid my startling discovery from my friends. I assumed it was my duty to keep this horrible secret from the color-deprived masses. With apologies to Mr. Smith, I believe I’m revealing it for the first time here.

I also remember that the lowly Mets beat the Milwaukee Braves of Henry Aaron and Eddie Matthews that night. I don’t recall the details of the game, but I do have several very distinct memories of that glorious summer evening. Drinking a cherry soda, eating popcorn out of a Mr. Met megaphone, Jane Jarvis on the organ, my brother and I walking to the very top row of the spanking new stadium to gaze out on the sea of cars in the parking lot while hoping to spot our favorite attractions at the neighboring World’s Fair.

My father had opened a whole new world and I would never be the same. I belonged to the Mets and they belonged to me.

Over the ensuing 45 years, I’ve confronted many difficult truths. I’ve learned to take what life gives me and to separate what I hope will happen from what will likely occur. I have tempered my expectations toward my political wants, my career achievements and my family's success. I evolved in to an intelligent and reasonable man.

But I also spent many, many more nights at the ballpark with my father, with my children and with innumerable companions young and old. I was there for the “Swoboda Catch” and the “Chavez Catch”. But I was also there when Mike Scioscia went deep and Carlos Beltran was caught looking. Still, I always entered the ballpark as the six-year-old entered it with his dad. And I viewed each new baseball Spring as I did then.

I know all too well that these are the Mets. Unlike the fans across town, we count our team’s championships on our fingers while still managing a lemon ice from the King of Corona in the other hand. So when I predict October baseball in Flushing, I should know better. But I don’t and I suspect I never will. My optimism is not fanspeak or rhetoric. I truly believe what I am saying. I can even make the case rationally when called upon (they will be markedly improved offensively at 3B, SS, LF, CF, C which will make up for their pitching deficiencies). Of course, I am aware that my purely intellectual self would likely reject my argument, but that means no more to the 51-year-old man than it did to the 6-year-old boy.

Since baseball time is measured only in outs, all you have to do is succeed utterly; keep hitting, keep the rally alive and you have defeated time. You remain forever young.
-- Roger Angell


I am reasonably certain the Mets will win the pennant in 2010. But, if they don’t, I am reasonably certain they will win the pennant in 2011.

Comments

  1. I must note - chavez catch and beltran caught looking were the same night. Perhaps substitute "when Scioscia took Doc deep" or "when mookie and lenny collided face-first on Doc's return from rehab" - two games I remember attending with you :)

    jerry

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

A New Lineup

As a person of limited substance, I have always been drawn to both light verse and baseball.   In the first grade we were asked to recite a poem in front of the class.  Amidst various renditions of Roses are Red , Jack and Jill , and Twinkle Twinkle Little Star , I offered up Ogden Nash's  Lineup for Yesterday: An ABC of Baseball Immortals --  all 26 stanzas and 104 lines. In this popular poem - first published by SPORT Magazine in 1949 and seen HERE  - I had discovered the masterful confluence of my two prime interests.  I was hooked young.and never lost my love for this unique work.  In fact, more than 50 years removed from that classroom, I still recite it to myself when I need to pass time waiting for the water to boil or the timer on the microwave to run its course.  With that in mind - and desperately avoiding whatever task actually needed to be done - I attempted an homage to Mr. Nash with a modern "Lineup" comprised of the "Immortals" of

Tough

I’ve seen toughness in many forms.  Having spent most of my professional life around athletes, my rolodex includes names like Cal Ripken Jr., who famously played 2,632 baseball games without taking a day off; Willis Reed, named NBA Finals MVP after dragging a barely functional right leg up and down the Madison Square Garden court in a storied Game 7 victory; “world’s strongest man” and WWE superstar Mark Henry; and NFL wide receivers like Mike Quick, Cris Carter and Tim Brown, each of whom ran fearlessly across the middle of the field in a job defined by continual brutality, frequent pain, and occasional debilitating injuries. But the toughest athletes I know are often draped in lavender and violet spandex and tend to leave a trail of sequins and rhinestones in their wake.  One of them is my own daughter.  She is a baton twirler and she is an absolute beast.    Sure, we can quibble over the definition of “tough”.   If someone slammed down a glass in a gritty barro

John Wooden

It was past midnight when the I-phone on my hotel nightstand began to vibrate. I had a text from my daughter telling me that John Wooden was hospitalized in grave condition. She is too young to have experienced Coach Wooden’s half-century heyday, but she knows me well enough to know I would want to be awakened by such news. A few minutes ago, I learned of his passing. I was lucky enough to know Coach Wooden. We weren't close -- occasional business associates. Since we first met around 1990, we saw each other no more than 10 times. But he always treated me like a friend. Invariably, he greeted me warmly, asked about my family and listened as much as he spoke. More revealing is the fact that he behaved as if we were equals though I knew we were not. Our days together were school days for me and he was my professor. I learned from listening to him, from observing him, from chatting with him and from reflecting on our time together. I learned from his textbook. I loved the quotes .