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.
-- 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.
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 :)
ReplyDeletejerry