Sunday, September 24, 2006

an ode to section 12

Section 12. Row E. Seats 3 & 4.

It’s not so much my seats I want to celebrate here but the ones of the people around me, the section 12 regulars from Tuesday and Friday:

ROW E, SEATS 1 & 2: Julia & Miriam are two sisters from Middle Village. More than anyone else in the Tuesday/Friday crowd, I owe them a debt of gratitude. I am gregarious by nature and befriended the other T/F folks in the row behind me anyway, but having the girls - passionate fans but not number freaks - made it warmer and a little less lonely in those early days, when I would be text-messaging TBF throughout the games. Miriam kept score, and we all shared a love of Jose Reyes and Cliff Floyd (and Mike Cameron to boot). They always wore player number shirts to each and every game, and we shared binoculars to stare at the antics in the dugout ("Look! Reyes is dancing!") and to keep tabs at the various fights that broke out during the season (which always seemed to fascinate Julia more than the game). They are the only ones who I ever exchanged names with - we even got to know their parents (who sometimes took their seats).

ROW F, SEATS 1 & 2: These were owned by a father from New Jersey, tall and lanky, who had an endless supply of red-headed sons of various ages. So in addition to his two seats, he would always have extras for the other kids, who would sneak into the section when it was empty. Of particular note were the adorable twins who were about 13 or 14, always wore the uniform of jersey and khaki cargo shorts, and talked a mile a minute because they were so full of baseball that they just needed to talk about. They were an absolute joy to be around.

ROW F, SEATS 3 & 4: Shared by a father & son. The son was a Springsteen fanatic, which gave us much to talk about in the early days of the season. They liked their beer and they kept a running commentary of deep baseball knowledge. Just eavedropping gave me access to facts I never would have run across any other way. They were obnoxious as hell and equally amusing.

ALSO FURTHER DOWN ROW F: Two cousins, one tall and thin, who would move around when he was nervous. The other was slightly more portly, quieter. They were funny and sarcastic and always talked to me as though I actually knew something about baseball, gently tapping me on the hat in greeting each night as they walked behind me to their seats. Sometimes the latter gentleman would bring an attractive, jersey-wearing blonde woman - I eavesdropped on them a few games and although they swore they were ‘just friends,’ you know they are the kind of ‘just friends’ that will hopefully give up on that pretext some day because they are a match made in heaven.

These are the people who kept me company until TBF came home, who cheered with me and debated with me, who kept me company through extra innings and through rain delays and Yankees games and endless Trachsel outings, the lonely souls who were there in April and May when we had the section to ourselves, spreading out across multiple rows. And they are the people I regretfully said ‘so long’ to this week, exchanging handshakes and hugs and ‘see you in the post-season’. These are people I would never have run into, much less spent any time with, in the course of normal life. I can’t say we’re friends - we didn’t even exchange names for the most part - but they were part of my life over the past six months. I saw them more than I saw my parents, which is probably not something to be proud of, but it is what it is.

It is sad in a way for it to be the end of this part of the adventure. It seems so long ago that I drove out to Shea on a snowy Tuesday to pick out these seats. But there are more games ahead, and another year after that.

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Friday, September 22, 2006

AN ACTUAL CONVERSATION.

TBF and MG sitting on couch a day or two ago, watching SportsCenter baseball highlights.

TBF: “Uh-oh, the Twins beat the Red Sox.”
MG: “Good”
TBF: “We don’t want the Twins to win.”
MG: “Well, I’m not rooting for the Red Sox. You can.”
TBF: “We’re rooting for the Tigers.”
MG: “Why? Because of your father?” [TBF’s dad is from Detroit.]
TBF: “Yes.”
*pause*
MG: “Well, I’m rooting for the Twins. They played a very scrappy game this year, came from behind, and their fans had a bad year with the threats of contraction.”
*silence, as TBF considers the monster he has created*
MG: “Can you argue with that logic?”
TBF: “Not really.”

[CLARIFICATION: I am NOT rooting for the Twins over the Mets should they face each other in the playoffs! Geez, people! :)]

Thursday, September 21, 2006

dedicated follower of fashion

Over at Pick Me Up Some Mets, Zoe unleashes her mighty power upon Photoshop and creates an imaginary store full of awesome clothes that real female Mets fans might like to see (and that male Mets fans might want to buy for their girlfriend, sister, or Mom).

[Don’t worry, we’ll both be writing about baseball again soon. Go look at the pretty pictures below if you don’t want to read our ranting.]

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PNC Park photos, day 1

We’ll just ignore what happened at the actual baseball game that followed the BP at which these photos were taken:

The entire set can be viewed here.

Wednesday, September 20, 2006

real girls don’t wear pink

At my first Mets game of 2005, I made noises on the 7 train about how I wanted a Mets hat. So, at the very first merchandise stand we encountered, TBF happily accomodated this request. No, it was not the classic blue hat with orange button that Mr. Purist wears, but it was black and white and had the NY logo and was very MG (before she was MG), and I loved it.

But my hat is not a woman’s hat. And as I became more interested in acquiring Mets merchandise, I was appalled to discover what MLB and the Mets considered to be appropriate (or desirable) wear for female baseball fans.

Case #1: the dreaded pink hat

It’s not just the Mets who are guilty in this regard. Every MLB team - and I do mean EVERY - has the anemic, wussy pink hat. Even the Red Sox have pink hats. No real female baseball fan I know wears a pink hat (again, apologies to Zoe, who does rock the pink hat, and I do mean rock).

The pink hat exists for one reason, and one reason only: So that the girls who get dragged to the game by their boyfriends have something to wear. The pink hat exists so that boyfriends or husbands (or heck, lesbian partners of girlie girls), who feel guilty that they have dragged their girlfriend to the game, can go to the team store and buy something to placate them: “Oh, it’s pink, it must be for a girl.”

Give me a break.

The pink is weak, the pink is boring, the pink is not reflective of most women who sit in the baseball park, and surely, MLB could get some real designers to make something more attractive for female baseball fans to wear. And it’s not just the hats: the same yucky pink is used on t-shirts, sweatshirts, you name it.

To quote Zoe, in an email exchange we had today: “I love pink, BUT AS AN ACCENT.”

Case #2: anything that implies that the only reason I am at the ballpark is because I want to bone David Wright

Have you seen this crap? No, really, have you seen it?

Any variation on “Mrs. Wright,” “Looking for Mr. Wright,” “Wright-aholic,” etc. The only thing resembling official bling on Mets merch is down this aisle, which, besides pandering, is also sized for a woman who clearly never eats any of the food at Shea Stadium (more on that below). In fact, the largest shirt would barely fit my 6-year-old niece (and her father is from Boston so she won’t be owning one anyway, not that I would set that kind of example for the young lady in any event).

[I could say something here about merchandise indicating my intent towards Mr. Floyd, but TBF reads the blog, and Zoe is likely to hunt me down and pummel me. Besides which, I still wouldn’t wear it for the insulting/pandering/etc. reasons mentioned above.]

Case #3: Real Women Are Not Cookie-cutters

If you are a woman and have ever tried on anything at Shea Stadium, you would be frustrated. It’s not entirely that the people designing this clothing gathered their opinion about what real women’s bodies are shaped like from Playboy and Budweiser ads, it’s that real women HAVE DIFFERENT SHAPES.

TBF and I just bought sweatshirts for the playoffs. Listen, I know : it’s a sweatshirt. For women, they had teeny tiny flimsy hooded ones that stopped at my bellybutton, or sturdy ones that will actually keep me warm in the upper deck next month - for men.

Guess which one I bought?

Zoe, on the other hand, had to buy a child’s size.

Listen, it’s not like I’m trying to walk into the Limited and trying to buy clothing that is inapropriate for a grown woman to wear. All women who are baseball fans should have choices.

Case #4: Other Teams Have Cool Stuff Designed For Women

I’d like a Mets jacket - I really, really would. But what they have is unattractive for a woman. So I bought a 1986 satin jacket on eBay and I go retro, which at least has some style and flair involved.

But I know other teams have items for women because I’ve seen female fans of these other teams wearing them, and I am envious, and jealous, and pissed off.

Forget that nonsense about “updating” “Meet The Mets” to make it more “inclusive” (a bigger crock of nonsense I have rarely enountered, and MG is a bra-burning feminist type) - be inclusive by giving me something I can buy and happily wear. Do you know how much money I would spend?

Wait, maybe it’s better that I don’t like anything in the store after all.

Zoe also has some words to say on this subject.

Tuesday, September 19, 2006

tonight’s the night

I need to write about the game - or at least the experience of being at the game - but it is late and we didn’t leave Shea until 11.

After the game - and we were some of those fans who stood there for a long time, watching the post game celebration on the Diamondvision - we realized that the merchandise stands were open, so we stood on line at one and then the other, not wanting to leave without Those Shirts.  Suddenly I overheard, “The Mets are back out on the field, they’re letting fans in on the field level” and TBF finished paying for our shirts and we ran for it.

We couldn’t get anywhere near the cameras or the Mets dugout, but we still saw plenty - David Wright with a bottle of champagne in one hand and a cigar in the other, shaking hands with every cop and security guy on the field. A very drunk Oliver Perez. Reyes hugging everyone in sight. Shawn Green running around the infield with his kids. Floyd getting a chant of “one more year” from the crowd. And Paul Lo Duca running over to the hose behind the pitcher’s mound, and with an evil grin turning it on and heading for the fans on both sides, and then heading for the players - before the groundskeeper disconnected the hose to loud boos.

The cheers were still echoing into Flushing, rising above the glow of the stadium lights behind us, as we made the long trek back to the car.

View all the photos here.

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Monday, September 18, 2006

have a good time (but get out alive)

Today, at PNC Park, one of the ninety ceremonial opening pitches was thrown out by none other than Punxsutawney Phil. You know, the groundhog? The “renowned meteorological expert” and his “inner circle” who comes out on February 2nd every year and tells us if there’s going to be six more weeks of winter or not.

You think I’m kidding? Check this out:

Unlikely as it may seem, this was not the most ridiculous sight at PNC Park today. No, the most ridiculous sight at PNC Park today was the Metropolitans 1) not clinching AGAIN, 2) getting beat by the Pirates, and 3) GETTING SWEPT BY THE PIRATES. the PIRATES!

I’m sorry. Say whatever you want about the Pirates, but they s-u-c-k SUCK. The only thing they will be playing in October is golf. They are thoroughly and completely eliminated from post-season play. Their fans could get all excited about today’s game, and carry their brooms to the ballpark (oh, and they did) - but how often do they get to do that - except, maybe, if they were playing the Washington Nationals. People would hiss “the Mets suck!” and I wouldn’t even get riled. Okay, maybe I got a little riled when someone yelled “Beltran, you suck” and I turned around and stared at him in disbelief, muttering that you could probably say a lot of things about Carlos Beltran, but statistically and objectively, the man does not suck. Say you hate him, say he’s ugly (also not true), criticize his fashion sense - but he doesn’t SUCK.

The Pirates, on the other hand - suck. The two kids who sat next to us Friday night admitted as much, that they were playing uncharacteristically well on that particular evening.

It was a gorgeous fall day, sunny and warm, and our seats were TO DIE FOR. To die for! Acquired on the Pirates version of the ticket marketplace, we paid $34 for two seats SIX ROWS BEHIND THE METS DUGOUT, even with the on-deck circle.  The photographic opportunities were jaw-dropping and quite frankly, overwhelming.

[DO NOT STEAL THESE PHOTOS FOR YOUR BLOG. NO I AM NOT GIVING YOU PERMISSION.]

We could hear Willie clapping when the Mets did something well, which means that I heard him clap exactly once early in the game, when I delightedly noted said observation in my notebook. It also meant that Willie could hear TBF, most likely, when he offered some thoughts later in the game about Mr. Randolph’s apparent unwillingness to use a pinch hitter for Kelly Stinnett.

I hate Kelly Stinnett. At today’s game, I announced that I hated Kelly Stinnett more than I hated Victor Diaz last year.  “Wow. And you *really* hated Victor Diaz,” TBF said in awe. I hated Victor Diaz because without exception, he fucked up every play that ever came anywhere near him at any game I happened to be at. I didn’t start standing up and screaming at players until I started watching Victor Diaz. 

Mr. Diaz has now been replaced by Kelly Stinnett. That overthrow today almost caused me to throw up. Maybe if it had happened in a game where we had managed to get one, just one, run --

No, that’s not true. I would still f’in HATE Kelly Stinnett because he’s freaking lousy.

the only consolation today was that the majority of the fans in our section were also Mets fans. so we didn’t have to listen to trash talking all by ourselves, except for the guy in the section behind us who greeted Mr. Lo Duca’s presence with the comment, “Hey asshole, how’s your family?” I assume someone said, “Hey moron, how about the 300 children in your immediate area?” because that was the end of that theme. We, on the other hand, almost gave a standing O when we saw #16 emerge from the dugout and enter the on-deck circle.

And Lo Duca, of course, got a fucking hit. As did Endy, good old reliable Endy Chavez,. who hit and who fought and who hustled and ran down every single hit he got - unlike Mr. Reyes, who got a hit that the 2nd baseman bobbled, and Jose being Jose, might have been safe at first if he had run the way Jose Reyes is supposed to run.

I guess I can’t blame them for being disheartened but I do blame them for whatever malaise that overcame them that they could not shake. There were at least a thousand Mets fans at the games yesterday and today. Some of them, like us, had planned the trip to PNC for the hell of it, but more than a few drove out because they wanted to see their team clinch on the field. Instead, we had to suffer through the indignity of being beaten by the Pirates, and the Pirate Parrot playing air guitar on top of the Pirates’ dugout with a broom.

At road games where we lose, TBF usually hightails it out of the stadium before the last hit gets caught or the last out is played. I refuse to do that.  As much as it made my skin crawl to watch the Pirates run out of the dugout last night and celebrate as though it was a game that really mattered, we stayed until the bitter end and I made it a point to conduct myself out of the ballpark with dignity. Today, we did likewise, although I refused to watch what was happening on the field, but did stop to console a woman in the section behind us, there with her family, who had the same kind of outrage I did when I saw Ricky Ledee climb up the stairs from the dugout in the 9th inning. I tapped her gently and said, “We’ll do it tomorrow.”

As we were walking out of the park, heading across Roberto Clemente bridge, TBF took out the phone and started dialing. “‘We are experiencing unusually high call volume.’” he related. “How much do you want to spend?” he asked.

I sighed, and for a millisecond, contemplated a boycott.
“Just get us on the mezzanine,” I finally said.

We’ll see you there tomorrow.

Saturday, September 16, 2006

it’s cloudy out in pittsburgh

It’s all my fault. No, really.

It’s all my fault because I didn’t wear my lucky baseball jeans. I started wearing these last year because they were stretched out perfectly and I could roll up the legs when it was hot and they became the baseball jeans. Unfortunately, though, the baseball jeans have major holes that I have not yet had time to patch, so I didn’t want to sit in them for a seven hour drive to Pittsburgh, and I decided that I would just pack them and wear them to Sunday’s game.

So, there, I admitted it. Blame me.

PNC Park is fantastic. The drive was a breeze. The entire day was wonderful. There are so many Mets fans here we started joking that this was Shea Stadium West. Our seats (front row, right field bleachers, bought from a season ticket holder on eBay) were grand.  We got into the park early and were behind the visiting team’s dugout before 90% of the park (season ticket holders can get into the lower seating bowl 30 minutes before everyone else). A group of happy, rowdy Mets fans showed up not long afterwards (you probably saw us on SNY or the local news), and we proceeded to do the roll call for the entire team while they were stretching. I mean EVERYONE, from Jerry Manuel to Endy Chavez to Mike Pelfrey. The players tried to keep their composure, but the ebullience and good-natured enthusiasm radiating from the crowd - at an away game! - kept cracking them ALL up.  TBF caught a ball from Cliff. I would be jealous except the one-handed, barehanded catch was so impressive it overshadowed any residual envy I might be feeling. Everything was great.

The game, however, was another story altogether.

Despite Willie assuring us during BP that tonight was the night - WILLIE! Willie Randolph, who is never emotional, never gives anything away - I had a pit in my stomach from the first inning on. 
TBF: “Are you okay?”
MG: “I’m fine.”
TBF: “Are you sure?”
MG: “I don’t like how El Duque looks.”
TBF: “It’s the first inning.”

later:
TBF: “Are you sure nothing’s wrong?”
MG: “I’m a little tired. I could use some coffee.”
TBF sprints to the nearest concession stand before I could say boo. I wasn’t really that tired, it was an offhand comment, but clearly my mood was alarming enough to cause concern.
TBF: “Is that better?”
MG: “Where are the hits?”
TBF: “It’s tied, 1-1. It’s the *Pirates*. We have the best bullpen in baseball.”

I just couldn’t shake it, you know? I kept sitting there, fidgeting, couldn’t get comfortable (and we had TONS of room, once again, a set of bleacher seats far more comfortable than our mezzanine seats). Keep fiddling with my notebook, my camera, the binoculars. Drink water, close the bottle. Sit up. Lean forward. Binoculars.  TBF is keeping score, as usual, and talking to the usher. He keeps asking me if I’m okay, I reiterate concern, he counters with some statistic that is meant to be comforting. I squint. I look for the pitch count, to anchor me in the game. Something was just wrong. Something didn’t feel right.

By the 9th inning I was trading insults with the amateur hecklers behind us. One guy had it in for Cliff, yelling something about how much he got paid. My response: “Yeah, it’s 100 times more than you make at the 7-11.”
“Cliff, how does it feel to be mediocre?”
“You mean like all of the players on the Pirates?” TBF responded.
“You don’t deserve to be a Mets fan,” this 7 year old kid (really!) started.
I turned around. “No, actually, this is what being a fan is, you defend your team.”
He didn’t have much of a response, and I felt kind of bad.
“And that’s how we do things in Flushing,” I announced, turning around and waiting for Heilman to get that third out.

You know how the rest of it went.

I can’t even say “oh, it was a pitchers’ duel” because we just SUCKED. El Duque did not have it. Mota did not have it.  We thought Heilman would save our souls but as soon as I saw that ball headed our way I knew that we were finished.  We gathered up our Jack Wilson bobbleheads (NOTE TO SHEA: EVERYONE GETS A FREAKING BOBBLEHEAD, NOT JUST KIDS) and sulked our way across the Roberto Clemente Bridge. “Tomorrow,” every Mets fan we ran into assured us, “We’ll get them tomorrow.”

Yeah, but it was supposed to be today.

I have AMAZING photos, but managed to forget the card reader in Brooklyn. They will accompany my PNC Park writeup, after we clinch TOMORROW

please?

Friday, September 15, 2006

OMG HERE THEY ARE

Link is here.

TBF: “We are taking the Midtown to the Lincoln tomorrow so we can stop at the Clubhouse Shop on 42nd Street and get shirts on the way to Pittsburgh.”
“We need to be on the road early.”
“They open at 9am, I checked.”

I WANT ONE NOW

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this is it, this is really happening

I’ve been dutifully following the Magic Number, and making TBF explain it to me and having me explain it back to him for what seems like forever.  I understood it well enough to explain it back to one of my seatmates (one of the sisters) the last time we were at Shea.

But now, that time has come to an end.

Last night, watching the Braves and the Phillies. TBF starting to root for the Braves, until he caught himself.

Putting the game on mute while I did some work sitting on the couch. I look up.
“4-1. Final.”
“That’s it, then.”

Down to 1. One.

And tonight it could be down to zero.

Riding the subway this morning, reading the newspapers over people’s shoulders, getting indulgent smiles when people spot my necklace. Getting to work, and having one of our designers, who is so far from sports or baseball as it could possibly be, try to start talking about the Magic Number to me. (She is going to help me design a logo and do some work on the site, so she has been spending time looking at the blog and mets.com.)
“I was reading over someone’s shoulder on the train. I wanted to remember so I could walk in here this morning and say, ‘So, I hear the Magic Number is down to 2’”
“It’s down to 1, actually, but that’s sweet.” I am touched.

All I can think is: how odd is this? This is not how it works, right? It’s almost not fair, me coming in so late to the party, and being so richly rewarded. It’s not like I expected this, you know - in fact, I expected quite the opposite - but it almost feels like I’m not entirely entitled to crash your party. I would resent me. I’m the girl who started listening to your favorite band right before they became big - so you can’t entirely resent me - but it’s because of people like me your favorite band now plays bigger places or the smaller places they keep trying to play are too crowded.

Oops. Sorry. Guilty as charged.

Selfishly I was wishing for rain in Pittsburgh, or that something happens tonight and somehow we don’t win, just because I wanted to be there tomorrow night and see them celebrate on the field for myself. We were going to bring signs and feather boas and little bottles of champagne, but instead we’re down to my vintage 1986 satin jacket (picked up on eBay last winter - TBF chuckles every time he sees it, recalling that his best friend had one when they were kids) and my brand-spanking-new Jose Reyes jersey.

That’ll do.