Thursday, September 28, 2006

pedro, shmedro

What’s got MG in a lather is THIS:

Not only is Bruce sitting in the House of Evil - in Steinbrenner’s personal seats no less - he’s admiring the wave, at least according to the caption.

But back to our main event. I made a comment on the Daily News blog earlier today that Pedro was this mythical creature to me this year. I saw 34 games in the regular season, and I never saw Pedro pitch once. It certainly wasn’t intentional; it just didn’t happen. And I realize I know [] this much about baseball, but frankly, I’m relieved in a way. I’m not happy that Pedro isn’t healthy, I’m just going to be happier not sitting there biting my nails while Willie tries to give him yet another chance to dominate.

[OOOOH! I was telling TBF the other day I’d managed to get through the entire regular season without using that word once.]

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Wednesday, September 27, 2006

a meaningful night in september

No, I’m not talking about Atlanta, the game we rushed home to watch, the one TBF insisted we needed to watch, it was going to be an important game.

Somewhere around the 576th home run, noting that TBF had retreated to his desk, I asked if we could turn off the $#@! game.

To add to injury, Bruce Springsteen is spotted in the crowd at Yankee Stadium. I am the one of the two of us who refuses to believe that Bruce is One Of Them. I almost made TBF a shirt with a quote from Al Leiter from an interview he gave Backstreets Magazinea few years ago (after Al was onstage with Bruce at Shea), about how Bruce really isn’t a Yankees fan. Unfortunately, we have enough connects down the Shore to know the truth.

The only bright spot of the evening was TBF wheeling and dealing, finding trades for our extra playoff tickets. We have NLDS game 1 AND game 2 now. He found a trade for NLCS game 1 that he will deal with tomorrow. He is doing this like an old hand, like he has done this for years—and he has, just in his imagination.

I thought we were done with baseball for the night except TBF is updating me on the standings every 3 minutes, and we finally turn on the Phillies-Nationals game (which is still on as I write this, and I have to be up at 6 tomorrow). We find ourselves enthusiastically rooting for the Nats. TBF mocks the behavior of the Phillies fans that keep showing up on ESPN, and while they are Phillies fans, I do point out “Pot, meet kettle,” and that TBF looks like that on a random Tuesday night at Shea, much less at a critical road game, where he would likely be so unbearable that I would move several seats away from him.

Over at Faith and Fear in Flushing, Jason is threatening to head for the Brooklyn Bridge. The Williamsburg is closer for me.

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Tuesday, September 26, 2006

post-season ticket delivery: the saga

9/25, noon

TBF: “I called the Mets office and got the tracking numbers for our tickets.”
MG: “How did you get MY tracking number??”
TBF: “I had all your info, including your account number.”

9/25, 6pm
I am rushing into the subway to head home. I check the phone on my way down the stairs and notice I have had three phone calls from TBF. I assume there is an emergency on hand.
“Our tickets are on the way.”
“Can I get on the subway?”
“Yes”

The rest of the evening, TBF obsessively checked the UPS tracking system, informing me that our tickets had left Fort Smith, Arkansas, which is where the largest printer of ticket stock in the country is located (or so I was informed).
“You scare me,” I said.
He continued to smile that little smile, the smile that could only be described as GODDAMN, MY WORLD SERIES TICKETS ARE ON THE WAY.

9/26, 10:27am. email from TBF:
“updates
Both packages have arrived in Maspeth and are “out for delivery.” Maybe we can get them tonight.”

11:21am
“Tracking shows delivery was attempted for both packages. :)”

12:01pm, from me:
“fine. so call UPS and see if we can pick them up tonight at maspeth. we get there at 7:45 and camp”

[this is because our UPS facility gets lines around the block. they are only open from 7-8. if you are smart you get there close to 8.]

7pm, Zero Hour

We are in the car heading for the UPS facility in Maspeth, when we pass a UPS truck parked a half a block away.
TBF: “Maybe that’s our UPS driver?”
I pull over. “Go see!”

He returns 5 minutes later with two envelopes in hand:

We sat there huddled under the streetlight, reading every bit of fine print on the tickets, before I turned the car back on and we drove off.

Now, we still had to do the rest of our errands. However, now TBF does not want me to get out of the car. He wants me to stay with the tickets. We compromise by putting the envelope into my purse, while we walk around the grocery store discussing our new arrivals:

“If we sit in the upper reserved box for THE WORLD SERIES, we could bring a sign.”
“Is there a difference for photographic purposes whether we sit in the front row of the mezzanine reserved or the front row of the upper deck boxes for THE WORLD SERIES?”
“Which seats should we trade for THE WORLD SERIES?”

Every possible way we could work the phrase “our tickets for the World Series” into a conversation during a 10 minute grocery store visit, we did it. My god, we are a pair of sad, pathetic dorks.

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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.