Friday, June 22, 2007

CREEDENCE CLEARWATER REVIVAL. [06-22-07]

When I was leaving work today, I informed my coworkers I was off to therapy. They looked vaguely uncomfortable for a minute, this being a borderline overshare - until I took my David Wright jersey out of my bag and put it on and informed them that my therapists were the Mets starting lineup. And I meant it, you know, despite the trials and tribulations it’s still Mets baseball, and I still love going and watching and being part of it. I know that dealing with adversity is part of being a fan, and I know I haven’t taken my knocks as much as you all have, but I also know that part of the privilege of hanging around is being able to bitch when the team isn’t playing up to par.

That said, tonight. TBF was determined to break some patterns tonight, refusing to wear any type of Mets shirt. I broke out my #5 jersey which has seen no in-game action this year, at all, partially because I hate being The Girl In The David Wright Jersey (although it’s not quite as bad as a t-shirt, a girlie t, or a pink t, a jersey is still a commitment) and also partially because at the beginning of the year he hadn’t quite earned it yet. But jersey, no hat, no baseball jeans. Trying to shake it up too. Stupid details, I know, completely meaningless and empty. Dana Brand wrote a great article today (which I cannot find now) about how we just feel powerless, no matter how hard we cheer we can’t break this slump for them, and that we’re equally powerless when they’re up but we’re happy when we’re up so we’re not stymied by the fact that we’re powerless.

Or something like that.

[More, including an actual game discussion and photos, after the jump.]

Getting off the train, Piazza shirts and jerseys are everywhere. I saw a woman with a “Got Glavine?” shirt. I reach Shea at the improbably early hour of 6:25pm, and have time to ponder things like why is the pre-game music the Beach Boys? I mean, I know they’re from California, like the A’s, but a different PART of California. If you want to be geographically accurate, how about Santana, or Creedence, or Green Day, or any of a host of San Francisco 60’s bands?

We were still, to a one, optimistic before the game, or more like, we’re here, we hope it’s good, we’ll still be here if it’s not, though. A group of 10 year olds is sitting a few rows behind us and are clearly apprentices in some kind of amateur heckler program. Loud, shrill, and highly unoriginal content. It was, however, hysterical, especially once these people arrived:

Which would, you know, be fine, except that they arrived just as the A’s hit their first home run, tying the game, and instead of just applauding and cheering, they preened and taunted everyone around them. “Way to act like assholes when you’re fans of the visiting team,” was my comment. If they had kept it up much longer, I was this far from asking them if they were perhaps not originally from Philly?

Back to the game. The collective relief, the immediate lift of the spirits with the scoring of the first run and the first defensive plays. “That’s how we play *METS* baseball,” was my comment. And yes, a little ding later in the spirits with that home run, but we were pleased to see that the bleachers threw it back onto the field, as is right and proper; having the announcer chastise them was stupid. Yes, you don’t want people throwing random crap onto the field, but a home run by the visiting team is different.

“Oakland suuuuccccckkkkkssss”
*clapclapclapclapclap*
“Oakland suuuuccccckkkkkssss”
*clapclapclapclapclap*
Emanates from the midget hecklers behind us.
“Oh, I wouldn’t want to mess with Oakland fans,” TBF cautions. “Ever seen those Raiders fans?”
The funniest part was that they were in the wrong seats, and when the rightful ticketholders showed up, they had to move, accompanied by a chant of “FIND YOUR OWN SEATS (*clapclapclapclapclap*)”.

The magic 6th inning. It was climbing into the rollercoaster for one run, and then when you get back to the beginning you decide you need to do it again, and then one more time, and then one more time, and then one more time. Watching the smiles and the dancing. Seeming like we were watching them relax and loosen up on the field.

Tommy G. It seems ridiculous that we call a man of his age “Tommy,” but we do, and it has a better cadence for chanting than just plain “Tom”. Our only sadness was that he slid into home in vain, that he did not get to score that run. People sitting two rows behind us, not regulars, were loud and vocal all night about wanting Tom to pitch a complete game. (They were also loud and vocal in the 8th inning about how people who didn’t want to do the Wave were ‘fat asses’.) I, myself, was leaning on the side of letting him get a nice big fat ovation instead.  And some beautiful plays, my favorite being when Crosby lined out straight as an arrow into Glavine’s glove in the 7th. Wright came over at that point and gave Tom a celebratory butt-smack and I was sorry I’d put my camera down for a minute.

It was just after the 7th inning stretch that the birthday party appeared to be leaving. As they walked down the stairs, they made sure to get the attention of the Oakland contingent, shrieking, “YOU CAN GO HOME NOW!”
To her credit, she replied, “IT’S NOT OVER YET!”
But then they disappeared sometime during the 8th inning. Very poor showing, Oakland fans.

We thought for sure we had seen our last of #47 when we applauded him off the field in the 8th inning, but then, improbably, there he was, climbing out of the dugout, and all of Shea climbing onto their feet to applaud. So very very nice to give him this respect, and to see him back on his game again. Of course, the delight was short-lived after the first single, and we booed Willie loudly as he walked onto the field and gestured at the bullpen. No matter, we got to applaud Glavine again, and relished it, as Heilman came in and brought things to a very, very satisfactory closed. And I’d like to think that the boos I heard were not directed at #48, but were rather at Willie, but I have this confounded belief in the spirit of man [and woman]).

And then, after far too long, “Takin’ Care of Business,” walking out to chants of ‘TOM-MY GLA-VINE” and idiots telling us that the Yankees suck and Shea vibrates with happy colors once again. I made a flippant comment towards the end of the game (round about the time people started trying to get the Wave going), that this win was all fine and good, but what about tomorrow? And Row F answered with, No, this is different, and before they said it, I had already thought it, hoped it, believed it.

Believe.

Postscript: OMG the whole Fox News thing made me want to barf the entire time. We declined the Rollabanners on a matter of principle.

PPS: Too tired to edit photos and make a proper Flickr set - tomorrow.