Sunday, July 27, 2008

DON’T FORGET ST. LOUIS.

Friday night was a fun night at Shea. However, just when you think that Phillies Phans are going to take the title of Worst Phans in Baseball, Shea is invaded by another sea of red. Section 12, in particular, seems to be The Place For Fans Of The Opposing Team. It’s not just one or two of them, it’s rows of them. I was going to write a diatribe about idiots who provide a standing ovation when a member of their team hits a single, but I realize I have already DONE that for the Phillies series. It’s even more moronic to do so when the player you are applauding has already struck out three times in that particular game.

The best description of St. Louis fans has to be the ladies’ room line after the game:
STL fan: “Well, so we’re not going to sweep you, but we’re still going to take the series.”
Me: “The Brewers called. They say ‘hello’.”
STL fan: *starts singing and clapping*

Saturday night was a special night because TBF was unavailable and I was going with my friend Kari from Minnesota. When I say “Minnesota” I don’t mean “a charming suburb of Minneapolis.” I mean middle-of-nowhere-Minnesota. Of course they are Twins fans and when I met her and her family (in town for Springsteen on Sunday) at Grand Central, she was wearing her daughter’s Santana jersey, much to her 15-year-old son’s concern.  He was worried that someone was going to give her a hard time. We had to actively search for someone to heckle her (one of the vendors) so his prophecy could be fulfilled.

We haven’t seen each other for over three years and it was her first time at Shea, so we got there early. I gave her the grand tour, we got two of those bargain enormous $9.50 beers, and headed for Upper Reserved Section 8. Those $9.50 beers are the best deal at Shea and I hate to write about them, because they might stop offering them. People will stop you when you are walking around with them in your hand and ask you, urgently, where you acquired them from.

Kari likes our seats. She likes the view of the dugout, she likes the breeze coming in off of Flushing Bay.
“You wouldn’t like it much in April,” I say.
“I can just imagine.”

And then, there was a game. I don’t want to think that I have invited my friend to the throwaway game, but for the entire half of the first inning, I am mortified.
“Welcome to batting practice,” Statler & Waldorf (the two elderly curmudgeon comedians behind us) tell Kari.
I sigh, and pull the neck of my tshirt up to my eyes. I usually do this at the bottom of the 7th inning, when I can’t bear to watch. I am not sure when I have ever executed this move at the top of the first inning.

Of course, things picked up later, and it was a much more enjoyable evening for most of it.

“All right, AR-ANUS,” Statler behind me keeps cheering.
“That’s not nice,” I try to correct him, as I equally try to stop myself from laughing.
“What? That’s his name.”
“No, no, Ar-gen-is,” I try. “En espanol.”
“That’s what I said. “AR-ANUS!!!”
Kari is trying to stop herself from laughing. The people across the aisle aren’t even trying. This hipster kid in plaid shorts across the aisle keeps trying to send us disapproving looks, and I briefly consider sending him my middle finger.

Have I mentioned that both of these gentlemen are entitled to the senior citizen discount, and sneak in bottles of rum in their socks? Waldorf wears white loafers with white crew socks and that is how - somehow - these guys get their booze into Shea. They might sound obnoxious, but I find them entertaining in a Martin and Lewis kind of fashion. They have been coming to Shea since 1964. If you ask, they will tell you stories, and answer questions - like the time I asked them, “Why didn’t the fanbase just get up and hand in their tickets when they traded Seaver?” They are a walking Mets history book. They are also funny as hell.

“I learned how to do this when I was in jail,” Waldorf says, explaining the booze smuggling technique.
“What were you in jail for?” Kari asks, semi-seriously.
“For associating with him,” he says, pointing at his friend.

We are all united tonight in our hope that our local Section 8 asshole - the guy I refer to as “CLAP ‘EM UP!” after his standard exhortation to the crowd - does not show up. But unfortunately, during the third inning, there he is, coming up the stairs, apologizing to everyone as he does for being late. People throw peanut shells at him - a response I do not disapprove of, except for the fact that they hit other people instead. His companion wears a fluorescent orange hardhat, and I am not at all sure it is meant to be ironic.  Someone is sitting in their seats, due to a broken chair - do you know that they actually send a repairman from the Parks Department out during the game to fix broken chairs? I know, because he showed up - and proceeded to once again inform us that we were lousy fans and didn’t support our team appropriately and if we don’t want to do the wave, we can go to the Bronx.

Mr. Asshole ended the evening early, as he made his way down for the 5th time for more beer (and let’s remember he showed up at the bottom of the third innign), but instead of walking, he decided to slide down the railing.
(You all know where this is going, right?)
Of course, he fell over, miraculously (and perhaps regretfully) not onto his head. He did kick the guy in the aisle seat, and instead of apologizing, just beat it out of there. They moved a few sections over, not far from where that enormous, multi-security-guard-rush fight was later in the game, and I do not find that to be a coincidence.

[People, what is it with this sliding down things that are not meant to be slid down? Do we need to have Aaron Heilman (Mr. Notre Dame, after all) give us AARON HEILMAN’S PRINCIPLES OF PHYSICS between innings instead of Profesor Reyes? How hard is it to understand that it’s NOT going to work and you’re going to get hurt? And maybe security could walk around trying to make things secure instead of only turning up when there’s a problem? How about some preventative efforts? Or at least some ushers in the upper deck? Something? Anyone??]

Around 10:30, I am trying to figure out if I’ll be home in time to get dinner from the new Mexican place in our neighborhood, and Kari is texting her family, telling them she should be home in a little while. TBF sends a text around 10:30, letting me know he should be home at 11:30. It all seemed fairly secure. Sure, it was up and down, but the Mets were fighting. Two months ago we would have lost this game in the second inning. No one would have tried. No one would have given a damn. It would have been excruciating and embarrassing and I would have been apologizing to my guest the entire time.

At 11, I send a text that we are still there.
At 11:30, I send another one.
“Listening,” I get back.
“If this goes much further,” I tell Kari, “We’re liable to see him walk up those stairs.” He was coming back from a family dinner on the Island, and after all, this is TBF.

I coined the term “Boo-vation” for Braden Looper’s Shea reception during the 2006 playoffs. I have to tell you, few things were more cathartic than the enormous BOOOOOO that came out of my throat when he stepped up to the plate. Shea was an EXPLOSION of boos. People who were napping and reading the newspaper suddenly got to their feet and leaned over the railing, BOOING for all they were worth.
“He used to be our closer,” I explain to Kari, once I was done booing, and Looper was done striking out.
“I take it he wasn’t very good,” she said.

So at 12whatever, we are singing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” People left - many of them Cardinals fans, including the girls who sat across the aisle from us with bouffant hairdos (no, seriously, I’m not making this up) who arrived in the third inning, spent most of the game texting except when Yadier Molina was at bat (ewwwww), and then left at the bottom of the 8th. Kari is on the phone with her husband, who is saying, “Well, at least the two of you got to spend 5 hours together.”

And then it was the 15th, and Oliver Perez is warming up, and Prince Albert In A Can (the most original heckle I could come up with, and more family-friendly than “HEY ALBERT, I TALKED TO YOUR MOM THIS MORNING.” There was a dad with three kids across the aisle from us.) launches that home run.
People start leaving.
“Where is everyone going,” Kari complains. “What about last ups??”
And then it was over.

We got to the top of the stairs to the 7 train when someone grabbed my arm.
Sure enough, TBF had gotten into Woodside, hopped on the 7, and was going to try to talk his way in when he heard Pujols hit the home run, and figured too many people would be leaving.
“If the Mets had tied it up again, I so would have gotten inside,” he said. “I would have told them that my little brother was sitting in Section 8 in the upper deck and my parents were worried about him now that the game had gone so late,” he said. “You’re not surprised?”
“Hi,” I said, extending my hand. “Have we met?”