Saturday, June 16, 2007

GIVEN TO FLY. [06-15-07]

[If you don’t get it, read this. And this.]

We are all home now, safe and sound, tired and happy, relieved and exhausted from the adrenaline rush, the murmurings of silent (and not-so-silent) prayer, the shouted entreaties and shared rollercoaster of emotions. They did it; the Mets triumphed over Bora$$ and the hired mercenary with the strained groin, the 26 rings, the Gold Gloves, the MVP’s, the arrogance and entitlement that is still so fresh and new to me. Sitting in a bar in Jersey (I shoulda thought about that) with Coop, at the bar in our Mets hats, staring at multiple television screens, holding our breath, clapping, shouting, banging on the bar (at least towards the end). The food was there for sustenance and I ate as quickly as possible because I knew I would need my energy and I knew my appetite would disappear as the game went on, no matter how the Mets played.

How the Mets played. Our heroes and our missing heroes and our new heroes. TBF txting, “DELGADO = KILLING US” and just feeling sad that he of all people cannot get through the mental block. Al Leiter being permanently placed on my shit list; if he used the word “INCONSISTENT” just ONE MORE TIME, I would have made them turn the volume down (Channel 9 - again, we were in JERSEY). Then he made fun of Rick Peterson and started giving away trade secrets, trying to zoom in on that rolled-up lineup card Rick takes notes on. “AL, SHUT UP,” my notes read. Al, you were onstage at SHEA with Bruce f’ing SPRINGSTEEN - oh, nevermind. “He’s struggling” - yes, Al, that’s why Willie left him in for so many innings - not that it would be beyond Willie to leave someone in once they were starting to char around the edges, but not Ollie, not tonight.

Sad that Ollie’s leaps were more subdued. Or maybe that was the Channel 9 / YES camera angles. We certainly didn’t get any home run dances either, although we did get to see the butt-smacking, hand-grabbing that ensued when He Who Shall Not Be Named returned to the dugout. What a fraud.

How bad is it that we were hoping that Julio got ejected for arguing with the ump? How bad is it that in the next breath I loudly made sure to admonish the Yankees fans next to us for cheering the ability to catch Moses stealing: “It would be like getting your GRANDFATHER out” I believe was the comment.

And it all came down to that one moment. In left field. When it’s going back and the Yankees fans are on their feet cheering and I am wondering just how much I can hide underneath my hat and

and
and
and

Carlos Gomez launches himself into orbit and does what he probably didn’t even think he could do.
“He’s got it! He’s GOT it!” small cries of joy and disbelief and relief.
“Was it going out?” TBF txt. “YES,” I hurriedly type back.
Channel 9 wasn’t going to show that replay as many times as they showed the questionable (in their opinion) stolen base.

Until the very end - the very end - I was on the edge of my seat, so much so that when it was over, despite the presence of Billy Wagner on the mound, the end came as almost a surprise to me. Breathe. Relax those shoulders. Hug Coop. Get on the PATH train. Transfer to the L train. Stand on the corner of Bedford and N. 7th, starting to txt TBF that I am here and will wait a few minutes - when a familiar face in a David Wright jersey walks up to me.
“Fancy meeting you here,” TBF smiles.
As we walked down Bedford Ave., we kept being felicitated with random “LET’S GO METS!” cries. At one point, I spied a #7 shirt ahead of us, and started chanting, “Jose, Jose, Jose, Jose...”
He turned around, smiling, and finished it for me.

The blue and orange side of the Empire State Building guided us home. TBF sound asleep, me wrestling Photoshop and the muse.
No matter what happens tomorrow, we got one. This one. The one They said we didn’t have a chance to win.