Tuesday, August 08, 2006

i stand up next to a mountain

An errant 7 train, marked as express, but in reality running local, meant that I walked out of the subway station a few minutes before 7 and saw the crowd on its feet and cheering. I cursed out loud and started running, knocking into some random lollygagger with no sense of urgency.

I can’t pretend to Really Understand Mike Piazza’s impact on the Mets. Unlike 1/3 of the crowd at Shea tonight (including TBF) I don’t own a #31 t-shirt; to do so would be (in my opinion) fronting of the worst kind. I became a semi-fan in the last year he was on the team, I can’t claim much.

But I did make a point of coming to the last game of 2005, even though TBF was already gone for the year, sitting in the upper deck by myself and staying until the very last minute, half wanting to watch Mike wave goodbye to the crowd, half me not wanting to leave Shea behind for the last time that year.

The signs! They were everywhere, and I cursed leaving my camera behind tonight. Signs for Piazza, signs demanding the Mets retire his number, signs saying WE MISS YOU, signs saying WELCOME HOME.  There was a two-sided sign on the field level - I never saw what the front of it said, but the back said MIKE CAMERON: THE BEST SMILE IN BASEBALL.  And the signs for Wright, running alongside saying hello to our former friends, affirming the declaration that he’d like to be a lifetime Met.

it wasn’t until Piazza’s first at- bat that I finally got the chance to pay my respects, standing along with the rest of the crowd. (And of course, Mr. Cameron in the lineup before him.) I felt sad and a little left out, if that makes any sense; the salute was genuine on my part, but I can’t possibly appreciate him as much as the rest of you do. It’s kind of like never having seen the Who with Keith Moon: no matter how much of a freaking psycho Who fan I have been in my life, and as many times as I have seen them and written about them, in some ways I always felt like a pretender.

(And I think Mr. Piazza—he of the $50k stereo system and “Voodoo Chile” intro music—would appreciate that analogy.)

The game itself was fine, if a little too much on the nail-biting side for my liking; despite Trachsel’s presence on the mound, it moved quickly enough for me to be home in Brooklyn writing this well before midnight. Milledge is getting some disgruntled voices - not outright booing, but it’ll get close. And the ubiquitous “You’re making $55 million, try harder” types of heckles at Wright. Yeah, whatever.

As we were walking down the ramps after the game, TBF made the suggestion we think about going tomorrow night - we have yet to see #45 on the mound this season, and his original plans to go tomorrow night with his folks were scuttled at the last minute.

“Nah.” I said. “Let’s save that money for the post-season.”

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