Wednesday, April 25, 2007

SPEED KILLS [04-24-07]

What do I love about April baseball? I love that the stadium is empty, I love that it feels like my private club, I love that the lines are short and the section isn’t crowded and TBF and I can stretch across three seats and put our feet up on the back of the row in front of us. I love that most of the people who are at Shea are there because they give a damn (who else would voluntarily give up a Tuesday night to watch the Mets play the Rockies?!), I love a game that isn’t against an arch rival (like the Rockies) so that I can have more of a conversation with the people around us, whether it’s William and Andrew (the redheaded twins - finally! names! - behind us), or random people who are just near us for one game.

I love the common ritual, the repeat elements, singing “Meet The Mets” with gusto (I even know the second verse now), reciting the ground rules (now a “Special Message” from Carvel, the worst sponsor to be this time of year), and what I love is the sheer relaxation that falls on me the minute I reach Section 12 and sit down in my seat.

Of course, I am not sure that I loved April baseball last year the way I do now. Last year, it was overwhelming and I didn’t know a balk from a bunt. This year, it’s a little different, and I feel completely at home, yelling at people to sit down, we can’t see the batter, heckling Jamie Carroll (he looks like a werewolf), or cackling at the growing contingent of Yankee fans who feel the need to put on full Yankees regalia to attend a game played by the Mets vs. the Rockies at Shea Stadium.

“Are there hordes of Mets fans wearing David Wright jerseys attending the New York Yankees against the Kansas City Royals that I’m unaware of?” TBF spat out as the duo of RODRIGUEZ and WILLIAMS in the mezz boxes in front of us got into an altercation with a gentleman sporting a jersey for our Mr. Martinez.

I love a pitcher’s duel. I started a long list of Things I Never Knew About Baseball Before… (which will some day make for a post on an off day), and on that list was #1: The Guy Who Throws The Ball Is Important. On the outside looking in, it sure doesn’t seem that way - it seems like The Guy Who Hits The Ball should be the important one. But ever since I learned the difference, I have always relished the pitcher’s duel, the long bouts of finesse, the small scoring games.

And of course, a love for the extra innings. I survived all of those games last spring all by my lonesome, bemused and then amused and then realizing I was part of the fellowship, the union of lunatics who will stay until the bitter end, goddamit, I don’t care if it’s Tuesday night and it’s 11:30 and we’re still tied, I’m STAYING until it’s done. Dear lord, how can you ever, ever leave those games? The feeling of the improbable and the impossible and the rollercoaster of AHHHHHHHHH into ohhhhhhhhhhhhh. The CRAP YOU MORONS NOW YOU’RE JUST PLAYING SLOPPY BASEBALL (was that me yelling that? Me? Would I have recognized sloppy baseball a year ago if it had formally introduced itself to me?) gets forgiven, or at least forgotten temporarily.

As I posted on Metstradamus earlier today, I need to remember that Damion Easley is not some scrub bench player (and watching the post-game from last night tonight, I am struck by his intelligence and composure and really feel bad for ever trying to compare him to, say, Michael Tucker).

But Endy?
Our Endy?

How many times can lightning strike?

William and Andrew had their grandfather and another elderly gentleman along as chaperones tonight, and as Endy came up to the plate, one of them joked out loud, “Drag bunt!” This was nothing I had ever heard of before, and I made a mental note to ask TBF about it on the ride home.

Talk about learning in action.

And the explosion - the cork coming out of the champagne bottle - 12 innings of ups and downs and ennui and acceptance and I was putting my stuff away and asking Miriam when she would be at a game next and then KABOOM! AUGHGHGHGH! Jumping leaping high fiving yelling screaming hugging, watching the field and smacking hands and giving hugs. “I called it!” the grandfather yells, amused and amazed. “Speed kills,” chortles TBF.

Leaving Shea, chanting EN-DY CHA-VEZ on the concourse, EN-DY CHA-VEZ down the ramps, EN-DY CHA-VEZ as we walk around Shea to the 7 train, EN-DY CHA-VEZ as we walk up the stairs to the 7, EN-DY CHA-VEZ as we wait in the new idiotic lines for the turnstiles, EN-DY CHA-VEZ as the next train pulls in. TBF is predicting we will get it all the way home, but our car is quiet.

We get off the train at 45th & Court Square and as the door opens, EN-DY CHA-VEZ greets us on the platform, echoing from a few cars down. I grin, and start humming the bass line to “Another One Bites The Dust” as we run down the stairs to wait for the bus home.

I love April baseball.

SPECIAL MENTION: To tonight’s dj, during the extra innings. First we got “Funeral For A Friend,” then “Under Pressure,” then the aformentioned “Another One Bites The Dust”. Ha ha haahahahaha.

QUOTE OF THE NIGHT: “There’s a rock in my backyard that moves faster than Alou.” -Andrew from Long Island