Tuesday, August 21, 2007

TREVOR TIME. [8-21-07]

Meet Vincent and Francois, die-hard Montreal Expo fans who spotted me on the 7 train and determined that I would be their font of all necessary information to get them to the game. They were in town on their annual ballpark visit, where they pick a couple of stadiums and attend games. As they reminded me, the Expos last game was at Shea, and no other than Endy Chavez was the final out. It was their first time at Shea, and I’m proud to say that they exhibited the appropriate excitement and respect as we pulled in on the 7. I hope they took my advice and self-upgraded from the upper deck down to the mezz, because it was a frickin nasty night in Flushing. It reminded me of April in, say, SEATTLE, when it’s not rain so much as a really aggressive mist.

[Riddle me this: why can you already buy Luis Castillo t-shirts BUT THERE IS NOT ONE THING IN THE BALLPARK WITH #33 ON IT?]

[more after the jump]

It was a truly miserable night, and this is with having planned in advance, wearing long sleeves, closed-toe shoes, and bringing sweatshirts and blankets. Yes, BLANKETS in August. To make matters worse, almost none of the Section 12 regulars were there. And the people sitting behind us were not witty or knowledgeable at all, and had the annoying habit of booing the Mets throughout the entire game. To be fair, they weren’t the only ones out of the 50 or so people who stuck it out at Shea tonight (48,000 my derriere) who were booing aimlessly throughout the evening. I would not mind booing with purpose. But people were booing without even knowing why they were booing.

um, no.

So it is just me and TBF, huddled under polar fleece, hood drawn up around my face tightly, and hands withdrawn as far into my sleeves as they could go. This did not bode well for keeping score, taking photos, or logging notes. I prayed for a quick win. TBF noted that 2-0 Mets would, indeed, be a fine score that he could live with.

Regrettably, Mr. Maine did not seem to get that memo, and the 6th and the 7th innings were painful. My throat is scratchy, and TBF remarks that if I am sick, we can leave early.
“We don’t leave early,” I say.
“But if you’re sick, we do.”
I don’t say anything else. We don’t leave games early. Excuses like, I’m cold and have to get up at 6am are bullshit.

However, the words WARMING UP: SCOTT SCHOENEWEIS on the scoreboard do not exactly help steel my resolve. A thimble of coffee does, however.

[Riddle me this: WHY IS THE ONLY PLACE YOU CAN GET A DECENT SIZED CUP OF COFFEE AT SHEA AS FAR AWAY FROM EVERYONE AS POSSIBLE?]

Tonight we learn that George Thorogood is a Mets fan. George Thorogood comes out to sing “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.” Before I can comment that this is a little too much like Wrigley Field, he ends the song with, “Let’s get some runs!”

We even things up in the 8th. Wagner comes in, and they get one back in the 9th. Trevor Hoffman comes in. This does not phase us, because we have seen Trevor Hoffman blow it before when it counted.(TBF is still carrying a grudge for him blowing the save at the All-Star Game in 2006.) But now, here we go. Lasting Milledge singles, and I would now actively glare at whoever was booing him earlier in the game, except for the fact that the coward has already left the ballpark.

TBF takes exception at DeFelice staying in the lineup, but at least he advances the runner. TBF takes exception at Marlon Anderson coming in instead of Shawn Green, but it’s hard to argue when his hit evens things up. The only thing I would take exception to at this particular moment is the thought of staying through the arctic blast into extra innings and in the end, the Mets end up losing. I have faith, or at least the stubbornness to sit through the cold and the mist and the amateur midget hecklers and the singing of “Sweet Caroline” and the morons booing the Mets on a night they didn’t deserve it. And in the end, of course, you forget it all. You’re not cold and you’re not tired and you’re not thinking about anything except what it feels like to be standing there clapping the feeling back into your hands and shouting as loudly as you can, as that ball goes into the outfield and in comes Mr. Marlon Anderson and the dugout explodes and the fans cheer like there really are 48,000 of us there.

Almost a year to the day from one of our most memorable walkoffs, Luis Castillo brings it home. If I haven’t said it before, Welcome to the Mets, Senor Castillo.

Sorry, no time for the fancy slideshow. Flickr feed is here.