Sunday, April 27, 2008

WILD THING. [04-25-08]

Friday, April 25: Pelfrey v. Jurjens

When the week began, I was on the hook to attend all three games this weekend: Friday on our plan, Saturday in the upper deck on TBF’s Saturday plan, and Sunday with the delightful Ms. Coop as her guest for Foam Finger Day. Halfway through the week, I gently suggested that we should sell the Saturday tickets, because I did not see how I could possibly get through three games, accomplish anything else, and not be completely exhausted once the weekend was over.  In hindsight, I’m sorry we didn’t go on Saturday, and this is yet another reminder that going is always better than not going.

I didn’t take the camera on Friday since I didn’t want to deal with the logistics of dragging it and clothes to change into to work. Instead, I asked TBF to bring some scoresheets along for me. It is part of my 2008 Baseball Resolutions to finally learn how to keep score. Before you all go off on me about how easy it is and little kids do it, realize that I am learning how to keep score from the TBF School of Scorekeeping, and see his hand-made, edited painstakingly over the course of years scoresheet below:

It was a good night to keep score, and would have been a horrific night to try to take photographs. Not just because it’s hard for my heart to be in it when the Mets are fucking losing yet again, but because Friday was a bad, evil, cranky night at Shea. People were showing up with tickets in hand, looking for the usher, up until the end of the fourth goddamn inning.  You know, speaking as someone who knows that she is some times going to barely make it by first pitch, I can’t get annoyed at someone who has to get to the ballpark late. I can get annoyed when their entire group of EIGHT stands blocking my view while they consult their tickets and then the signage and the tickets yet again before realizing that their seats are in the upper deck or several sections away from where they are standing right now. The up and down and up and down was non-stop, continuous, not even any semblance of trying to not interfere with what was going on (or not going on, as the case may be) on the field. And while I generally find a small child dressed in Mets gear to be utterly adorable, we had a group of the most obnoxious children running amuck in the section that i have ever had the displeasure of being near.
“They’ll calm down in a little bit,” TBF assured me.
“Waiting for that.”
“It might take a couple of innings.”
“Were you ever like that?”
“No. I sat there, watched the game, and kept score.”

Keeping score was good because it stopped me from getting into a funk over how bad the Mets were playing. I had to concentrate and while you would think writing down every thing they did wrong would make me crankier, it actually focused my attention outside the game for a little bit.

People were booing at everything and anything. People were trying to do the wave, and then booing loudly when people on the other side of the stadium wouldn’t do the wave. A group of boorish louts in their late 20’s located themselves a few rows above us, and as the game went on, and people headed for the 7 train, accumulated more of their number - and then proceed to begin to discuss, in pornographic detail, someone’s recent encounter with a young lady - until I turned around and told them to watch their language and to stop being pigs.

It was not the most fun night I have ever had at Shea. It was like watching a baseball game in the middle of Grand Central Station on the Friday before Labor Day.

We all keep trying to talk about why everyone is so angry, why there is this veneer of nastiness and resentment hanging over Shea these days. My theory is that it isn’t just 2007, it’s 2007, it’s the ticket price increase, and it’s the specter of Citi Field hanging over every game, taunting us with the fact that this stadium is not being built for us, it is being built for corporations and rich people and people like the guy who sits in front of us, who buys four tickets and only shows up at important games. It’s the fact that the Mets haven’t told us yet what’s going to happen, and everyone knows they haven’t because they’re hedging their bets, they want to deal with selling as few tickets to individuals as possible unless it’s in a full season plan. They haven’t said anything, but everyone knows that the days of deciding at 3pm that you’ve had a crappy day and let’s go out to Shea and see a game are going to be over. Shea kept away the well-heeled and the beautiful people because it is rickety and cold and uncomfortable or rickety and hot and unbearable.  All of this, combined with a Mets team that can’t get their act together, makes for a decidedly unfun outing at the ballpark. 

I’m sorry, but this is a big part of the story that’s going unnoticed. It’s going unnoticed because the media isn’t going to write about this because the media doesn’t have to decide how much of their yearly income to allocate to the Mets. They don’t have worry about how to get into a game or where their seats are going to be or argue with their ticket rep. And, the media isn’t going to write about it from any kind of critical perspective because they don’t want Jay Horowitz taking away or limiting their access, or calling their editor and suggesting that someone else gets put on the beat next year.

[gets off of soapbox]

I like keeping score. I like keeping score because I think it is going to help me understand the rules of the game at the next level (although I swear that the difference between wild pitch and passed ball will continue to elude me for-fucking-EVER). I like it because no one is going to try to insinuate that I am there to look at David Wright’s ass if I am keeping score. I am sad, in a way, that I didn’t have a grandfather or aunt or older sibling who taught me to keep score.

On the other hand, I could have gone my whole life without learning how to keep score. At least I am acquiring this skill now. I put this on par with knowing how to change a tire or drive a stick shift.

The best thing about the evening: Finding out that Duaner Sanchez comes out to X’s version of “Wild Thing”. Now, I realize that he comes out to that song (which couldn’t fit him any better than if they wrote a song just for him) because it was in Major League and not because Duaner is a big fan of LA punk rock or harbors a secret crush for Exene Cervenka, but it did my heart good to hear a song by one of my favorite bands (and a kickass cover at that) played at Shea.

It sure as hell beats “I’m A Believer” every single game for the rest of the freaking season.