My Thoughts on the Mets

Yesterday, I nervously stared at the ESPN.com pitch-by-pitch scoreboard, hoping that the Mets could keep Shea alive for one more day, before it will invariably be destroyed. My heart sank a little bit when my roommate tauntingly told me that Sabathia had propelled the Brewers to a win. Shea needed a victory. But, just like last year, the Metropolitans dropped two out of their last three, ending a weak September effort and keeping themselves out of the playoffs. I lay in bed for a few minutes, wondering how I should feel.

I wasn't entirely depressed by the whole thing (the slew of obscenities at the top of my lungs seemed to expel most of my dejection). My biggest disappointment wasn't in the team that I had watch unravel in nearly identical fashion to end the season. Instead, I was just disappointed that I couldn't see them do it. I couldn't watch the animosity that was electrifying Shea as Carlos Beltran tied the game with a home run (The last Apple at Shea!), let alone be a part of it . I couldn't jump up shouting, screaming and giving hugs and high fives as I had done when Endy hauled in a ball over the left-field fence, keeping the Mets alive in their last game of 2006. Nope, I was just stuck watching a little computer-screen diamond with automated squares on the bases (or a lack thereof, as was the case for the Mets), since I was hundreds of miles away from the game broadcast.

Many Mets fans have hatred and disappointment running through their veins, but I can't get mad at the Mets, even if they are a bunch of choke-artists. Some may be upset at the fact that they were born just months after the last time the Mets won a World Series, knowing that their hopes of a Shea championship in their lifetime will soon implode. But how could I possibly be upset with all that the Mets have given me?

I've loved the Mets since the day I was born - I really didn't have much say in the matter. In fact, little baby Sax Jazzarello can be seen donning orange and blue in many old photos. Because of my dad's fanatacism for the Cowboys, he wanted to name me Dallas, though I'm sure he would have considered Queens, Flushing and Shea if they weren't even worse names than Dallas. So my being a Mets fan is quite arbitrary. I could have been greeted to this world with a Blue Jays teddy bear or even a *shudder* Braves blanket. But just because I was born into liking the Mets, that's not to say that I haven't fallen helplessly in love with them on my own.

When I was six, my family moved to Long Island. Soon after, I discovered the joys of Shea Stadium just miles to the West. Since then, I've had countless fantastic, memorable moments take place there.

I remember Bernard Gilkey's 3-run moonshot to left field to win the game (and I'm still bummed every time I see him miss a fly ball in Men In Black).

I''ve cheered, booed, laughed and sighed with a sweet sausage and peppers in my hand. In fact, I've done each of those more times than I could possibly recall.

I've seen President Bill Clinton and Jackie Robinson's widow honor the man who broke the color barrier in baseball by retiring his number across the league.

I remember Lance Johnson. Butch Huskey. Tsuyoshi Shinjo.

I've watched the Mets win 1-0 on a Wild Pitch in their last game of the season in order to propel them into October (Hell, me and Lafferty missed minimart for it!)

I've shouted "Mr. Mojo Risin'" at the top of my lungs as Mike Piazza would crush a ball to centerfield, and I even managed to enjoy "Who Let the Dogs Out thanks to the Mets.

In middle school, I would revel at my uncle's hilariously inappropriate heckles. Now, I join him.

I remember that time I went to Shea for my birthday.
I remember that other time I went to Shea for my birthday.
I remember a third time I went to Shea for my birthday, and got to watch a girl pee in the parking lot.

I'll never forget about Todd Hundley, Benny Agbayani or Rick Reed.

And all those Subway Series showdowns! Like that time the Mets came back from five runs behind to beat those damn Yankees. But even such an intense cross-town rivalry couldn't keep the fans from uniting, and we owe it all to John Rocker, a man second only to Osama Bin Laden as the most hated in all of New York who inspired his very own (very unofficial) Battery Night at Shea.

I remember my dad buying me a six-dollar beer.
And then a seven-dollar beer.
Now I get the eight-dollar beers myself.

And I hope that someday, by some serendipitous fortune, I run into that toupeed vendor with the absolutely hilarious voice, even by vendor standards. Decades from now, I'm sure that I'd know him the second I see him.

This is just a small cross-section of my Shea Stadium memories that I've managed to think of just now... the full list is nearly endless. Sometimes I'll watch someone hit a home run so far that it's "Almost as far as that one McGwire hit for number 50 at Shea". Or a faint smell of copper will hurtle me back to a game against the Expos in the right-field loge.

But why have these moments been so incredibly memorable? Well, because it's not just baseball. It's a chance for tens of thousands of people to collectively unite as they cheer for their Metropolitans. It's train rides and tailgates. It's something that bonds you with that guy behind the deli counter, or the guys in the breakroom, or the girl with the Wright jersey. It's a way to know that I'm feeling the same joys and pains as my friends thousands of miles away. And it's a day with the family at the ballpark.

So how could I possibly be upset at the Mets right now? Though their season is over and it's time for their hibernation, I know that they'll be back next spring, just as they are every year. And even though I'll miss Shea, I certainly won't forget about it; I'll just stretch my list of memories as much as I possibly can as they settle into their new home. They may not win them all, but they will surely give me enough reasons to be damn happy that I completely love the New York Mets.