Pleased to Have Met Me
On June 8th 1986, the New York Mets defeated the Pittsburgh Pirates 4-3 at Three Rivers Stadium, their 37th win. The Mets won 108 games--the sixth highest win total in a major league season--and the World Series that fall in spectacular fashion. On June 8th 1986, I was born. Pretty corny, but the Mets and I have been linked ever since. They are my lifeline. The synchronicity between us is often staggering. When they’re up, I’m up, down when I am, and so forth. The best years of my life, 1986-1990, 1997-2000, and 2005-2008, are the most successful eras in recent (30 years) Met history.
I don’t go to church. I don’t pray to any specific god or God. I am not a man of any particular faith or movement. I am, however, a maniacal, die-hard, heart-in-hands, Met fan. So deeply it actually hurts. I cried blood (nearly) in the bathroom of a friend’s house when Bernie Williams fielded Mike Piazza’s warning-track shot to end the 2000 World Series; I ran up and down the halls of my dorm building screaming in elation when Pedro signed, changing the culture of the franchise for the proceeding several seasons; I choked-up immensely in pride and wonder when Endy Chavez robbed Scott Rolen’s homer with the greatest catch I’ve ever seen (tears still well up); and I broke a coffee table in half when Carlos Beltran struck out looking with two outs and the bases loaded.
I have played sports my entire life. I am indeed one of those guys that follows sports and always has--the most bro-y thing I do--but at age 26, I am way less a sports fan as in my previous 25 years. Way less. Blame the enormity of American professional sports, blame the near inaccessibility of attending live events, blame the bloated media exposure and influence. The fact of the matter is, I’ve grown up, and I’ve gained more interests, more hobbies, and sports has not kept as strong an interest in my life along the way. Except that I haven’t lost love for the Mets.
I should’ve lost interest. I should’ve given it up, the energy, the time, the care. I shouldn’t care anymore, but I can’t help it. I keep coming back. I’ve dropped my love for the Flyers, the Tennessee volunteers football program, investment in the Detroit Lions has waned, but I just can’t shake my passion for this franchise from Flushing. In the past several years, they’ve done everything possible to turn me off: Madoff, ticket fares, and the god-awful signings and squads fielded since 2008--Jason effin’ Bay. I just can’t help it.
The Mets owned New York from the middle to the late eighties. The Mets were other-worldly popular. Everyone loved them. Remember Keith Hernandez on
Seinfeld? And 1986 was the year for New York Mets baseball. They swept the city, orange and blue everywhere. Those Mets were indicative of the time period: young, enthusiastic, trendy, foolish, extravagant, vibrant, diverse. They played hard and fast, and they partied harder and faster. They embodied the modern-athletes-as-celebrities mold with which we are bombarded today. The prided, veteran Yankees were too conservative, too old-fashioned, so when the Mets began succeeding in 1985, they were all the rage. They were “The Kids.”
I guess I’ll be forever linked to them by virtue of birth, but the Mets are also big in my family, and, face it, we get much of our tastes, ethics, and values from our families, and though I doubt I’ve taken many ethics from them, I definitely inherited their taste in baseball. But isn’t that the great divide or diversion in life? Finding some neutral ground, some commonality not wholly related to the direct actions in your personal life that you can share? Sports has to be numero uno on that list. As Silver Linings showed us, problems are deep and wrought strongly in families, but one thing's for sure, you can always sit down and watch the game together, gathering unified for the same cause. And baseball still holds the title of “America’s Pastime,” one that’s been shared longer than any American professional sport. My grandmother and I can sit down for 3 hours and not say a word despite, “he’s doing well this year,” “he’s not worth a damn,” and “oh, here’s my boyfriend.” Nothing has the same effect.
Pat Marino appreciates WFAN on Wednesday afternoons, hating the Phillies and this.