A Farewell to Shea

I’ve had a love/hate relationship with baseball all my life. I love the game for its' history, for its' place in American lore and for the memories of my youth that it evokes, and most especially the bond I have with my Dad through the game.

Like many I hate the game for the way it's been watered down over the years with expansion, crappy middle relievers, juiced balls (and players), emphasis on hitting over pitching and overpaid, bratty athletes who have no gratitude for the situation they find themselves in. But I digress...

Everyone knows this year is the last one the Mets will play in Shea Stadium and I’m a little sad to see it go. I grew up a Mets fan thanks to my Dad, an old Brooklyn Dodger fan from way back. After his beloved Bums headed west he followed them for a few years as best he could and then in 1962, he hitched his wagon to the National League’s newest members, the Amazin’ Mets.

His patience was rewarded in 1969 when the “Miracle Mets” won the World Series in 1969, toppling the mighty Orioles. I was born the following year, and unfortunately for me, came of age during the dismal late 70s and early 80s where the Mets’ “stars” had names like Youngblood, Henderson and Swan. The final nail in the coffin of the Mets as a good team was the PR disaster that followed the 1977 trade of Tom Seaver, my hero.

Still the Mets were my team. I followed the Yankees (and did not yet despise them the way I do now), but I lived and died with the boys in orange and blue. Recently I attended what is sure to be my last Mets game at Shea with a good friend of mine, and we traded our favorite memories of the old place, nearly all of which were tied somehow to our fathers. I couldn’t compete with the sheer volume of his or the “wow” factor (he was at Game 6 of the ’86 World Series!!) but I have a couple of my own.

In reality I have two, and the first is one of my most precious memories of childhood. My Dad took me to a game on my tenth birthday and hatched a surprise for me that I would never forget. It was our custom back then to attend Old Timer’s Day each year, something that my Dad really loved because he got to see many of the stars of his youth. OT Day was the following day so we were going to see two games in a row, which struck me as odd, but my ten-year old brain attached no real significance to it.

When we arrived at the stadium we were met by a friend of the family, who was a transit cop. Again nothing occurred to me and I thought it was mere coincidence. We spoke briefly and he called for someone on his radio. Another officer arrived and our friend told us to go with him. Now I knew something was going on.

The officer led us through areas of the stadium I had never been before and it seemed as though we were walking forever. When we finally arrived at our destination (wherever that was) the cop pushed open a door and I found myself standing in the Mets bullpen, mouth agape.

I was completely and utterly overwhelmed. My senses were bombarded by views and sounds I had seen only from a distance, or on television. Met relievers Bob Apodaca and Skip Lockwood were warming up. I can’t remember what they said to me, if anything, but both signed my 1980 Mets Yearbook.

I was allowed on to the field briefly, and there I encountered Jerry Morales, so-so hitting outfielder who also signed my yearbook. I remember thinking how tall and sweaty he was. Last, but certainly not least, the officer prevailed on manager Joe Torre and coach Joe Pignatano to also sign for me. Again I have no memory of what they said to me. I remember Torre looking somewhat amused.

As soon as that little visit began it was over. I took one last fleeting look at the stadium from a vantage point I would never have again, and locked it away. To see Shea from that angle (and with my ten-year old sensibilities) was like seeing a cathedral, but from the altar. Very few memories have eclipsed that one, baseball or otherwise.

My other favorite memory is of Opening Day 1983, the day Tom Terrific returned to the Mets. I was stunned that they managed to get him back (and later incensed they would lose him yet again the following year) and my Dad kept me home from school so we could see his triumphant return. I never saw the stadium filled to capacity or heard thunderous roars like I did that day. Tom faced off against fellow Hall of Famer Steve Carlton that day, and even though he didn’t get the decision the Mets prevailed and he pitched very well.

Over the years my interest in baseball has waxed and waned and it has never come close to the rabid fervor I had for it when I was a kid. Having said that it remains very dear to me and those two memories are emblematic of how something that might seem so trivial (like a sport) can bring a father and son together, but it did, and I’ll always be grateful for it.