Taking the Field by Howard Megdal

Author:Howard Megdal
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Bloomsbury Publishing
Published: 2011-01-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter 9

A GM GROWS IN BROOKLYN

RACHEL AND I have been partial-season ticket holders for quite some time now. Naturally, we don’t go back nearly as far as some of the loyal fans, people who came to Shea Stadium since it opened in 1964 and have continued at Citi Field. But I’m not sure anyone appreciates being in a glorious building filled with Mets fans more than I do. See, I grew up in Phillies country.

That meant my first game, which my father can date to about 1983 or 1984, took place at Veterans Stadium. Now—and I say this without any malice for Phillies fans—Veterans Stadium was not a great place for baseball. The seats were remote, the field was made of artificial turf (and not the good stuff; one can only speculate as to how many knees met their demise on that concrete), and the stands were filled with people who cared more about the Eagles. Still, I loved the chance to get to Veterans Stadium and see the Mets play every time they came to town, usually twice per series.

But for whatever reason, we never made it to Shea Stadium while I was a child. We’d take trips to New York, but they’d usually revolve around theater and museums. Maybe it was simply that we could see the Mets in Philadelphia; we couldn’t see Broadway shows in Philadelphia, or get food from Ratner’s or Sammy’s. Regardless, I attended more than a hundred baseball games as a child; I saw the Mets (and others) countless times at the Vet, watched them battle the Expos in Montreal. I saw future Mets playing in Single-A Pittsfield. I saw former Mets when we’d travel to see the Atlantic City Surf.

And though many Mets fans may have taken it for granted, for me Shea Stadium was a beacon: I knew I had to get there, no matter what it took. I arrived at Bard College for my freshman year in mid-August 1998, and on September 6, I took the Metro-North train down to Manhattan and the 7 train to Shea Stadium.

I’d like to tell you that the Mets rewarded my nearly two decades of loyal support in exile with a truly spectacular show. I’d like to tell you that Mike Piazza hit two home runs, then pointed to me in the stands so I’d know that he knew I’d been listening through the static all along. That John Franco, whom I’d rooted for since 1989—before my voice changed—came on for the save, and I got to see the Atlanta Braves, heads down, disappear into the clubhouse, defeated. But it was not to be.

September 6 was a Saturday-afternoon game, starting just twelve hours after the contest ended the night before. Mike Piazza didn’t even play. Instead, my Shea debut, the game I’d dreamed of seeing for all of my conscious life, was caught by … Jorge Fabregas. Nothing against Jorge, but it wasn’t the same. Braves ace John Smoltz, however, was as dominating live as he’d been on the radio and, occasionally, television.

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