This post was originally written by my husband in 2008 and posted on his sports blog. Recently I’ve been reading over some of his older stuff both off and on-line. He could always make me laugh – I totally love that about him. This is one of my top favorites because he writes about his family and his childhood. I think it’s only fair to share a little about the man who made me love him – from his own fingertips.
Shea Goodbye - October 1, 2008
Todd Pratt, a big, sweet, dumb as a box of rocks former catcher for the Mets used to say to his teammates upon returning home to Shea Stadium from a road trip "It's not much boys, but it's home". And I think that's the best way to describe "Big Shea", once a state of the art multi-purpose stadium, reduced to a proverbial shit hole. Shea was home to a lot of memories for me, and this week my family and I got to say goodbye on Sunday from row O in the Mezzanine just along the third base side, not too far from the first seats I ever sat in at Shea.
My first ballgame at Shea was in 1968. My big brother (Butch...I have several big brothers) took me, and we sat in the Mezzanine in a box seat. I remember this for two reasons: first, the metal crossbar that defined the box of seats was eye level to my 5 year old head effectively obstructing my view. Second, during a Mets rally my brother let out a yell that startled me so much I banged my head into the aforementioned cross bar. I couldn't see, right? So I was peering under the cross bar and that's how I banged my head. Oh, and the Mets lost, but that was OK. I had the time of my life.
As I got older, my friends and I would make the trek to the big ball park on our own. I lived three blocks from the 7 train so getting to Shea was easy. In 1974 I saw my first tit on one of these treks: a woman was running up the stairs at 74th street and Roosevelt Ave. and as she leapt on to the 7, her tit popped out of her shirt. I was with my best friend, Joe Peters, and we were mesmerized. The woman looked at us, looked down at her tit, and calmly tucked it back into her shirt. Joe and I talked about that tit for weeks. You know, the braless 1970's was a good time to be a young horny kid.
I saw Tom Seaver pitch, Willie Mays play center, I saw great hopes named Mike Vail and Roy Staiger fall short of expectations. I saw Dave Kingman hit a ball out of the stadium and into the parking lot, where it struck a parked car on it's hood. It was the greatest homerun I ever saw. I saw amazing pitchers named Koosman and Matlack, and McGraw and Lockwood, and even Mickey Lolich...
Lolich was a fat pitcher the Mets aquired in a trade with Detroit. They gave up Rusty Staub, one of the great hitters in all of baseball to get Lolich, and my friend Joe would sing this song: "LoLICH, you fat sonofabitch". Everybody hated Lolich, mostly because he wasn't Rusty Staub but to make matters worse, my friends took to calling me "Mickey" because I was a fat pitcher as well. So for years I carried Lolich's baseball card in my wallet as a reminder of all the little bastards that were still stuck in that fucking neighborhood.
My first ballgame at Shea was in 1968. My big brother (Butch...I have several big brothers) took me, and we sat in the Mezzanine in a box seat. I remember this for two reasons: first, the metal crossbar that defined the box of seats was eye level to my 5 year old head effectively obstructing my view. Second, during a Mets rally my brother let out a yell that startled me so much I banged my head into the aforementioned cross bar. I couldn't see, right? So I was peering under the cross bar and that's how I banged my head. Oh, and the Mets lost, but that was OK. I had the time of my life.
As I got older, my friends and I would make the trek to the big ball park on our own. I lived three blocks from the 7 train so getting to Shea was easy. In 1974 I saw my first tit on one of these treks: a woman was running up the stairs at 74th street and Roosevelt Ave. and as she leapt on to the 7, her tit popped out of her shirt. I was with my best friend, Joe Peters, and we were mesmerized. The woman looked at us, looked down at her tit, and calmly tucked it back into her shirt. Joe and I talked about that tit for weeks. You know, the braless 1970's was a good time to be a young horny kid.
I saw Tom Seaver pitch, Willie Mays play center, I saw great hopes named Mike Vail and Roy Staiger fall short of expectations. I saw Dave Kingman hit a ball out of the stadium and into the parking lot, where it struck a parked car on it's hood. It was the greatest homerun I ever saw. I saw amazing pitchers named Koosman and Matlack, and McGraw and Lockwood, and even Mickey Lolich...
Lolich was a fat pitcher the Mets aquired in a trade with Detroit. They gave up Rusty Staub, one of the great hitters in all of baseball to get Lolich, and my friend Joe would sing this song: "LoLICH, you fat sonofabitch". Everybody hated Lolich, mostly because he wasn't Rusty Staub but to make matters worse, my friends took to calling me "Mickey" because I was a fat pitcher as well. So for years I carried Lolich's baseball card in my wallet as a reminder of all the little bastards that were still stuck in that fucking neighborhood.
I digress....
In 1977 the Mets traded Tom Seaver to Cincinnati, and when the Reds came to play the Mets I was at Shea to see him pitch. It was the only time I openly rooted against the Mets and I wasn't alone. Seaver and the Reds won that day and the crowd let him know exactly how much he was loved.
By the way, in return for the greatest pitcher in baseball history the Mets got, and I quote: Pat Zachary, Doug Flynn, Steve Henderson, and Dan Norman, and no I didn't have to look it up. I saw Steve Henderson win a ballgame once with a walk-off home run, and that made me cheer. Zachary was a decent pitcher, and Flynn was a decent second baseman. Dan Norman didn't amount to anything.
In 1977 the Mets traded Tom Seaver to Cincinnati, and when the Reds came to play the Mets I was at Shea to see him pitch. It was the only time I openly rooted against the Mets and I wasn't alone. Seaver and the Reds won that day and the crowd let him know exactly how much he was loved.
By the way, in return for the greatest pitcher in baseball history the Mets got, and I quote: Pat Zachary, Doug Flynn, Steve Henderson, and Dan Norman, and no I didn't have to look it up. I saw Steve Henderson win a ballgame once with a walk-off home run, and that made me cheer. Zachary was a decent pitcher, and Flynn was a decent second baseman. Dan Norman didn't amount to anything.
When Seaver returned to the Mets in 1983, I was at the first game he pitched sitting in the Field Box on the first base side. The crowd chanted "Seaver! Seaver!" as he walked in to pitch the first inning. He won, 2-0.
In the 1980s I saw a lot of ball games. I saw Lenny Dykstra win a NLCS game against Houston with a walk-off homer, and I was there for "Strawberry Sunday", when we all got free Carvel ice cream in honor of Darryl Strawberry. I saw Doc Gooden pitch before the drugs fucked him up. I saw Keith Hernandez play, the best first baseman I have ever seen.
Of course, the 1980's were highlighted by the acquisition of what we called "Tud Tickets". FYI, that word you just read rhymes with "good". My uncle Tud worked for a greeting card company called Alfred Mainzer. They had seats on the first base side, second row. My cousin Frank and I saw many a game from those seats, but the best part was how we'd get in touch. Tud would call my Mom and say "I've got the tickets". Mom in turn would call me, and I in turn would call Frank. If I got his voice mail, I'd leave a message consisting of two words: "Tud Tickets". Then I would go into a ritualistic trance and try to contact him using psychic powers. I'd repeat in my mind "Tud Tickets" and "Check your voice mail". Remember, this was the 1980's and we didn't have cell phones yet. About an hour later I'd get a call from my cousin. "HOLY SHIT!!! I SWEAR, SOMETHING TOLD ME TO CHECK MY VOICE MAIL!!! HOLY SHIT!!!"
By the time the 1990's came around, a lot of things changed. The Yankees had become the fashionable team, my cousin had gotten married to a beautiful girl named Lisa who loved the Mets as much as he did, and Uncle Tud dropped dead effectively cutting off my supply of good seats. I don't remember the last time I visited Shea, honestly.
Last February I got a call from Butch. "I've got a plan!" he announced, and proceeded to explain how the Mets were having a lottery for tickets to the last game at Shea. The plan was we would both enter the lottery and try to win the opportunity to buy tickets, and if we won we'd meet in New York in the fall. Well, I won, which amused my brother to no end. "The only time this family ever wins something", laughed Butch, "is the opportunity to pay someone money". According to the rules I was allowed to purchase up to 6 tickets, and I did: one for Butch, two for his friend Billy (Billy brought his son Will), one for my wife and one for my cousin.
And then my wife thought about the game. "You know, I'd like to go" she said, "but it would mean more to Lisa, don't you think?" My wife remembered that once, in passing, I mentioned that Frank and Lisa watched about 150 games a year. That's how good my wife is. "We'll make it a Christmas present".
Sunday's game, like so many games this season, was a heart breaker. We all cheered and hoped, and in the end the bull pen blew a lead, and the Mets couldn't score enough runs. But the ceremony after the game made it all worthwhile. All of the Mets greats and some of the not so greats returned. Dave Kingman got a huge hand, as did John Franco, who I feared was going to get booed simply because he might be perceived as the symbol of lousy bullpens. George Foster was there, and some people booed him. I just groaned. Cleon Jones and Ron Hunt and Ed Kranepool and Ron Swoboda reminded me of how I felt when I first became aware of this game and this team that I loved. Felix Millian and Doug Flynn and Stork Theodore and Craig Swan reminded me of my best childhood friend Joe Peters, who passed away several years ago from pancreatic cancer. That's why I wanted to write about him today. The guys from 1986, Lenny Dykstra, Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling, Doc Gooden, and Darryl Strawberry reminded me what it was like to be in my 20's in New York in the 1980s. Mike Piazza and Robin Ventura and Todd Zeiel got huge ovations, and that reminded me that a new generation of Mets fans had come to take my place when I left New York.
And in the end, Tom Seaver pitching to Mike Piazza was the perfect ending. They walked off the field together, arm in arm, and closed Shea Stadium once and for all.
After the game we all said goodbye in the parking lot. Lisa gave me a great hug and said "Thank you so much, this is the greatest Christmas present ever... and please thank Karen for giving up her ticket. I know this was all her doing".
Thanks Shea. Thanks for the best 44 years of my life.
In the 1980s I saw a lot of ball games. I saw Lenny Dykstra win a NLCS game against Houston with a walk-off homer, and I was there for "Strawberry Sunday", when we all got free Carvel ice cream in honor of Darryl Strawberry. I saw Doc Gooden pitch before the drugs fucked him up. I saw Keith Hernandez play, the best first baseman I have ever seen.
Of course, the 1980's were highlighted by the acquisition of what we called "Tud Tickets". FYI, that word you just read rhymes with "good". My uncle Tud worked for a greeting card company called Alfred Mainzer. They had seats on the first base side, second row. My cousin Frank and I saw many a game from those seats, but the best part was how we'd get in touch. Tud would call my Mom and say "I've got the tickets". Mom in turn would call me, and I in turn would call Frank. If I got his voice mail, I'd leave a message consisting of two words: "Tud Tickets". Then I would go into a ritualistic trance and try to contact him using psychic powers. I'd repeat in my mind "Tud Tickets" and "Check your voice mail". Remember, this was the 1980's and we didn't have cell phones yet. About an hour later I'd get a call from my cousin. "HOLY SHIT!!! I SWEAR, SOMETHING TOLD ME TO CHECK MY VOICE MAIL!!! HOLY SHIT!!!"
By the time the 1990's came around, a lot of things changed. The Yankees had become the fashionable team, my cousin had gotten married to a beautiful girl named Lisa who loved the Mets as much as he did, and Uncle Tud dropped dead effectively cutting off my supply of good seats. I don't remember the last time I visited Shea, honestly.
Last February I got a call from Butch. "I've got a plan!" he announced, and proceeded to explain how the Mets were having a lottery for tickets to the last game at Shea. The plan was we would both enter the lottery and try to win the opportunity to buy tickets, and if we won we'd meet in New York in the fall. Well, I won, which amused my brother to no end. "The only time this family ever wins something", laughed Butch, "is the opportunity to pay someone money". According to the rules I was allowed to purchase up to 6 tickets, and I did: one for Butch, two for his friend Billy (Billy brought his son Will), one for my wife and one for my cousin.
And then my wife thought about the game. "You know, I'd like to go" she said, "but it would mean more to Lisa, don't you think?" My wife remembered that once, in passing, I mentioned that Frank and Lisa watched about 150 games a year. That's how good my wife is. "We'll make it a Christmas present".
Sunday's game, like so many games this season, was a heart breaker. We all cheered and hoped, and in the end the bull pen blew a lead, and the Mets couldn't score enough runs. But the ceremony after the game made it all worthwhile. All of the Mets greats and some of the not so greats returned. Dave Kingman got a huge hand, as did John Franco, who I feared was going to get booed simply because he might be perceived as the symbol of lousy bullpens. George Foster was there, and some people booed him. I just groaned. Cleon Jones and Ron Hunt and Ed Kranepool and Ron Swoboda reminded me of how I felt when I first became aware of this game and this team that I loved. Felix Millian and Doug Flynn and Stork Theodore and Craig Swan reminded me of my best childhood friend Joe Peters, who passed away several years ago from pancreatic cancer. That's why I wanted to write about him today. The guys from 1986, Lenny Dykstra, Keith Hernandez, Ron Darling, Doc Gooden, and Darryl Strawberry reminded me what it was like to be in my 20's in New York in the 1980s. Mike Piazza and Robin Ventura and Todd Zeiel got huge ovations, and that reminded me that a new generation of Mets fans had come to take my place when I left New York.
And in the end, Tom Seaver pitching to Mike Piazza was the perfect ending. They walked off the field together, arm in arm, and closed Shea Stadium once and for all.
After the game we all said goodbye in the parking lot. Lisa gave me a great hug and said "Thank you so much, this is the greatest Christmas present ever... and please thank Karen for giving up her ticket. I know this was all her doing".
Thanks Shea. Thanks for the best 44 years of my life.
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