What a spring we've been having. What a day for a game. Headed out to Shea on the seven train from Grand Central, and 18+ stops later, there it was, the massive blue stadium filled with orange seats looming large out one side of the train windows. The big Shea. It's got to be one of the ugliest stadiums out there (next to Oakland), nothing classical or designed about it, no red brick, no white columns, not small, aged and quaint, not grand, not contemporary. It's just big and blue and orange. And the neon baseball player tacked on to the front of the stadium hasn't helped it any. Still, it's like a pair of jeans from the '80s, slightly embarrassing, but somehow they make you nostalgic. You wore those two-tone acid washed jeans and yes, you liked them. As soon as we're off the train, my father's looking for scalpers.
Scalping tickets may be more fun for my father than watching the game. He likes to talk to people. He likes to make deals. He likes to get good seats. Today he's intent on scoring field box seats, and I'm not complaining. His girlfriend and I walk ahead, get on the box office line (because we like to play by the rules) and let him go off to make his deals. We joke about the off chance he'll be arrested. A few minutes later, he calls us off line with field box tickets in hand, but just two of them together. From the size and printing on the tickets, they seem to be pretty good seats. We ask him about the third seat, and in his rushed, non-specific way, he tells us not to worry about it and ushers us through the gate. Barbara and I, of course, are worried. We know the deal making isn't over yet.
When I was a teenager and my father was broke, he would never pay for us to get onto the beach. “Just walk on,” he’d tell me. What he meant was, ignore the badge checkers, march right past them, and there was no end to my embarrassment, but I did it. This was pretty much the same strategy he employed to get three people through the field box gate check with two tickets. And again, as awlays, it worked. I'm more proud than embarrassed these days. When we got to our seats, a bill in the usher’s hand got us three seats together--ten rows from the field just to the left of home plate so the net didn’t block our view. Fantastic.
The game. The Mets lost. But there were a lot of hits, and they almost had a comeback in the 8th and 9th innings, so it wasn’t a boring game. There was a ball that came down about 20 feet to our right, and in an attempt to catch it, a guy threw up all the money in his hand and created a flurry of dollar bills over the scramble for the ball. And there were two sailors sitting next to us in their starched white uniforms being hit on by two voluptuous girls from New Jersey. The girls wore large plastic sunglasses and had deep tans and talked about skydiving and how much they loved Atlantic City. Loudly. The sailors seemed more interested in the beers my father was buying them, and the girls left before the end of the inning. The sailors started slapping my father on the back and calling him Nick. One of them was from Philadelphia. "You rooting for the Mets?" my father asked. The sailor smartly replied, "Today we are." My father never fails to make friends.
The seven train back was packed and hot and full of post game comraderie. They should never have taken Gonzalez out in the 7th. Who was going (pitching) tomorrow? Too bad they didn't get the sweep. The Mets really need some pitchers. What do you think of the El Duque trade. It’s a chatter that’s as lovely as listening to a game on the radio. Like the crisp voice of the announcers against a backdrop of cheers and whistles of the fans and all of it wiped away now and then by the buzz and crackles of static, it's a texture that makes you feel every part of the game.
