The Best American Poetry

The Mets are in the post season [by Greg Pattenaude]

On Monday evening in Milwaukee, the Mets defeated the Brewers 7-2 and with the victory, guaranteed their first post season appearance in six years.  Max Scherzer, returning from the Injured List, was brilliant, retiring all 18 batters he faced with apparent little effort.  If not for wanting to limit the number of pitches, he may have been on his way to a perfect game.  He had to settle for two-thirds of one and his 200th  Major League victory.

The Mets broke the ice in a scoreless game in the 4th inning.  Pete Alonso connected with a 3-run homer, his 36th of the season. In the 6th, back-to-back triples by Brandon Nimmo and Francisco Lindor followed by a double from “cult hero” Daniel Vogelbach made it 5-0.  After Scherzer left the game in the 6^th, the Brewers plated two on a two-run homer by Rowdy Tellez.  But any thought of a Brewers’ comeback was put to rest in the 8th, when the Mets tacked on two more, thanks to RBI singles by Tyler Naquin and Tomas Nido.

After the game, the Mets celebrated in subdued fashion.  Rather than the usual oft-repeated champaign spray madhouse in the locker room, players were seen holding flutes of bubbly, more like receiving Prosecco while heading into the cocktail hour of a wedding reception.  Clearly, they knew that more and bigger celebrations lay ahead, but nevertheless acknowledged a significant achievement.

What has been the difference this year’s success story, as opposed to other recent years?  The answer is manager Buck Showalter.  His old-school, no-nonsense approach is exactly what this young team needed.  Combined with adding veterans like Scherzer and infielder Eduardo Escobar, professionalism has returned while still allowing the team to shine with individuality and personality within those bounds.  An example of that is Edwin Diaz's 9th inning anthem of Narco by Timmy Trumpet which heralds in victories.  Gone are players giving thumbs-down gestures to fans or stuffed ponies in the dugout for riding after non-consequential home runs.  Having an owner Steve Cohen that actually cares about the team’s success other than the financial bottom line also helps.  

The Mets still hope to win the National League’s Eastern Division. May that be the next celebration with several more to follow.  Stay tuned!

2022 Baseball Hall of Fame Induction Ceremony [by Greg Pattenaude]

On Sunday July 24, I made the trip to Cooperstown to be part of the induction ceremony of this year’s class to the Baseball Hall of Fame.  I was there to watch Gil Hodges, who I wrote about in January, be inducted posthumously. In addition to Gil, there were six other former baseball players being honored: three posthumously - Minnie Miñoso, Bud Fowler and Buck O’Neil – and three others who were present – Jim Kaat, Tony Olivia and David Ortiz aka Big Papi. 

If you are a baseball fan, but have never attended the induction ceremony, it is celebration of the best baseball can offer.  Fifty-thousand or so travel many miles to be part of the festivities.  The huge, open field of the Clark Sports Center, located about a 15 minute walk south of the village’s Main Street, is dotted with lawn chairs, umbrellas, tents, signs, and uniforms of many teams.  This year, there were plenty of flags from the Dominican Republic, the native land of Big Papi, being waved proudly from those of Dominican heritage.

The field is already crowded when I arrive at 11:30, two hours before the scheduled start time of the ceremony.  I put my folding chair down on an open spot near the center but pretty far back from the stage.  When I return from a quick walk to get water, I’ve been surrounded.  To my left are three chairs with those seated wearing a Mets, Yankees and Red Sox jersey, respectively.  I commented that this is a great mix.  The Mets fan said that they have a fourth person with them, a Phillies fan, but he forgot a chair.

To their left are a large group of Dominicans.  They are having an animated conservation, talking loudly, smiling and laughing, and enjoying some really big cigars, whose smell reminded me of my youth at Shea Stadium.  To my right are five people who quietly sat there with a large cooler of Coronas.  My only judgement on them was that they had no idea who Tommie Agee was, but I refrained from telling them to go on YouTube to watch Game 3 of the 1969 World Series.

The ceremony gets underway on time with the usual welcome to Cooperstown by Jane Forbes Clark, Chair of the Hall of Fame and introduction of today’s master of ceremonies, Brian Kenny from the MLB Network.  He noted that due to bad storms forecast for later in the afternoon, some usual features, like video montages for each for the inductees shown on the huge screen and across the live televised feed, would be omitted to get the crowd out of there before the thunderstorms arrived.  It was greatly appreciated; the ceremony still lasted three hours.  And it was a good call; the ceremony was over at 4:30pm and Cooperstown was drenched by 5:15pm. Then comes what can only be described as a living “Field of Dreams” moment.  The previously-inducted Hall of Famers are introduced one by one – a who’s who of those that were the best in the game.  As noted in the introductions, only 1% of ballplayers are selected to the Hall of Fame.  It’s a surreal experience seeing all these greats in one place.  Included in that group was Sandy Koufax, inducted in 1972 and the oldest Hall of Famer attending at 86 years old.  He started the first major league game I attended against the Mets in 1966 and I was glad I returned to my house before leaving to grab some extra tissues.

Now it’s time for the newest honorees or those representing them to be introduced followed by the plaque presentation ceremony and a speech by the inductee or those selected to speak on his behalf.  Former pitcher Jim Kaat thanked his catchers over his twenty-five year career; several were in attendance.  Tony Oliva thanked his adopted city of Minneapolis where he met his wife despite he not knowing any English and she no Spanish.  Minnie Minoso’s wife talked about her late husband’s enduring love of baseball and the organizations who supported him.  Hall of Famer Dave Winfield spoke about Bud Fowler, whose life I knew little of.  As an African-American born in Fort Plain, New York and raised in Cooperstown, Bud played professional baseball in the late 1800s, going from team to team before owners established a “gentleman’s agreement” that only white ball players should have that privilege.  Buck O’Neil’s niece, Dr. Angela Terry, thanked the selection committee for its broad interpretation of selection criteria to include the totality of contributions to the game, not just statistics and mentioned his favorite phrase “man oh man, nothing could be better.”  Today’s marque inductee was Big Papi, the larger than life ballplayer who helped the Boston Red Sox end their long World Series championship drought in 2004, then helped contributed to two more World Series titles in 2007 and 2013.  He spoke glowingly about the island nation he grew up, encouraged those present and watching to visit the island and its pristine sandy beaches, and thanked his Boston teammates, many of whom were in attendance.

In the middle of these speeches was Irene Hodges, Gil’s daughter.  She spoke of her humble father who would have been proud to be there.  He loved baseball, but didn't get to play it right away; after his major league debut for the Dodgers in 1943, he enlisted in the Marines, and saw combat in Okinawa, earning a bronze star.  While there, he showed the native children the game of baseball.  Irene spoke of her father’s character, never any pretense or thought he was better than anyone.  During the 1950s, he was the premiere first baseman, with the most home runs, runs batted in, hits and games played.  He always wanted to win, but as Irene said, never to the point of putting himself above anyone else. “Never lie” was his credo according to Irene; you should look into a mirror and respect the person you see.  He demonstrated this ethic with his Dodger teammates, with his players while managing, and with his family.   He was part of the Brooklyn community.  She noted that, while managing, some players feared him.  Some complained about his managerial style of platooning players.  But they all respected him.  Four of those players from the world championship 1969 Mets were there, as well as the widow of the aforementioned Tommie Agee and the late Tom Seaver’s daughter Sarah.  At Seaver’s induction 30 years earlier – my first induction ceremony – Seaver closed his speech tearfully noting his two greatest regrets where that neither his late mother or Gil Hodges were there.  

Irene noted that he was a supporter of teammate Jackie Robinson and shared this story; one I had not heard.  One game, the opposing dugout was “heckling” Jackie, but I assume it was much more than heckling.  Gil, a quiet but imposing figure at six foot one, had had enough.  He walked over to the opposing dugout and said “if anyone else has anything to say, come out right now and we’ll settle it.”  No one came out or said anything.  This powerful moment might be the reason Jackie wept at Gil’s funeral in April 1972, saying that next to his own son, it was the worst day of his life.  Jackie passed away several months later.

When the ceremony was over, I gathered my belongings and walked back to town, along with most of the gathered who decided not to wait for shuttle buses.  On the way back, someone on his Victorian front porch was giving away beer to passersby.  While tempted, I opted for the free bottles of water the kids across the street were giving away in exchange for a donation to a children’s hospital.  Refreshed, I saw someone ahead of me with a Hodges jersey so I struck up a conversation.  He had flown up from Virginia to be there.  A native Brooklynite, he saw Gil play when he was a kid and promised that he would never step foot in Cooperstown until Gil was in the Hall of Fame.  He made good on his promise.

Gil Hodges is a Hall of Famer [by Greg Pattenaude]

On Sunday evening, longtime Brooklyn Dodgers first baseman and 1969 Mets manager Gil Hodges was elected into the Baseball Hall of Fame.  It has been a long journey for a player who retired in 1963 when his aging knees could no longer hold up.

When Hodges retired, he had set a record of 370 home runs by a National League right-handed hitter and was 10^th on the all-time home run list.  His 14 career grand slams ranked first in the National League.  He was an all-star eight times, won three Gold Gloves for best defensive first baseman in the first three years that the Gold Glove awards were given out, and was only second to teammate Duke Snyder in most Dodger offensive records.  

But baseball’s greatest honor, a place in the Hall of Fame, eluded him.  As time went on, his accomplishments were diluted, replaced by others who exceeded him in performance and advanced statistics that diminish a human into a Stratomatic playing card.  

In Brooklyn, he was a fan favorite and a quiet leader in the clubhouse.  He lived with his wife Joan and his family in Flatbush year-round.  Legend says he was the only “Brooklyn Bum” who was never booed, adopted as one of their own.  Even after a horrible end to the 1952 season, when he went hitless in 26 World Series at bats, and a slow start in 1953, the community’s answer was to pray for him, later the title of a 2006 book by Thomas Oliphant.  

So did prayer alone get him in this time?  

According to the rules set by the Hall of Fame, “voting shall be based upon the player's record, playing ability, integrity, sportsmanship, character, and contributions to the team(s) on which the player played.”

Pay close attention to the last four criteria, none of which can be captured by any amount of advanced analytics.  Mets broadcaster Howie Rose was one of the first to note that it is a person’s complete resume that should be weighted.  Many players from the 1969 Mets went on record saying that if it wasn’t for Gil’s leadership as manager, none would have been World Series champs.  But it may have been longtime Dodger broadcaster Vin Scully who went to bat for Gil’s induction, offering this high praise:

“Gil stood out as not only one of the game’s finest first basemen but also as a great American and an exemplary human being, someone who many of us were in awe of because of his spiritual strength. I often heard Dodgers players refer to Gil as a “saint.”

I am too young to have ever seen Gil play.  I knew he was an original Met and hit their very first home run during their first game in 1962.  I certainly remember him as a manager who provided an eleven-year old a great summer and fall in 1969.  But I did have a mom who saw him play at Ebbets Field, so I knew he was special.  And the night the Mets clinched the Eastern Division title on September 24, 1969, when the team was celebrating afterwards, my mother was most concerned for Gil, on the one-year anniversary of the heart attack he had suffered in Atlanta.  Sadly less than three years later, Gil would be gone.

I’ll leave you with these two scenes from entertainment, both fictional but probably based on something the writer felt or experienced.  In the movie Field of Dreams, when “Shoeless” Joe Jackson is telling Ray Kinsella about the players in Ray’s corn field playing ball, it could have been just about any of the former departed greats.  But screenwriter and director Phil Robinson chose Gil Hodges to be one of them.  And in the 1991 CBS TV show Brooklyn Bridge, about a Jewish family in the 1950s, there is a scene in the first episode.   The grandparents take their young grandson, decked out in his Dodgers uniform, to get Gil’s autograph at the Brooklyn Union Savings Bank.  Earlier in the episode, the grandfather had told his grandson that he knew Gil and played with Gil in Russia, which of course wasn’t true.  When the grandson tells that to Mr. Hodges, Gil looked surprised but then says oh yes, I played with him.  He was on the Bears; it’s good to see you.  The grandfather asked Gil if he knew Yiddish, which Gil didn’t, but said you should know what a mensch is, because that’s you.  

Gil has now found his place in the Hall of Fame.  Congratulations to the Hodges family for never giving up and Gil’s 96 year-old widow Joan.  

Back at the Ballpark [by Greg Pattenaude]

With Covid seating restrictions lifted and life attempting to get back to normal, it was time to visit a ballpark.  On Saturday June 26, I did just that as the Mets hosted the Phillies at Citi Field.  Excluding the 2020 season when no fans were allowed to attend games, I’ve been to at least one Mets home game each year since 1966, a streak I’m very happy to have.  Joining me at the game was my personal color commentator Susan, our son Andrew, who travelled from Brooklyn, and two of his friends, Eion and Tommy, both Red Sox fans who also delight in Yankee defeats.  In other words, we had the perfect team to be sitting in the first row of Section 415, directly above home plate.

And on this day, the Mets’ starting pitcher was Jacob deGrom, who is having a season like no other has had.  Coming into the game, his Earned Run Average (ERA) was an unheard of 0.50 and he had driven in more runs as a hitter than he has given up as a pitcher.  On this particular day, deGrom was a mere mortal on the mound, giving up 2 runs on only 3 hits and striking out 5 in six innings of work.  His ERA “jumped” to 0.69.  To put this in perspective, Bob Gibson’s 1968 ERA was 1.12, the lowest in modern history.  deGrom did collect another hit at the plate, going 1 for 2, and raising his batting average to .414.  Incredible – the highest in the lineup.

deGrom left with the Mets trailing 2-1, but the Mets tied it up on Kevin Pillar’s homer in the 7^th.  The Phillies took the lead in the 9^th, benefiting from a hit by pitch, a stolen base, a wild pitch and a sacrifice fly. 

Would our trip be a total loss?  Not this year.  Phillies pitcher Hector Neris gave it all right back, with the help of 3^rd baseman Luke Williams, who allowed Mets’ pinch hitter Travis Blankenhorn to reach first base on an error. That was followed by a walk by Billy McKinney and a base hit for Pillar, loading the bases for Luis Guillorme, who also walked, forcing in Blankenhorn and tying the game.  After a Francisco Lindor strikeout, Michael Conforto, just recently back from the Injured List, hit a fly ball to center field.  Odubel Herrera’s arm was no match for the speedy McKinney who slid head first, well ahead of the ball, to give the Mets a 4-3 victory, and row 1 in section 415 something to celebrate.  It’s really too bad that the woman, who bought the largest bucket of popcorn in history and was sitting to our left, had departed early, but I digress. Our entourage took celebratory selfies and departed for the stairs, joining in a chorus of Let’s Go Mets as we headed outside.  

Baseball clearly is changing, making way for a younger fan.  It is evident in its marketing – most pictures of players show facial grimaces, kind of like pro wrestling photos.  Rules are being tinkered with, like 7 inning double headers and a “free runner” to start extra innings, designed to shorten games.  The pumped-in noise level at games is an all-time high, even in between innings, leaving very little time to come up for air.  As I write this on Monday, my voice is still hoarse from trying to have a conversation.  At least the 7^th inning stretch remains in place, where you can sing along to Take Me Out To The Ballgame, kiss your spouse, then clap along to Lou Monte’s Lazy Mary.   

I get the feeling that the marketing folks at Major League Baseball are going out of their way to rip off a band aid that holds tradition together.  Despite all that, I have hope.  Before the game, Susan and I toured the Mets Museum and Hall of Fame.  It contains the plaques of those inducted into their hall, displays the two World Series trophies, and includes a very nice tribute to the Mets’ greatest pitcher, Tom Seaver, who passed away in 2020.  Other miscellaneous memorabilia is on display.  And there is a nice wall with a timeline of significant events and achievements since 1962.   Susan commented on the day that the Mets acquired Mike Piazza in 1998, and remembered me calling her from an early model cellphone, ecstatic that we had done so.  “The Mets got Piazza!  The Mets got Piazza!”, I shouted.  There was a dad near us with his young daughter, maybe 10 or 11 year’s old.  He also was taking about Piazza, pointing to the date, and also glowing with the nostalgia it triggered.  “You know, I was there for his first game with the Mets.  I went with Pop Pop.  He was a big Mets’ fan too.”  She seemed to give him mild interest, and I was thinking you are about to lose her for a few years, but don’t worry; she’ll be back.  But I also got a little choked up for that father had just connected generations, baseball’s greatest attribute that should not be lost or taken for granted.  That conversation grounded me for the rest of the day, and couldn’t have been any better if James Earl Jones said it himself.

We saw a great game, and even though baseball now consists of more strikeouts, fewer balls put into play, and constant “in game” entertainment on the big video board, it’s still baseball.  We saw deGrom in what could be the ultimate year by any pitcher in history that goes back to the 19^th century.  I’d like to think many generations were connected Saturday.  

The Final Season [by Greg Pattenaude]

RALPH FASANELLA (1914 - 1997) | Sandlot Game

Thursday was the most glorious day on the calendar, one filled with childlike dreams and unmatched optimism. No, I’m not referring to April Fool’s Day, but Major League Baseball’s Opening Day.  Never mind that there was wet snow falling most of the day at my house. The sun would be shining somewhere. What I did not count on was a Covid outbreak among Washington Nationals ballplayers cancelling the Mets first game of the season, and as I write this, it was just announced that the entire weekend series is cancelled. So on Thursday, I settled for a few innings of the Blue Jays – Yankees game which lasted three hours and thirty minutes, tied 2-2 after nine innings. The 10^th inning then showcased Major League Baseball’s latest game “enhancement” – putting a runner at 2^nd base to encourage scoring and forcing a quicker ending. The Blue Jays scored in the top of the 10^th; the Yankees did not in the bottom frame. This enhancement might be nice in youth sports where parents can get home earlier, but it has no place in professional sports. But I digress and this leads me to my main topic.  

Since its establishment in 1876, the National League of Professional Baseball Clubs has had nine players in the lineup. In one half of an inning, nine players are in the field.  In the other half, those nine players take a turn batting. This repeats for nine innings, or if tied after nine, to extra innings. In the 1950s and 60s, the National League was seen as more exciting than its junior counterpart, the American League, formed in 1901. With sagging attendance in the late 1960s, American League owners sought a way to boost fan appeal. Ideas like yellow baseballs were ruled out. The Oakland Athletics owner Charlie Finley introduced bright colored uniforms for pizazz. But his biggest proposal, one that other American League owners agreed with, was the idea that pitchers, not being the best hitters, should be replaced in the lineup with someone else. That tenth person would be known as the Designated Hitter, or DH.  In 1973, the Yankees’ Ron Bloomberg had the distinction of being the first major league player to bat multiple times in a game while never having to put on a glove.  Since then, the two leagues played by different rules and whether you love or loathe the DH still is as heated as any political discussion.

Much has happened in the nearly 50 years since the DH’s introduction. In 1976, players were granted the right to free agency, boosting salaries by exponential proportions. The leagues added teams several times, to the current 15 teams in both leagues. In 1994, playoffs were expanded to allow more teams to participate in the post season.  Interleague baseball was introduced in 1997. And in 2000, the National and American Leagues, as legal entities, were dissolved. And during this past winter, Major League Baseball exercised its muscle to take control of minor league baseball, and in the process left forty communities around the country without a team. But through it all, pitchers hit in the National League, despite the DH being used in the minor leagues and colleges. I like to think of it as a badge of honor connecting the 19^th century to future generations – nine gloves and the same nine batters.

Baseball, by nature, is bucolic; it’s played on a field. Sure, there may be 50,000 seats surrounding that field, and, pre-Covid, fans are screaming. But there also are moments of parents and children or groups of friends sitting there watching the action, second-guessing managerial moves, cheering and clapping.  The best applause is saved for a starting pitcher coming to bat for the fourth time in a game.  

With the current collective bargaining agreement between the owners and players ending this year, it’s nearly certain that the DH will be adopted in the National League. From the players’ standpoint, it means a roster spot where a one-dimensional player can earn a lot of money or an aging player who can’t field his position anymore but can still hit can still earn big bucks at the end of a career. For the owners, its protection for a high-priced pitcher having to do anything other than throw a baseball and encourage the opportunity for more runs in a game. There is this notion that fans, particularly younger ones of the video game era, want more runs at any cost.

The fan base who enjoys a more cerebral experience of talking to your neighbor, second guessing managers, bunting a runner over to 2^nd and double-switches--I’ll call this strategy--will come to an end.  During the Covid-shortened season of 2020, the DH was used in the National League, under a “health and safety” protocol to protect pitchers from overly exerting themselves. It was pretty clear that this was a trial run, like the silly runner on 2^nd to start extra innings rule.  

So this is it. My Mets, welcomed into the National League in 1962, appear to have a very strong team this year, and just paid 27 year-old Francisco Lindor $340 million to play shortstop for the next 10 years.  And they have new ownership for only the third time in their history. As far as the National League, it had a good run. With the inevitable ahead, I’ve branded this as The Final Season.  Let it begin.

Checking up on my baseball card collection [by Greg Pattenaude]

The Super Bowl is over and it's almost time for baseball. Spring training is starting; pitchers and catchers reported today. You wouldn’t know that looking out my window seeing at least a foot of snow covering the ground.  And half of the country is freezing. But I digress since I am involved in a baseball-related activity:  going through my baseball card collection. Like many my age, I started collecting in my youth during the mid-1960s, starting at age 7. The cards had been stored safely in my childhood home and for the last 30 years dutifully kept in shoe boxes within plastic bins in my basement.  And they probably would have been left alone but for another event in my house.

In a nearby area of the basement, I noticed an amount of water had accumulated on the floor. I had no idea where it came from, but quickly realized in horror that a small plastic tube that drained furnace condensation had come loose right above our record album collection. Drip, drip, drip. And the leak, apparently, had been going on for a while. Yes, record albums were ruined, even though they were kept in hard shell cartons. It turns out that there were tiny little holes on the tops and bottoms of these cartons; the perfect conduit for a drip from above. The vinyl is fine – mostly - but the jackets didn’t make it.  About 100 album jackets met this fate. I was not about let that get to my baseball card collection. 

I am happy to report that the cards are in good shape and unharmed. Some were shuffled around, but I managed to get them sorted back together by year. My main collection is from 1965 through 1969.  By 1970, I apparently wasn’t into as much. I’m not sure why, but I guess is my interests moved elsewhere, to walkie talkies, radio and electronic nerdy stuff.

The great players of the mid and late 1960s are in the collection: Aaron, Banks, Clemente, Mantle and a very young Reggie Jackson. But mostly, there are many not so famous ones. Topps, the card manufacturer, always guessed who the rookie stars for each team would be for the upcoming season. There were two faces on the front of the card. Most times they missed but other times they hit the jackpot, with at least one becoming a star, maybe even a Hall of Famer, and if you were really lucky, two would become big names. Jerry Koosman and Nolan Ryan were paired for the 1968 Rookie Stars card and is in my collection.

When I started collecting, I remember being offered a bunch of cards from older kids on my street. But these cards were from the 1950s – who would want them? Yes, it was very bad decision on my part.  Another bad decision was to use my Dymo Labelmaker to cover the team name if a player was traded and perhaps using a magic marker to black out the logo on his hat. Clearly, I had no idea about the long term investment of a ten cent expenditure. If I ever get a DeLorean with a flux capacitor, I will travel back to tell myself not to do that.

You might think my collection was for the bubblegum, but no; it was never about the bubblegum.  That was prohibited in my house.  Trident was the only one my mother would allow.  My gum was given to friends and helped promote silver filings.

I briefly returned to collecting in the last 1980s, thanks to work colleagues who were still into it.  But by then, other manufacturers, like Score and Fleer, had entered the baseball card business, and the long term value of collecting newer cards plummeted.  When you could buy an entire set, 792 cards, at the check out line at K-Mart, the magic was over.  I still have those, too.   If I had to guess, I have well over 3,000 cards.  

My collection is secure.  I ordered a supply of playing card boxes to keep the cards in perfect shape.  In fact, I didn't order enough the first time and had to order more.  The boxes will sit inside a plastic bin which will be in another plastic bin.  I might even look into filling out the collection for each year to keep myself busy and assuming I can afford it.  Plus, there is a place where you can send cards to be “graded”; a higher grade means a higher value.  That Koosman-Ryan card is probably worth something.  Thank goodness it was never used for bicycle spokes.

Like most things nostalgic, it was fun looking back, even if the reason was damaged records.

A Flashback to 1970 Spring Training [by Greg Pattenaude]

The COVID-19 outbreak has delayed the 2020 baseball season that was scheduled to start on March 26.  While baseball should be the least of our worries, it reminded me that the baseball season used to start in April, and March was reserved for Spring Training.

Fifty years ago this week, I was in Florida for a family vacation, our first real vacation.  Our destination was Vero Beach, the spring training home of the Dodgers.  I attended two games, the first on Easter Sunday March 29 and the second the next night, a 7pm start.  Holman Stadium in Vero Beach had been the Dodgers’ home since the Brooklyn days, and the complex was nicknamed Dodgertown.  It was beautiful; all open and accessible to fans.  That night the Dodgers would lose to the Yankees 11-4. I think that was the final score since my mother gave up scoring after the 8th inning.   I still have the scorecard and program, safely stored with my baseball memories and there is a lot to unpack from this night.

 

As I noted, the stadium was an open design.  There was no roof over any seats.  There was no outfield fence, only a grass berm lined with tall palm trees.  There were no dugouts, either; the players sat on a bench separated from the fans by a short fence.  Before the game, my father walked with me to behind the Dodgers bench and asked their longtime manager Walter Alston for an autograph.  Walt was the manager for the Dodgers only World Series title in Brooklyn, and he repeated in Los Angeles in 1959 and 1963.  He said sure and I got it. I can guarantee you that today it would be impossible to do that.  I was pretty excited.

 

But then I had my eyes on a bigger price.  Our seats for the evening were to the left of the press box behind home plate, and again given the simple nature of Holman Stadium, consisted of little more than two long tables with a very high roof covering the sportswriters, broadcasters and electronics.  We all noticed another longtime Dodgers icon Vin Scully sitting in the press box, sitting on the right side of the press table.  With my mother's encouragement, I very nicely walked over and asked Mr. Scully for an autograph.  He could not have been nicer.  Of course, he said yes to the request. He asked me my name; I said Gregory (no nickname if my mother was nearby).  Vin asked me where I was from, and I said Poughkeepsie.  “I know where Poughkeepsie is”, he replied.  That made me feel special.  I told him that I liked the NBC gameshow he was hosting at the time - It Takes Two.  He thanked me. What I didn’t know was that it had been cancelled, but the remaining episodes were still airing.  I don’t think he held that against me.   I thanked him for the autograph and off I went back to my seat.  It was a great moment for 12 year old Greg, and I’ve loved sharing this story for the past 50 years.

There are a few more things about that spring training game I’ll share, mostly trivia.  Catching for Dodgers that night was a future Mets manager Jeff Torborg.  On the bench for the Dodgers, but he didn't play in the game, was future Mets manager Bobby Valentine, who guided them to the National League pennant in 2000.  And batting 3rd for the Dodgers and playing 1st base was a young man who would play an infamous key role in the 1986 World Series, Bill Buckner.  In Game 6 of the 1986 World Series, Vin would call the play by play on TV linking Mets history to Buckner forever: "A roller, behind the bag!  Here comes Knight, and the Mets win!"

After Game 7 of the 1986 World Series which I attended, I walked by Vin in the Shea Stadium parking lot.  It was about 12:30am and he was returning to the NBC compound set up outside.  I wanted to stop him and say thank you for that autograph 16 years prior, but I didn’t think it was the right time.  This article is about as close as I'll get to saying thanks.

 

 

The Mets Weekend Wasted Away [by Greg Pattenaude]

After the Mets completed a three game sweep of the Indians, I was excited for a huge series against the National League East's leading team, the Atlanta Braves.  The Mets were nine games back of the Braves, only eight if you counted losses, and my blind optimism said that a weekend sweep would move them to six games out, five in the loss column. 

At about 7pm Friday night, I bid my better half farewell and headed to the basement TV for the opening pitch.  Major League Baseball had declared this "Player's Weekend", where players got to choose any name, preferably nicknames, for the back of their jerseys.  OK, this is not my cup of tea, but whatever.  I still picture "He Hate Me" on the back of a uniform from the failed summer XFL football league.  What I didn't expect was to so see my Mets, not in their familiar white jerseys with blue pinstripes and orange trim, but in an all white outfit, including white hats, and unreadable white numbers and names.  They looked like an American version of cricketers or a squad of Good Humor men.  When they came to the plate with brilliant white batting helmets (rather than blue), they looked like characters out of Woody Allen's Everything You Always Wanted to Know About Sex.  If you have seen the movie, you know the scene. Meanwhile, the Braves were dressed in total black.  The pants looked like dress pants and could have easily been paired with a roman collar.  It was that bad, and took me a good 5 innings to calm down in an attempt to enjoy baseball.  I should add that I did yell upstairs to Susan to check out the Mets game, prompting the same horrified reaction to a drum barrel of bleach gone mad.  If I had to put on these uniforms, my nickname would have been "Deez Unis Suk".

While Twitter was bashing the uniforms, Jacob deGrom was pitching a fantastic game, piling up strikeouts including his 200th of the season in the middle of striking out eight in a row, two short of Tom Seaver's record of ten.  Meanwhile, Braves starter Mike Foltynewicz also was cruising along, allowing a lone hit.  Then in the 6th inning, Mets' tormentor Freddie Freeman knocked a single into center scoring Ozzie Albies to give the Braves a 1-0 lead.  In the bottom of the 6th, deGrom took matters into his own hands with an opposite field home run to tie the game.  This is why I'm not a fan of the designated hitter; you don't get moments like this in the American League.  deGrom left after 7 innings, giving up only one run and striking out 13.  From there, it was a battle of the bullpens, and with neither team scoring in the 8th and 9th, it was on to extra innings. 

The Braves had a great scoring opportunity in the 10th, but struggling Mets reliever Edwin Diaz struck out Ronald Ocuna, Jr and Albies stranding a runner at 3rd base.  The Mets has their chance in the bottom of the 10th.  After loading the bases, Braves reliever (and former Met) Anthony Swarzak  struck out shortstop Amed Rosario leaving the bases loaded.  I should mention that Mets games that have been won in the 9th inning or later have included a new habit of ripping the shirt off the player who had the game-winning hit.  Tonight, I was hoping all of the white outfits would be stripped off and perhaps burned after the game.  Unfortunately, it didn't happen.

In the 14th inning, the Mets brought in another struggling reliever, Jeurys Familia.  He promptly allowed two baserunners. Then the Braves' Billy Hamilton poked the ball passed the drawn in infield to give them a 2-1 lead.  Ironically, Familia managed to record three strikeouts while also giving up the winning run.  The Mets did not score in the bottom of the 14th.

So the Braves prevailed, sending my slim hope of catching the Braves in the standings out the window. And from a Mets standpoint, it gets worse from here.  

I returned Saturday for another dose of punishment.  The White versus Black uniforms were back as Zack Wheeler took the mound for the Mets.  The Braves scored early, highlighted by solo homers by Josh Donaldson and Ozzie Albies and took a 4-0 lead in the 3rd.  The Mets got one back in the bottom frame which takes us to the 5th inning. After the Mets' Juan Lagares doubled, Amed Rosario drove him in to make it 4-2.  Joe Panik, the pride of John Jay High School in East Fishkill, NY, followed with a single and brought Pete Alonso to the plate.  Alonso, at age 24,  has been the Mets sensational rookie this season, hitting home runs at a pace no hitter in Mets history has.  On the first pitch, Pete deposited the ball far beyond the center field fence, driving in three, and the Mets took a 5-4 lead.  This homer tied the Mets single season record for homers with 41.  But it may have been the turning point of the game.

In his zeal, Pete slowly hopped out of the batter's box, gazing at the flight of the ball, bat still in hand, as if to will to go as far as possible.  (You don't get bonus runs for distance.)  Once it landed, Pete flipped his bat triumphantly in the air and cruised around the bases, pointing to the crowd as he crossed home plate then engaged in a series of arm bumps and exaggerated handshakes with his teammates, not in the dugout, but on the field.    A quick history lesson is
appropriate.  In the past, this sort of action would land you on rump next time at bat or soon thereafter, or perhaps a ball in your back.  No pitcher likes to be shown up by the other team.  But Major League Baseball, in an effort to attract the next generation of fans, has encouraged players to "show emotion" on the field, not that players did not show emotion, but I guess not enough emotion to connect with today's video game and social media generation.  At least in the minds of MLB, this translates to bat flips, slow walking around the bases, exaggerated arm motions like you've been cleared for takeoff, ripping uniforms, and other gyrations more akin to a professional wrestling match or, these days, just about after every play in the National Football League.  MLB calls this marketing ploy "Let the Kids Play", discounting the fact that most players are in their mid 20s to late 30s and are making, at minimum, half a million dollars and most are making a lot more than that.  It's not exactly kids delivering newspapers on a bike.  Now, whether Pete's actions crossed the line probably depends on how old you are and your desire to depart from time-honored norms.  But the Braves seemed to take notice.  Rather than seek their pound of flesh, they took charge of the game, and proceeded to school the cricketers.   

The Braves tied it quickly in the top of the 6th on an RBI single by Rafael Ortega. Then, the Mets seemed to forgot how to play the game.  Jeff McNeil, in his first appearance back after a hamstring injury, doubled to right center field, but, on the next play, was thrown out trying to get to 3rd base on Rosario's grounder to shortstop.  Players at all levels are taught never to try to advance in these situations, a play where he would have cost his little league team ice cream after the game. 

In the 7th, the Braves scored two more runs, the 2nd of these when the Mets left fielder JD Davis failed to throw the ball in from left field. This move would have cost his little league team ice cream for a month.  The Braves added two more in the 9th inning highlighted by a Freeman homer.  The final was 9-5.

On Sunday, I decided it was too nice a day to be glued to the TV inside and listened to much of game on the radio.  Josh Donaldson hit a wind-assisted homer off Mets starter Steven Matz to give the Braves a 1-0 lead in the 2nd.  Matz pitched pretty well, but was removed after 6 innings.  In the 7th, Donaldson didn't need any help from the wind on his 2nd homer of the game, this time off Mets reliever Paul Sewald.  Meanwhile, the Mets could do nothing against Braves starter Dallas Keuchel.

Against my better judgment, I came inside for the 9th inning.  In the bottom of ninth, the Mets came alive with a double by Alonso and a single by JD Davis.  With runners on 2nd and 3rd, Todd Frazier hit a weak grounder to short, allowing Alonso to score and forcing Davis at 2nd.  Wilson Ramos then singled, extending his hitting streak to 19 games and leaving the Mets with runners on 1st and 2nd. But Joe Panik grounded out and the game was over, the final 2-1.

The loss dropped the Mets to 12 games behind the Braves, clearly the better team in this series.  So are the Mets post season hopes dashed? Not quite yet.  They are still in the running, along with 6 other teams, for baseball's coveted Wild Card game, or in essence, an extra game to see who makes the post season.  I call it the Play In game. 

Can the Mets recover?  Will there be more suffering by Mets fans?  We'll find out soon as three teams in the Wild Card hunt -  the Cubs, Phillies, and Nationals -  are the next three opponents.

Hopefully, with those damn white uniforms a distant memory, sanity can return to the blue and orange.

Summer of 1969 and the Mets [by Greg Pattenaude}

1969.  A year filled with rich history. This morning I watched a replay, in real time, of Apollo 11 lifting off for the moon at 9:32 am Eastern Daylight Time.  Fifty years ago, I watched on a black and white Zenith television set in my family's den.  Several days later, we watched on that Sunday night as two Americans set foot on the moon's surface.  This was the stuff that captivated kids growing up in the space age of the 1960s. 

But for this 11 year old, the moon landing, while historic as it was, was sandwiched between an even bigger story: the incredible journey of the 1969 Amazin' Mets.  After seven seasons of playing lovable losers, the Mets had found a magic formula of young, strong pitching, superb defense, timely hitting, the use of a platoon system making an average player seem like a superstar and, perhaps, a bit of divine intervention. 

After a poor start like all of their other seasons, including losing on opening day to the expansion Montreal Expos, the Mets started to string together wins.  For the first time in their history, going into July,  they actually had won more games than they had lost and were in pursuit of the first place Chicago Cubs, who also were having an unexpectedly good season after years of ineptitude.  There was a three game series in New York starting July 8, two afternoon games with a night game sandwiched in the middle.  The Mets won on the 8th, setting up the night of July 9th.  This was the night of the Mets' Bar Mitzvah, Confirmation, and Quinceañera wrapped up into one.  On that night, 59,000 thousand fans, 3,000 over seating capacity, packed Shea Stadium to see the Mets play a game that really mattered.  Some fans that couldn't get in on this hot July night were seen climbing trees to get a look from beyond the left field fence.  On this night, we watched a young Tom Seaver record out after out.  I called my friend Jimmy to say "are you watching this?"  For course he was watching.  This family even had a color set.  After the phone call, no one dare move from our den as my mother, father, grandmother and sister were glued to the Zenith.  The crowd's cheers kept getting louder and louder as the game progressed.  The game entered the 9th inning, with the Mets having the lead and Seaver was still perfect -  no hits allow, no walks, no errors, and no Cub baserunners.  He got the first out in the top of the 9th, and then stepped in a Cub named Jimmy Qualls.  The left handed batter lined a Seaver pitch to left center field to break up the perfect game.  The fever-pitch crowd was stunned, a few booed, but then was followed by a chorus of applause reserved for the finest symphony conductor.  Seaver got the final two outs in a game known as his "Impefect Game".  But it was clear that the Mets had team that was actually capable of winning and the lovable losers moniker was shed.

The Cubs bounced back to win the next afternoon and for the next month, it seemed like the Mets had plateaued.  The Cubs kept winning, and by mid August the Mets were 9 1/2 game behind the Cubs.  That timeframe coincided with two events.  One of those was in the Town of Bethel, New York, where a music festival was happening, Woodstock. Three days of peace, love and music. Heck, the New York State Thruway was closed.  Luckily for us living on the east side of Hudson River, our Sunday August 17 trip to see the Mets against the expansion San Diego Padres didn't close the Taconic Parkway. That date on the Mets calendar happened to be Banner Day, a tradition which started when the Mets occupied the Polo Grounds. Fans got to make signs and parade them around the field, and the best one got a prize.  On Saturday around the same time as the Grateful Dead and CCR were playing at Yasgur's Farm, I called up Jimmy and said let's make a banner.  We got an old white bed sheet out of my hall closet, took pictures out of the 1969 Mets yearbook, and stuck them on the four corners.  For the text....well, let me state that it did say something, but 50 years later, I'm still embarrassed by our corny and grammatically challenged poem.  But it did get us on the field. 

Around the 8th inning of the first game of the double header, Jack Lightcap, the Public Address announcer at Shea, instructed all Banner Day participants to line up outside the stadium.  So Jimmy and I, with banner in tow, went. Other Banner Day participants who were lined up near us were amused by the sight of two preteens with message that had a lot of heart but made absolutely no sense. We didn't care.  Bravely, we slowly moved forward around the fenced off area behind the stadium and got closer to the left hand turn we would make to reenter Shea. Finally we approached the back of the green center field fence. Above us was the batter's eye where loudspeakers amplified Jane Jarvis' organ medley.  And then we were in, looking up at 40,000 people as we crossed the dirt warning track and approached the lush green grass. I recall that it actually smelled like grass, just like anyone's backyard. Suddenly, we were walking on the same grass where Tommie Agee plays. Heck, Willie Mays has stood here.This is a dream. We carried our signed towards the infield, passed by the pitcher's mound where the judges sat to view the banners, continued by home plate, then took a left turn in front of the Mets' dugout. Rod Gaspar, number 17, had come out to watch. We finished our fantasy walk along dirt separating the grass from the yellow field level seats, and exited through the Mets' bullpen. Did all this just happen?  As for the Mets, they won both games of the doubleheader 3-2, and never looked back from that point. I think it was the banner or maybe that the Cubs self-destructed for the remainder of the season.

The miracle year continued, with the Mets defeating the Cubs at Shea in early September, aided by the curse of a black cat running in front of the Cubs dugout.  The Mets moved into first place about a week later. This all lead to the night of September 24, 1969, clinching the National League east against the Cardinals at 9:07pm.  While July 9 was their coming out party, I view September 24 as a Holy Day, a day to be revered and annually celebrate that evening of pure joy when fans rushed the field and players found out that champagne stings the eyes.  The Mets would conclude the miracle by defeating the Braves in three game straight in the first ever National League Championship series and then defeating the highly favored Baltimore Orioles to make the Mets champions of baseball.

Last month at Citi Field, the Mets honored the 1969 team.  There was Jerry Koosman and Jerry Grote, Ron Swoboda and Art Shamsky, Cleon Jones and Buddy Harrelson.  Wayne Garrett,  J.C. Martin, Bobby Pfeil, Jim McAndew, Jack DiLauro,  Duffy Dyer, Rod Gaspar, Dr Ron Taylor and Ed Kranepool also were there.  Ed, who recently had a kidney transplant, was chosen to speak to the crowd on behalf of the team, followed by an extremely well done video compilation of season and historical highlights from 1969 meshed into huge flashback. Sadly, Tom Seaver, who had earned his nickname as "The Franchise" on that July 9 night 50 years ago, could not attend as the pains of dementia have removed him from public life. Likewise, several other players could not attend for various health and personal reasons.  And even more sadly, five players are no longer with us: Don Clendenon, Tommie Agee, Ed Charles, Don Cardwell and Tug McGraw.  And neither was their manager Gil Hodges, their strong but quiet leader, who has passed away prior to the start of the 1972 season.  His wife Joan was their in his honor, and it's my hope Gil finally gets his long overdue spot in baseball's Hall of Fame next year while Joan is still around to see it.

With the remaining living players in their 70s and 80s, this was likely the last mass gathering of this team, who brought so much joy to so many people.  That was a melancholy and sobering thought.  We are all getting older and my baseball heroes are in their twilight of life.  But at least for one day, it was nice to be 11 again and relive these wonderful memories of the 1969 Mets, New York's greatest sports story.

Requiem for a Bowling Center [by Greg Pattenaude]

On Saturday, I spent the morning saying goodbye to an Albany institution: the Playdium bowling center in the city's Pine Hills neighborhood.  The Playdium has been there since 1940 but the valuable land on which it sits has been sold to make way for apartments; the building will be torn down.  There was an auction to sell off everything inside: bar fixtures, signs, TVs, kitchen items, and a telephone booth to name a few.  For two dollars, you could take home a bowling pin.  I bought five.  There were some hardcore auction folks there to scoop up the bargains, like dishes, glasses and stools, but many more were there, like myself, to pay our respect: ex-college students who remember going there for inexpensive recreation, parents showing their children where they spent their Saturday mornings in youth leagues, and older folks who just had to stop by one last time and reminisce. 

I bowled in my office's Thursday night league for ten years. I hadn't been inside the Playdium in 20 years.  It didn't take long for nostalgia to kick in as I walked around.  Most of the lanes had already been stripped, machinery exposed and pins missing.  The sanctity of the foul line was gone.  The lanes that were still intact stood as the final soldiers on sentry duty.  The seating area was still there.  So I sat down behind lanes 27 and 28, looking around and thinking back to Thursday nights in the late 80s and 90s. 

 

My league, the PSC Mixed, was an assortment of co-workers, their spouses and a few special guests.  Bowling abilities varied, but we were mostly there for fun.  Several of the higher average bowlers - Eddie, Jeff, Dick and Craig and a few others - would give a dollar to whomever had the highest game of the evening.  By the end of the season, I think we all broke even. 

 

One of the spouses who joined in that fun was Bill.  His wife had worked at the PSC.  Bill was a jovial guy, smiling and always telling stories.  Everyone seemed to know him.  As a teen in the 1940s, in the days before the lanes were automated, Bill worked at the Playdium as a pinboy, setting pins in between frames. Bill would tell about getting an extra two bits when a guy, wanting to impress his date but perhaps lacking bowling abilities, would have Bill, hidden above the lane backdrop, throw an extra pin towards the deck as the ball hit the pins, guaranteeing a strike.  He also told us about the secret door in the back of the lanes.  Since most of the pinboys were underage, state labor officials would make surprise inspections.  Someone at the front desk would send a signal to the pinboys whenever the inspectors would show up, and the boys would flee out the secret door and scurry down Park Street.  My favorite Bill story was the time he told us he was shooting pool at the Lamp Post, another long time Albany institution and watering hole.  A news report came on the radio, prompting Bill to look up from the billiard table to ask "what the hell is Pearl Harbor"?  It was December 7, 1941.

Bill also was in the Playdium on September 27, 1990.  So was I, bowling that night on lanes 27 and 28, the last two lanes in the house.  I was having a pretty good night as I entered the 3rd game.  I started with a strike on lane 27, followed by a strike on lane 28, and that pattern kept repeating - four in a row, then six and then eight.  The thing about bowling alleys is that word spreads pretty quickly if someone has shot at 300.  I had reached this pinnacle several times before but never made it to nine.  I got up on lane 27, pulled the shot a bit, but carried the 6 pin; nine in a row.  That meant I'd have a chance in the 10th frame for bowling immortality.  I sat in a chair trying to blank out anything that entered my mind.  It wasn't easy when you picture your parents bringing you to Saturday morning youth leagues, but I did my best; check your emotions - this may never happen again. 

 

And so I stood on lane 28.  By now, more people had drifted down to towards my lane.  The first shot in the 10th - strike - and a roar from the crowd.  The ball is returned, I lift it, and place my fingers all so carefully in the holes.  I take my five step approach, release the ball, watch the ball drift a little high but strike eleven.  The roar is louder as the ball is returned.  I pick the ball up, except this time, I have no feeling in my hand, or arm or most of my body.  I take a very deep breath.  My five step approach feels more like the one you take right before being asked by an officer to blow into a breathalyser.  The ball is released somehow and the pins explode - strike twelve; I bowled a 300.  The crowd roars and I jump up and down like a maniac.  I receive hugs and high fives from all around.  I collect my $1 from Bill.  The owner of the Playdium, Neil, also watching, shakes my hand and buys me a vodka and tonic.

 

It's 11am and the auction was about to begin, so I got up from where I had been sitting.  I saw an older man and realized it was Neil, who was in about the same place as he was when he bought me that drink 28 years ago.  Clad in a bomber-style jacket, he was seated, being interviewed one by one by local TV stations as he watched as his bowling center was being sold off, piece by piece.

 

 

The Playdium was the last bowling establishment within the city limits of Albany.  Farewell Playdium; it was a honor to have bowled there.   My gold 300 ring sits atop my dresser. 

 

Farewell Le Grande Orange [by Greg Pattenaude]

Today's opening day of the 2018 baseball season, usually a day of eternal optimism, had a shadow of melancholy with the passing of the great Rusty Staub.  Rusty is the only player to have achieved 500 hits with four different teams - Houston, Montreal, Detroit and the Mets.  I'll talk about his time with my team and my favorite memories.  He played for the Mets from 1972 through 1975, when he wore number four, and 1981 through 1985, when he wore number ten. 

 I attended my first Opening Day in 1974.  My friend had secured front row tickets along the right field line on the field level at Shea Stadium. I was bundled in a parka, gloves and a knit hat that day. The game time temperature was thirty-seven degrees. It was the day the Mets raised their pennant for winning the 1973 National League championship series.  Rusty was playing right field, and we hollered at him most of the game as he trotted in and out between innings.  He never acknowledged us; ballplayers usually don't.  But it was nice to be that close to him as he traversed the field.  I have a blurry black and white photo of number 4 passing by.

I'll jump ahead to his final year, 1985.  When the Mets reacquired Rusty, he was older, somewhat heavier, and mostly used for pinch hitting.  He was really good at it.  In 1983, he set a season record for runs batted in as a pinch hitter.  On this night in 1985, the Mets were trailing in the bottom of the 9th inning. Rusty was sent up to pinch hit.  The crowd buzzed with excitement as Rusty connected with a pitch and the ball was heading for the stands in right field, where we were sitting.  At the last second, the ball curved foul, just to our left and the crowd let out a collective groan.  However, on the very next pitch, the ball didn't hook foul, landing in the Mets bullpen.  Tie game!  Shea erupted in jubilation as Rusty rounded the bases.  The Mets would go on to lose that game in extra innings, but that moment - Rusty's moment - is one of my favorite memories at Shea.  I often thought that if I ever met Rusty, I would share that memory.  There are other memories. I remember when they acquired him in April 1972 for four minor league players, his World Series heroics in 1973 while playing in the frigid October New York City night air in short sleeves and a bum shoulder, the absurdity of trading him to Detroit for Mickey Lolich after the 1975 season, and his return in 1981, immortalized in one line of the song Talkin' Baseball by Terry Cashman.

After baseball, Rusty had restaurants - two in Manhattan at one time, and his BBQ ribs were excellent.  And he spent a few years in the Mets' broadcast booth calling games. His charitable work for the families of fallen police and firefighters was exemplary.

So we sadly bid farewell to Le Grande Orange. May Rusty rest in peace.

-- Greg Pattenaude

Missing That September Feeling [Greg Pattenaude]

The 2017 baseball regular season has come to an end.  For the Mets, it was over sometime around mid May.  A lethal combination of injuries, over hyped expectations, and just plain awful play lead to their demise.  But there was always the promise of September.

Back in baseball's simpler times, when there were two divisions rather than three, and only four teams made the "postseason", as opposed to today's ten, September was the month for teams out of contention to showcase their minor league talent - the stars of the future.  Teams also played for pride.  Finishing in fourth place was better than fifth, so let's give it a go.  Or a team could play spoiler - defeating a team in contention for the playoffs.  And as a fan, I enjoyed seeing the young prospects showcased on the main stage while these consolation prizes appeased me.  There was something gentle and serene as the shadows in left field lengthened.  Winter was coming, yet fans were being given a gift - to see the promise of next season.

 

Darryl Strawberry

A great example was in 1983.  The Mets were about to finish with a losing record for the sixth consecutive year yet you could tell something was about to change.  The team had called up this kid from southern California, Darryl Strawberry, in May, and he looked pretty good.  In June, they traded two young players to the Cardinals for Keith Hernandez.  He was the real thing. And in September, the team called up this young pitcher who had attended Yale, Ron Darling.  He seemed good, too.  

That season ended on a happy note.  Rusty Staub, always popular in New York especially among redheads, had set a record for consecutive pinch hits (eight) earlier in the season.  And he was within reach of the single season record of pinch hit runs batted in (RBI).  The final day of the 1983 season was a double header, due to a rainout on the previous Friday.  My family was gathered around the TV, watching the games as if the World Series was at stake, or more probably holding on to the last vestige of summer.  Late in the afternoon, Rusty strolled to the plate in his pinch hitting role as the Mets trailed 4-3 in the bottom of the 9th.  He promptly doubled, driving in two runs and winning the game on the final at-bat.  He had tied the record at 25.  We were excited.  The team was excited.  They had won six of their final seven games.  Spring of 1984 - hurry up and arrive.  The Mets would go on to have seven consecutive winning seasons.

Unfortunately, little of that optimism was felt this September.  When it was clear that the Mets were destined for a losing lesson with no chance to make the expanded playoffs, mangement sold off many of its established stars, like Curtis Granderson, Neil Walker, and Jay Bruce, getting little of value in return.  But they did have some call ups from the minors, like Dominic Smith and Amed Rosario, heirs apparent to the first base and shortstop positions, respectively.   Rosario promptly hurt his hand and Smith, while offering a glimmer of hope, made several plays right out of the 1962 Mets playbook.  A few others were showcased, and hopefully will be valuable assets in the future.  Sadly, I did not see it.  I hope I'm wrong. 

The Mets finished the month with 12 wins and 17 losses, and unlike the Rusty-like finish of 34 years earlier, capped off the season with an embarrassing and painful 11-0 loss to the Phillies.  Manager Terry Collins resigned after the game and the team trainer was fired today. 

And so it ends.  Despite my miserable baseball year, the end of the regular season is still a melancholy day.  After a month of spring training and six months of games nearly every day, it's time to move on to other activities.  I'm not left with optimism but, as Joe Garagiola once said, baseball is a funny game; anything can happen.  So I look forward to seeing the green grass and palm trees of Florida on my TV in March 2018.

A Day at the Ballpark [by Greg Pattenaude]

This year's annual pilgrimage to see the Mets - my 52nd consecutive year in doing so - was a spur of the moment affair.  A combination of a good weather forecast, no other plans, and 50 percent off the face value of "Excelsior Level" seats in the shade contributed to the impromptu decision.

After a lunch of those magical ShakeShack burgers and fries, my wife, son, and I were in our seats in time for the first pitch.  The game started out promising.  Mets starter Rafael Montero retired the first three Philadelphia Phillies batters.  Those pretty much were the Mets highlights.  After that, a series of poor defense, untimely hitting, and unhelpful bullpen relief resulted in a 7-1 Phillies victory, with the Mets limited to three hits, one of which was a TJ Rivera homer to avoid a shutout.  I can say that I witnessed the Phillies' catcher Andrew Knapp score from second base on a wild pitch.  So there is that.  Or the Mets hitting into a bizarre double play when the Phillies' center fielder Aaron Altherr dove for a ball, juggled on his body as he rolled over, and managed to not let the ball hit the ground, fooling the Mets baserunner Jay Bruce and doubling him off first base.  Plus I saw Knapp at it again when he beat Mets relief pitcher Chase Bradford in a footrace to first base in what I thought would be the third out in an inning, only to open up the flood gates for three more runs.  I can safely say this game ranks in my Top 10 worst games attended ever.  Mind you, I can't name the other nine, but I know this one is on the list, ranking high on the uninspired chart.  (Hey, if you are a Phillies fan, you most likely have a different view and I tip my cap.)

So that leaves some random observations about the rest of day to share.  I'm not sure if this applies to all of Major League Baseball, but Mets management believes that fans need to be entertained in between innings.  I call it the two minute barrage.  Three "hosts" entertain the crowd on the big TV screen that sits in center field.  There are contests to guess this or that, people-powered car races on the outfield warning track, and not one, but two tee shirt tosses.  I expect this stuff at the minor league park ten minutes from my house; I don't expect it in Queens, at least not with the frequency that they do it.  They usually play Piano Man in the 8th inning so everyone can sing along, but I guess they didn't want to add to the day's depressing atmosphere.  And the biggest shock is that when it's time for the 7th inning stretch, a long-standing baseball tradition, no one gets out of their seats until instructed to do so.  This is when my wife sees the veins in my head bulge.

Over the last fifteen years or so, baseball has added "walk up" music, personally selected by the home team batter to inspire them as they face a 95 MPH fastball.  Some are amusing.  Yoenis Cespedes uses the Lion King theme.  Lucas Duda uses Jimi Hendrix' All Along the Watchtower, appropriate for this 50th anniversary of the Summer of Love.  The rest is pretty forgettable.  I cringe at thinking what Ty Cobb or Dixie Walker would have selected. 

And that leads me to my next observation: the noise.  There was a loud speaker directly over our heads.  While that's great for hearing announcements like who the batter is, or "New Jersey plates 123-ABC, your lights are on", it also allows for an overdose of bass-pumping, heart stopping sound effects.  Honestly, I couldn't hear my son two seats away. We both chuckled at "The Noise Meter" shown on the big TV, which is supposed to reflect the amount of cheering (it's more like yelling) in the ballpark when the entertainers who control barrage want you to make noise, like time to turn it up to 11.  For me, attending a baseball game is part observation, part conversation, part anticipation, and part playing manager - cheer when it's appropriate and frown when things don't go your way.  This was a frown game.  Give me a day where there is gentle organ music in between innings, and an organic "Let's Go Mets" chant started.  All the instructions to make noise down 7-1 with two outs in the bottom of the 9th isn't going to happen.  Plans for shiva were being made after the 2nd inning.

Do I sound like a curmudgeon, perhaps Andy Rooney returning to wax not so poetically on the current day baseball experience?  Probably so.  My next birthday ends in a zero, so that means it's time to question life's achievements, think about what's ahead, and face my own mortality.  When Shea Stadium was christened in 1964, Bill Shea's speech mentioned the "Old Breed" making way for the "New Breed".  So maybe its time to let the "Even Newer Breed" take over and have their fun.  But I'm not going away.  My hope is to conquer the next decade as I hope the Mets do - with new achievements and sustained success.  But would it be too much to ask for this to happen with just a little less noise and a few more wins?

 

My Subway Series Memories [by Greg Pattenaude]

 

On Thursday, the Mets and Yankees completed the annual battle for New York; the Subway Series.  In baseball's golden years, this meant two New York teams (Yankees, Dodgers or Giants) meeting in the World Series.  But now, the term is attached to the regular season meeting between the Mets and Yankees. 

This year marks the 20th season of interleague play in baseball and I must admit the Mets-Yankees meeting is losing its luster, at least to me.  The four game series - two at Citi Field and two at the new Yankee Stadium were split, with each team winning one at each other's ballpark.  The games were long; the thrills few.  Other than a strange scene in the final game where Mets pitcher Hansel Robles accused the Yankees'  Mark Teixera of  "stealing signs" (signaling the type of pitch about to be delivered to his teammates), and a half-hearted, bench emptying moment, the series was not all that memorable.  For one thing, the Yankees, prior to the series, traded a number of star players for future prospects.  I can't recall in my lifetime the Yankees waiving the white flag in early August.  Meanwhile, since the All Star break, the Mets haven't been able to win two games in a row, yet believe they still have a shot at post season play. 

When interleague play started in 1997, I was against it.  The purest in me is strong.  And while I'm still not thrilled by it, I do admit to having vivid memories of those initial Mets-Yankees meetings, both on and off the field.  I'll share three of them.

In that first year, I attended the rubber game at Yankee Stadium with my wife, Susan, who at the time was "great with child."  Our son would be born several weeks later.  Several other folks that I worked with were also there, a mix of Met and Yankee fans. We arrived from Manhattan on the number 4 train and entered a packed house on a weekday afternoon.  Missing work to attend a game is one of life's great joys, even for me if it was in the Bronx.  I hadn't been in Yankee Stadium in over 20 years and this was a great atmosphere.  Fans were chanting, trying to out yell each other.  One of my work colleagues, a Met fan some might think of imposing stature, was particularly vocal, so much so that a fan several rows ahead stood up and turned around, in an act of intimidation.  His quest for silence was quickly aborted however when my colleague also stood up and conveyed "are you talking to me?" without saying a word.  Priceless.  On the field, the Mets had tied in the 8th on a run scoring balk, caused by a dancing Steve Bieser who disrupted Yankee starter (and former Met) David Cone.  Unfortunately, this was the extent of the Mets offense that day.  The Yankees won the game in the bottom of the 9th.  The final score was Yankees 2 - Mets 1, and even though the Mets lost, many of us refer to this as the Bieser Game.  

The next year, it was Shea's turn to host three games.  Susan and I attended the very first one, a Friday night in Queens.  The Yankees beat the Mets - again - and in painful fashion for Met fans.   With the Mets leading 4-3 in the 7th inning, Mets manager Bobby Valentine called in Mel Rojas from the bullpen to face the Yankees' Paul O'Neill.  Most Met fans cringed, knowing what was likely to happen. O'Neill didn't disappoint our fears and promptly hit a 3 run homer.  The Yankees went on to win 8-4. My highlight of that game didn't happen on the field but in the stands.  Our 5 year old daughter Katie joined with other Met fans to chant "Yankees sunk; Yankees sunk."  Actually, they were chanting something slightly different than Katie.  Or maybe Katie just had the teams mixed up, because clearly the Mets were sunk this night.

And finally, let's jump ahead to a hot summer Saturday afternoon in 1999, again at Shea.  This game was a slugfest, with both teams scoring often and the lead changing hands multiple times. When the Yankees took the lead 8-7 in the 8th, I didn't have much hope of ever seeing the Mets beat the Yankees.  The invincible Mariano Rivera was summoned by Joe Torre to close out the game.  This looked bleak.  Two Yankee fans, seated in the row behind us, were in their glory, gloating about the inevitable and ready to dance on our grave.  But somehow, the Mets managed to put runners 2nd and 3rd with two outs.  Bobby Valentine called on pinch hitter Matt Franco.  The odds clearly were not with the Mets. With two strikes, Franco took a pitch that looked to everyone like strike three, everyone except the home plate umpire.  Since his call is the only one that mattered, Franco and Met fans got a 2nd chance.  Rivera's next pitch was promptly smacked into right field, with both the tying and winning runs scoring.  Shea erupted in euphoria.  Players mobbed Franco. Met fans were jumping and hugging.  I had finally seen, in person, the Mets defeating the mighty Yankees.  As much as the id in me wanted to turn around and give the two Yankee fans behind me a pair of one-finger salutes, I just smiled and thought about their long ride home.  This game is in my list of top 10 best moments at Shea. 

So now its back to the reality of this baseball season.  The Yankees' Mark Teixeira announced his retirement at the end of this season.  ARod aka Alex Rodriguez announced he is retiring as of Friday, or at least I think he is.  And the Mets pull out a victory yesterday against the Tigers.  So I ask myself: will the Mets get hot and ride into the postseason?  Or will they continue to tread water as August becomes September and September becomes "wait 'till next year?"  I hope for the former but, as most Met fans do, brace for the latter.  At the moment, I'd be happy if they managed to win two games in a row.

Minor League Baseball on the 4th of July [by Greg Pattenaude]

 

Steven Wrenn on deck! photo (c) Greg Pattenaude

There is something very patriotic about seeing baseball on the 4th of July. And even if you are not a big baseball fan, a visit to minor league park is worth the trip.  I am lucky to have a team less than fifteen minutes from my home.  My wife and I have made it a point to attend the July 4 game at Joseph Bruno Stadium in Troy, NY as our celebration of independence.  For less than $11, you can sit four rows behind the on-deck circle and get to see talented ballplayers hoping to make the big leagues someday.  Will it be Daz Cameron, son of former major leaguer Mike Cameron?  How about Steven Wrenn, who's father, Steve, played minor league ball in the late 1960s?  For many of the players, fresh out of college, this league is their first professional gig; they are getting paid to play baseball.  The reality, however, is that very few will make it to the majors, let alone move up another rung in the minor league system.  In the fifteen seasons of the Tri City Valleycats, 44 players have made it to the majors, players such as Dallas Keuchel, the 2015 American League Cy Young Award winner and Ben Zobrist, who last year played for the World Champion Royals and this season is with the first place Cubs. 

I always keep score at these games, then store the program in the basement.  In a few years, I'll pull out the scorecard to see if any of the names made it.  Sadly, there are many disappointing scorecards.  The "Joe", the area nickname for the ballpark, hosted the 2008 New York Penn League All Star game, which I attended.  The only names I recognized from my scorecard that night were the d'Arneau brothers, Travis, who plays for the Mets, and Chase, who is with the Braves.    

But on this night - July 4th, 2016, none of that matters; the Valleycats are playing the State College Spikes, an affiliate of the St Louis Cardinals.  And it's a perfect night for baseball and post game fireworks.  Not too many firework venues offer a comfortable chair, hot dogs for $2.50 and a cup holder for adult libations. 

Southpaw, the Valley Cats Mascot

In tonight's game, runs were scored early, with the Spikes leading most of the night.  Of course, in a minor league park, the game serves as filler for what happens in between innings, when various promotions are rolled out on the field.  There is Southpaw, the Valleycats' mascot, racing a 10 year old boy around the bases.  Southpaw always seems to lose by a step or two.  Then there is a game of musical chairs, with an obnoxious chicken (well, someone in a chicken suit), who cheats and always wins, becoming the park villain in the process and a great reminder to go get some tenders or a "spiedie" at the concession stand.  And finally, there is the Condiment Race and poor Relish, who never wins.  Tonight, he has a healthy lead on Ketchup and Mustard when a giant ketchup bottle jumps out of the stands and tackles Relish, allowing Ketchup to win.  Relish has been America's most under-appreciated condiment for many years.  Hokey?  You bet, but it's good, clean family fun; 21st century vaudeville.  Meanwhile, back to the game, the Spikes take a two run lead to the bottom of 9th.  With two outs and a runner on for the Valleycats, Taylor Jones, a product of Gonzaga University, cracked a mighty blast to center that had the fans on their feet.  But the ball died in the night air, falling just short of a game tying home run, and the home team lost 9-7.

But that's still OK, because now we have fireworks.  Synched to a mix of pop, country and patriotic music, the 20 minute display is the perfect way to conclude our nation's 240th birthday.  Maybe for the 241th, Relish will reign.  

The condiments race

A June Afternoon - the Mets and Royals at Citi Field [by Greg Pattenaude]

I always enjoyed taking a day off from work in June to attend a Mets afternoon game. The schedule maker hasn't been as kind in recent years in making this event possible. And even though I'm now retired, it's still special when one of these opportunities pops up, like it did yesterday: the Mets versus the defending World Champions Kansas City Royals. And so I went, with wife, son and his friend by my side. After all, the lyrics to Meet the Mets tell me to "bring the kiddies; bring the wife". For what it's worth, the last time I saw the Royals was 40 years ago at Yankee Stadium, when young George Brett was making his mark and the road uniforms were powder-puff blue. But that game is a tale for another time.

The weather in Queens was nearly perfect, maybe a bit hot in the sun. But a gentle breeze and a parade of puffy cumulus clouds kept the sun at bay until our seats were shaded for the afternoon thanks to the small roof at the top of the ballpark. We sat directly above home plate, in the upper deck, although the marketing department for the Mets prefer we call it "the Promenade". The view nearly matched the same one I had 50 years ago for my first game at Shea, as I wrote about several weeks back.

The game was good, featuring starting pitchers Danny Duffy, a southpaw, for the Royals and Noah Syndergaard aka "Thor" for the Mets. The breeze provided a good showcase for Thor's long locks. It was a back and forth affair with the Mets taking the lead in the 4th, the Royals scoring 2 in the top of 5th, the Mets answering with 2 in the bottom of the 5th, the Royals tying it in the 6th, and the Mets going ahead for good in the bottom of the 6th on the first home run of Matt Reynolds' career. Mets closer Jeurys Familia nailed down the victory with a 1-2-3 9th inning, his 24th save in as many tries this season. Three years ago, I saw Familia in his visit to Troy (NY) to pitch one inning for the Brooklyn Cyclones against the Tri City Valleycats, whose stadium is 15 minutes from our home. I always remind folks that this was the turning point of his career. Well, at least in my mind it was.

Despite rush hour traffic that turned a normal three hour trip home into a nearly five-hour marathon, we declared the day a success and hope that the Mets season is back on track.

I have one other thought to share. Citi Field now has been the Mets home for eight seasons. I'm still getting used to it. There is a lot to like: wide concourses, wide aisles, wide seats, and lots of places to get food. We have sat in various sections and levels, seeing games from various angles. The last two games have been in the aforementioned "Promenade". I've concluded that I'd rather be higher up and near home plate then sit in a lower level 400 feet away from home plate in the outfield. Shea Stadium never had this problem. There were narrow concourses, narrow aisles, narrow seats, and fewer places to get food. But there were also fewer outfield seats since the stadium was open-ended, a wide expanse to Queens and beyond. Nearly everyone was seated between the foul lines. And I knew most nooks and crannies of the old place. So I ask myself, will Citi Field ever feel like "home"? I don't know, probably not. But a few more games like yesterday and seats in Section 515 Row 6 would help.