Shea La Vie: Part 1 of 2 [ THE METS CLINCH!! ]

Hey kids, it's been a while since I've updated this thing (so please, stop with the constant phone calls, emails, desperate pleas for "more truth", etc..) I thought now would be as good a time as any to deliver my dissertation on these glorious Mets of 2006, who as of the night of September 18, became NL East Champions for the first time in 18 years. We needed only one win to wrap it all up since the beginning of the previous Pirates series, but we were swept to bring it back to Queens. The crowd at Shea last Monday was reminiscent of the '86 Mets, being that it was full of loud crazy people. I screamed my lungs out while watching at home, it's something I was starting to think I'd never see.


That aside, everyone has been wondering where I've been lately. They want to know where their source for seriously biased and occasionally misinformed Mets news went. Never mind that, where else would they get the hilarious, entertaining, sometimes heartwarming details of the odyssey that is my life? Well the explanation for this is simple. Sometimes you just get busy when you're constantly doing awesome things, and I've learned it's very important not to lose your focus. You know, your drive. Every good ink slinger knows that when your life is going crappily you'll have nothing pleasant to write about. So that's why I've been off on assignment. That's right folks, I've taken a plane with a one way ticket that departed from Squaresville International (SQR) a long time ago and landed in Cooltopia. Oh it's great here. Don't worry though, I still haven't forgotten about the little people (you). So without further ado, here it is, my synopsis on the 2006 Mets (at least the season thus far). The events that have led up to Monday night's celebration. In addition, a review of the most important and pivotal moments home at Shea Stadium this year. Of course by that I mean those moments when I was in attendance. This is just the first in a new series of works (epics actually) that will inform you, enlighten you, fill you in that special way and most importantly, inspire you. Prepare to suck on the teat of innovation. Here's sports.


I was lucky enough to share a Mets ticket six-pack this year with my dad. It ain't bad for the price ($160/seat), the particular one we bought gives you the same exact seats for every game, while the others, (pedro pack, all star pack, 86 pack) push you back into a further seat for the Mets/Yankees game (all the packs include a subway series game at Shea). Basically you go to a game a month. I swore to myself this year I would go to games regularly and have fun, enjoy it like I used to a few years back when I would go to as many games as possible (mostly free). In preparation for the new season I ordered a customizable jersey and picked number 21 as an homage to the late great Roberto Clemente, as did Carlos Delgado when he came to the team this season. You know what? they're going to retire that number in the near future, in every single major league ballpark, just like Jackie Robinson (#42). At that point, no one coming into baseball will be permitted to choose that number, regardless of the team. I mean, I couldn't imagine in this day and age going out on the field night after night with number 42 on my back, a blasphemic move that is a slap in the face to all that is holy and decent, only because of my need to appease the blood oath made between myself, the rest of the team, and Satan. Who would dare to tread such murky waters? (Mariano Rivera).

I chose the second road alternate jersey, because the Mets are fashion-forward among other things. They have what I believe is probably the most active playing jerseys of any other team (4). I even bought an official "under the jersey" mock turtleneck to go along with it. It's awesome, it has the Mets and MLB logos on the collar and it's made out of this superhero material that sticks to your skin and makes you look like you're muscular, or possibly capable of being muscular.


18.April.2006 First game on the docket was against the Braves, the notorious 14 season-reigning rulers of the National league East (so much for that, bitches). My father and I were nervously trying to rekindle that father/son at the ballpark routine we nearly thought we'd forgotten. We even went to the Sports Authority to pick up last second Carlos Beltran T-shirts right before the game. I was kind of excited for my dad, who at that point had not been to a baseball game in years. Once we arrived at our seats, were relieved to see we were under the canopy provided by the upper deck of the stadium. The seats after all, could have been worse. They are pretty close to the foul pole on the left field side in the mezzanine section. Anyway, the game ended in a deflating 7-1 loss. Chipper Jones wasn't playing -(the bastard named his kid "Shea", the balls on that guy), so chants of "Larry" had to be kept in the reserves. It turned out there was another Jones we should have been hating on, as we had a good view from our left field accommodations of Andruw smoking two home runs in the game that soared right by us. That aside, we were excited nonetheless about being reacquainted with the ball park and the energy of the crowd, which by the way is at an unbelievably high volume, even more than last year.









19.May.2006 The second game, interestingly, started out with more Mets lament. It was cap trade day, so that was cool, even though I never wear baseball hats because of my enormous head.
In terms of starting pitching, there's no control really with who you're going to see in these six-pack games, with schedule changes, injuries, and etc. concerning the rotation. I have to admit I wasn't too psyched about the first game as soon as I found out Victor Zambrano was pitching. I almost knew it was a guaranteed loss. We were a little late to the game this time, and you could tell from the noise that the game had already been into the top half of the first inning. My father noted that from the level of the crowd something exciting must have happened. I pointed out that since we had to pitch to the opposing team first, so this was most likely the other team scoring. The team we were seeing in this second game was of course, the Yankees. The first game of the Subway Series of 2006. Everyone there knew there was something different about this Mets team of '06. The struggling Yanks stumbled into Shea with hopes of getting it over with and just steamrolling the Mets.
Fate had something else in store. I didn't realize it until a few days later, but I was about to see one of the best Mets games ever.

It's 4-0 in favor of the Bombers by the time we reach our seats. Earlier that day, I learned that new Mets pitcher Jeremi Gonzalez was going to start. I was disappointed because I wanted to see one of our star pitchers (Pedro, Glavine). That, plus I think he already screwed up his first start. New aluminum bottled Budweisers in hand, we settled in for what seemed to be another heart breaker, and with so many Yankee assholes in the stadium and on the train, it seemed like it wasn't going to be a pleasant night. Soon enough though, the ear-piercing shrills of the spaghetti-eating spray on tan rolled up Yankee baby T-shirt wearing girl brigade became inaudible as we slowly clawed our way back into the game. Then the class lines were drawn deep when Yankee fans sporadically began to get into their favorite "drunken stadium ejection" mode. Every asshole with a Jeter jersey had that "Holy Shit" look on their stupid faces. It was fucking awesome. "Enter Sandman" blasted through the house speakers, serenading the run across the field out of the bullpen by the hard-throwing lefty (we will inherit the earth) Billy Wagner. You know, that Metallica song that rightfully belongs to our closer, not the other guy Mariano. We came back in the bottom of the ninth and won, via David Wright. It was beautiful. I got to see the Home Run Apple rise in all it's dented, needs to be repainted glory. There were fireworks. It was a bonding experience. I'm trying to avoid getting all "Tim Russert" on your ass right now, constantly talking about how much I love my dad. It gets weird after a while.









19.Jun.2006 The third of these six games was a disappointing 4-2 loss vs. the Reds. It was only three days after my birthday (the silver one, bitches!) and I really hoped the Mets would win. As soon as I saw that Ken Griffey, Jr. was up at the plate, I made the prediction that we were about to witness the 548th home run of his career. And we did. My dad was out of the country at the moment, so this time I went with my uncle and a friend of mine, a talented enigmatic writer and poet known only as "J. Smith" . And let me tell you, God bless the Mets. This is an organization that has heeded the call of the fans and finally started making sexy-like girl apparel in the form of hot pink sleeveless David Wright baby tees and various other hot items being worn in droves by even hotter girls in the stadium. Not being satisfied with only a customized jersey this year, I gave in to one of my biggest weaknesses when it comes to team merchandise, and now I also own an "ethnic" Mets ensemble (birthday gift actually).

25.Jul.2006 Game 4 of the six-pack had the Cubs, those Wranglers from Wrigley, coming into New York. Things started out ok, as Beltran and Endy
Chavez both homered in the first to make the game 4-2 in favor of the Mets. By the end of the night things took a turn for the worse, as the crew in orange-n-blue lost again, this time 8-6.

Alas, the day didn't come without it's share of drama (or as I'd like to refer to it, comic relief). During the usual routine from the car to our entrance (I wouldn't be caught dead on that dreadful 7 train), we come across the press gate where, of all the people in the world, my ex-girlfriend is standing. It wasn't shocking that she was there, after all the large Queens gindaloon population routinely found at Mets games was probably too much for her to resist. The shocking part is where she was exactly, at the press gate. I was surprised to learn that working at an ethnic targeted weekly "newspaper" without a legitimate sports section could warrant a press pass.

From across the crowd, I immediately recognized her. Instantly, all those lost memories came flooding back. Lying in a naked embrace after making sweet love, those declarations of our seemingly undying affection for each other. The guilt that comes with realizing I let my one true love slip through my hands because I was too weak to hold on to her. Seeing her completed the "trifecta" of misery for me. You see, about a month earlier I was an extra in a movie filming literally two blocks away from her office. Then, about a week or two before the game I saw her best friend from high school (you know what the "best friend" is like), while walking through the city one night. Those two random events lead me to believe it was only a matter of time before I ran into the lady Queen bee herself.

I know what you're thinking, "Jeez, haven't you gotten completely over her yet?".
I felt like Steve Irwin, if years later he had the opportunity to approach the beast that had stung him fatally through the heart. As I got closer, I thought to myself "Are you sure it's her?" "Maybe you're going crazy". I know, I know, maybe the obvious signs weren't there. For one thing, she wasn't blowing a married civil servant after picking him up in a bar, so understandably it could have been very difficult to recognize her upon first glance. Throughout these past years I always wondered what she must look like now. Cutting my dead weight must have propelled her towards a newfound beautifully fit body, mind and soul, like she told me she would. She'll have a glow because she's finally found that happiness she could never have attained from my meager resources, right?

Personally, I mean as far as I was concerned I immediately went on a new health and exercise regimen after she broke my heart. Over the passing couple of years, shy, sheltered doormat-heart pussy Nic took a long dirt nap. Now chiseled looks witty, warm, smart, sensitive and handsome Nic is here and he's matured. He can even still be a gentleman even in the face of adversity.

As I got closer, I was relieved, no over-fucking-joyed over what I saw. It was her after all! and what a sight. She looked, oh she looked, well .... the same (score so far, Nic-1 Godless Tart-0) . I called out her name, waved, and smiled. Our gaze locked and for a second, I felt something. Then came her reaction, typical of a debutante like herself. She proceeded to roll her eyes and gasp, as if I would take the precious time and oxygen to speak to her any further. Absolutely no class. I was just trying to say hi. She probably missed the memo, because nowadays few ladies are allowed the privilege to gaze into these windows, baby. And when I lay these big ol' brown eyes on you, there's no turning back, you're practically trapped in an inescapable dimension of love. My dad just put his hand on my shoulder reassuringly (or in a laughing at me on the inside kind of way, I couldn't tell) and said only two words - "Sorry kid". We bonded. Later, every foxy bitch in the house was grilling me like a fourth of July barbecue. The Mets lost, but most importantly, I won.





Don't forget to check out the second and concluding installment of this report detailing the other half of my odyssey through Flushing, coming up next time.







Today's musical selection : "Rise up with Fists!" - Jenny Lewis with the Watson Twins (although I think "3 Hot Chicks" may be a more appropriate name for the band)