The Ball

n September 19, 1992, the New York Mets were languishing in fifth place in their division, twenty games out of first, mathematically eliminated, with much of their original roster either pre- or post-operative. The disabled list grew daily, looking like the outpatient list of an expansion team. So what did I have? Two tickets to Saturday night's game against second place Montreal.

My wife, being a good sport, agreed to go to the game with me. For some reason, after being married for 37 years, I felt like I was out on a date. The game was scheduled to start at 7:10 and we drove out to the park on a beautiful fall evening just as a cool dry air mass enveloped the New York area. The weather couldn't been better for a baseball game.

We took with us a light supper (the food at the stadium for the most part is inedible and overpriced), two pillows to sit on (we're not as young as we wish we were), jackets (it tends to get chilly on these crisp fall nights after the sun fades) and the knowledge that “Husbands and Wives”, Woody Allen's latest effort, was at our local theater at 10. The evening had potential, though I might add that had we had tickets for the opera, I would have felt the same degree of pleasant, almost childlike anticipation.

I find the solitude of a baseball game magical. Crowd noises soothe. For me, it is the ultimate spectator sport. It does not demand undivided attention. It says to me relax, no need to rush! This is like an opera in nine acts, and no one dies at the end. The cast of characters is somewhat subordinate to the event. There are no scenery changes and very brief intermissions, nine of them. Even rain adds to the adventure, although the advent of the domed stadium interfaces with this. The artificial turf that replaced the natural grass has changed the game. It doesn't small as good as the real stuff.

It was obvious that the crowd would be small, and this was so. We found our way to our seats in a box in the Mezzanine after being informed that we did not qualify for the evening's give-away of a Met backpack (only for kids under twelve). We arrived in time to settle in and stand for the Canadian and U.S. national anthems, which I exuberantly joined in singing, no doubt the long-lasting effects of a recent bout with karoake in a restaurant overlooking Puget Sound in Seattle, where we had ended our summer vacation a few weeks earlier.

We had our box to ourselves since the two seats beside us were no shows, as were the four seats behind. However, the game progressed, locked in a three-three tie, fans moved down from the upper mezzanine into our area and indeed into our box. This was normal procedure as all baseball fans know, and in my youth I had done the same thing.

When a foul ball arched high above our heads and bounced into our section, landing under the seat next to my wife, pandemonium ensued. I scrambled for the souvenir as did dozens of neighboring youngsters, but I got my hand on the ball and came away with it. My wife said “give it to the kid.” “No way,” was my instant response.

After forty-five plus years, my first foul ball, there was no question of giving it up. The excitement I felt as I fingered the ball in my pocket, taking it out at least a half dozen times to look at it, was new and surprisingly intense. My wife told me she overheard the mother of one of the kids who had fought me for the ball say to her young son, “it's good you let him have it, he's an old man.”

There are no old men at baseball games! We're all kids out there for the first time. Memories of Ebbets Field flood through me every time I set foot in a ballpark. I'm fourteen again, playing hooky on a sunny afternoon, sitting out in the bleachers, cheering my lungs and heart out for my team. And most of all, with pulse throbbing with exciting exhilaration and frantic anticipation, I'm praying for the baseball to come my way. I got lucky Saturday night. Oh by the way, we left after six innings and still made the movies. It's great to be alive!