Reese Kaplan - A Rare Moment of Pride and Joy

This past Friday I made a journey from the heat of El Paso to the NYC metropolitan area where I grew up before moving here 7 years ago.  While there were a number of things on the agenda for the long weekend, the real purpose of the trip was crystal clear – a road trip to Citizens Bank Park to see my first professional baseball game since Shea Stadium was still standing.  

There are things that jump out to you upon landing in this part of the country and not all of them good.  Humidity!  Wow, you live long enough in the desert and you forget how awful it feels to step outside and simply start sweating while standing still. 

Then there’s traffic.  I used to think my occasional forays into Houston were worse than the tri-state area but it appears things got markedly worse in my absence.  A 10 minute drive from Newark Liberty Airport to my brother’s home in Clark wound up taking almost an hour!   

A Friday night trip into Brooklyn to my niece’s apartment to hook up an air conditioner made me remember why I loved the City as we watched Anne Hathaway filming a movie right out front as we sweated through the installation of an air conditioner we lugged up her 5^th floor walkup.   

Of course, that nostalgia for what New York can offer was brought to a grinding halt as we sat outside the Holland Tunnel for over an hour without moving a single inch.  Traffic is one thing, but this experience was new even by New York standards.  It wasn’t until hearing a local comedy radio program on Tuesday morning back home did I learn the reason for the delay.  According to the UPI, well, click the link if you want all the poop.  Only in New York!  (And for the record, that ten minutes cited in the article is kind of like the same ten minutes your significant other quotes when you ask, “Are you ready yet?” or you utter during the 4^th quarter of a football game when asked, “How much longer until it’s over?”) 

As we awakened Sunday morning for our road trip it occurred to me that in my slightly inebriated state after cleaning up from Thursday night’s pool party back home I had neglected to include any of my Mets attire.  Fortunately a quick stop at Modell’s changed that as my brother and I each found suitable shirts – a high tech fabric one for me embroidered with the de rigueur logos and my brother sporting a Matt Harvey shirt in which the letters for some unknown reason were printed in a camouflage motif.  My brother wouldn’t know Matt Harvey from Jimmy Stewart’s Harvey, but I assured him it was an appropriate choice. 

We arrived at the surprisingly well planned sports complex just over the Walt Whitman Bridge where the football and baseball stadiums plus the arena all shared the same general area with common parking lots.  There was even competition for your parking dollar with rates as low as $10 and as high as $35.  The latter is reminiscent of New York, but the ten spot made me think I was still in some minor league burg. 

We met up with our group outside the gates and made our way inside, slightly disappointed we weren’t offered the t-shirts being given away.  At first we suspected it was because we were all sporting Mets orange, black, blue, white and – how many uniform changes has this franchise had, anyway – but it turned out to be an option for children 14 or under.  Then again, why would any of us wanted a Phillies shirt? 

The Ashburn Alley mini museum is truly the highlight of this ballpark with a great many memories evoked seeing the photos, the plaques and reading all of the captions.  However, the adjacent double decker bullpen is a close second as we were able to see the pros warming up close enough hear the sharp echo of the fastballs reverberating off the catcher’s mitt.   

The Phillies fans themselves, famous for booing Mike Schmidt, lived up to their reputation as their barbs directed at this Mets clan were beyond friendly ribbing.  It continued as we ascended to the UPPER upper deck, third row from the top of the stadium (bad news) but on the infield and under the overhang to shade us from the sun and later the rain (good news). 

Throughout the game our intrepid group led cheers of “Let’s Go Mets!” and lots of yells and screams with each Mets moment of glory.  The hostile looks in the beginning were gradually turned to averted eyes as Matt Harvey manhandled the Phillies and the lineup apparently played as if fresh shipments from Biogenesis arrived that morning.  By the time the rain delay occurred the locals starting leaving in red-clad droves.  We challenged each other to do our best Robin Ventura rain delay impression but thought that might push Phillies fans over the edge.  We stayed to the end and enjoyed thoroughly this hitting and pitching masterpiece. 

To celebrate our good fortune we drove to the neighborhood that features the famous Geno’s and Pat’s cheesesteak sandwiches.  We split sandwiches from both to make our judgment (Pat’s, for sure), both paled in comparison to Kipp’s here in El Paso (yes, I’m far from objective on that count). 

Of course, after the game was over the Phillies fans, with yellow cheese running down their chins, were actually a more amiable bunch as we needled them about mercilessly about being manhandled by a bunch of AAA castoffs.  Hey, it was unsportsmanlike to gloat, but this day and the Yankees series were about the only highlights the Queens faithful had to celebrate this year.   

Of course, just to put the cherry on top of this otherwise wonderful day was the guy inexplicably adorned head to toe in Red Sox attire who shoved his way through the Philadelphia crowd at Geno’s and loudly proclaimed, “Fuck you all.  Boston’s in first place!” 
All you could do was laugh.