It's a passion, a love, an addiction, but being a die hard fan almost always ends in anguish. Bottom line, your team is not winning the World Series this year and probably not for the next decade. The Yankees and their fans have experienced more championships than any other team in baseball, and even those fans have witnessed far more seasons ending before the ultimate glory. In the end it's going to hurt, but for that one year. That one miracle team, the one time when the "bad guys" won, for that it's all worth it. Or is it? Twenty years ago I met a fan just like me. Wins brought us joy, losses ruined our day. We discussed every nuance of the game, knew every hitter from the Mets minor league team to the major league club. We lived and died with Mets baseball. I never actually spoke to him outside of Mets season, but when spring came we fell right back into our usual flow. Mainly we talked baseball, but slowly our actual lives trickled into the conversation. In those early days we talked about our relationships, our dreams and of course Benny Agbayani. Recently he told me of his fathers passing, and I shared with him my parents slow decline into dementia. Through it all we were bonded by our love of the Mets.
And then, in 2023, with no fanfare, he decided he'd had enough. Just like that. He'd seen too many years end in devastation, he'd had too many Sunday afternoons ruined by games he had no control over. He decided to reclaim his life and to leave the Mets, and in turn, me behind. I miss my friend, and I've reached out to him several times this year. He's happy to be free of his fandom. I can relate. I absolutely love watching the Mets, but there is no doubt at times it feels like I've imprisoned myself. I HAVE to watch, and my mood is often commingled with a group of men who don't know or even care about me. Or do they?
This brings me to Wednesday April 19th. My six year old daughters first ever Mets game. I'll never forget mine. My dad, who couldn't care less about sports took me. Not surprisingly he mistook the start time and we showed up in the 6th inning, but as I walked through the tunnel and saw that green grass out at Shea I didn't care that we were late. I was gobsmacked. I was hooked. This was my holy place. I loved everything about it. The manicured lawn, the players flicking a wrist and the ball impossibly landing right in another players mitt hundreds of feet away, the smell of the peanuts and all the fans there, just like me, to "catch the energy." My daughters day was a little different. She was focused on cotton candy, ice cream and a tie die Dodger's hat (blasphemous).
And then something happened. I picked her up on my shoulders and told her to wave to Lindor, and he waved back. It was a small moment but her eyes lit up and she smiled and said, "he waved to me daddy, Fran Lanbor, waved to me.” A small gesture but it was greatly appreciated, he made her day, thanks Fran Lanbor. As I continued to watch Francisco Lindor and Luis Guillorme toss the ball to each other with such precision I was transported back to my first game, back at Shea where six year old me marveled at these world class athletes. I was lost in a daydream, until my daughter elbowed me back into reality. and said "Daddy Fin Labrador is pointing at you." I replied “ Haha no honey he's not point at ...oh my god I think he is." He was. He was pointing RIGHT AT ME, then he motioned to my daughter and then he proceeded to toss a ball over the netting 25 rows back perfectly placed right into my bare hands (I caught it by the way). In my 40 years of going to games not once had I ever caught a ball.
I wish my friend had been there with me, as he was at Shea so many times. I wish my dad had been there like he was 40 years ago. I'm so glad I got to share that experience with my daughter. I'm so glad Francisco realizes the impact he can have with such simple but generous gifts. It was, for me, a simple moment that will forever be etched in my mind.
And then something else happened. In the third inning Pete Alonso flicked a ball into the stands and it was headed right for us. I was about to catch ball number two when a Braves fan (because of course) knocked into my daughter and I. He spilled her ice cream and of course he got the ball. But then he saw her tears and he too was transported back to reality. He gave her the ball, he bought her a new ice cream, and added a beer for dad. Another small but kind gesture. My daughter left her first game, ironically in the 6th inning with two baseballs. I have no idea how any game will ever live up to that, but I imagine it won't have to. A core memory has been made, just like mine was 40 years ago.
When we got home she told mom that she got two balls but the Mets lost, surprising to me because WE did not lose. She was excited again to find out the Mets won, but it hardly mattered to her the way it does me. For her it's just fun with her dad, and ultimately I'd like to give her the gift of having it stay that way. I think my friend has it right. Having your day changed by 26 men you don't even know is lunacy, but for me, it's too late, I'll always die hard. LETS GO METS!
