As a California girl, transplanted to the east coast, the question became Yankees or Red Sox? The answer is still The Angels with Red Sox tendencies.
Earlier this week my husband (who has the similar but stronger views on the game,) was offered 4 tickets to a New York Met game. He of course, asked me if I wanted to go and my answer was “Yes, but if you know anyone who really wants to go, let them have my ticket.” The main reason I wanted to go to a Mets game on a Monday night, with rain in the forecast, was to see the new stadium. My husband felt the same way.
An old friend and his 17-year-old son went with us. We drove into the city in a thunder storm; complain about the parking when we got there. Security was good, just the way I like it, and the guards were friendly – yes, the New York Mets.
We got there just at game time but the rain delay allowed us to check out the stadium and get something to eat. Citi Field is very nice; clean and modern but with an old-time ballpark feel to it. Our seats were very good. Oh, and I got the extra bonus of calling my brother as the lineup was announced to brag that I was at, yet another stadium that he hasn’t been to; he was adequately jealous.
We enjoyed catching up with our old friend and getting to know his son. There was a group of Jewish teenagers on an outing. Two of the girls were trying to take self-portraits; I offered to take their pictures with the sign in the back ground. I was then asked to do this several times from others in the groups throughout the entire game – you know how I love to take pictures.
A few innings had gone by with no score, when I saw a foul ball coming right at me; so I ducked; the ball bounce once right behind me and our friend’s son caught it. He tried to act cool, but he was beaming; he took the ball out of his jacket pocket from time to time and just looked at it. My husband leaned over to me and said “he is going to remember every detail of that foul ball for the rest of his life.”
After a few more scoreless innings of beer and hotdogs the Italian couple in front of us asked for some type of help with their camera, we were somehow able to communicate with his broken English and gestures and I was able to help him. Sadly this was their first baseball game; I expect it was there last. From that point, every time we cheered or jeered, he would ask me what had happened; I don’t know if he understood.
With the score tied at 0 in the 10th inning, my new Italian friend asked “Is this the last one?” I explained, the best I could, about extra innings and he asked “what is next?” that is when the men tried to explain. We left it at “someone has to score.” I think it was in the 11th inning that I was able to tell them “Now it’s over.”
After a stop at the oddly clean restroom, we drove home, the kid still examining his foul ball trophy; reflecting on the best night of bad baseball. Sometimes that’s just how life works out.
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