I've had a thing for baseball since I was a kid. One of my first acts of rebellion, in a house obsessed with the Cubs, was to randomly pick a different team to root for. It was a Sunday like all the others - nothing was greater than a Sunday in Seaton. The whoops and hollers from my fellow womb-mates as we watched from the den on TV as guys like Joey Amalfitano, Dick Bertell, John Boccabella and Lindy McDaniel carried the water for another season of futile optimism and the gentle drone of Jack Brickhouse. In an act of monumental defiance against all things Cubs, I decided to root, aghast!, for a different team. Apparently I was not content being just another sheep in the corral, or maybe I had some ethereal vision of the Cub's fan's ultimate futility, I don't know, but that decision has been a constant ever since. I took the newspaper and found the standings of the National league. Even back then, at age 11, I was declaring my independence. I took my finger and followed it down to the last place team. Back then there were 10 teams. St. Louis was in first place, and the Cubs were in 8th. Last place was a team from New York. That would be the one. Always root for the underdog. The New York Mets. What I didn't know then was that I was jumping ship from the losing Cubs to the spectacularly losing Mets.
In school I was a doodler. There were two things I specialized in: drawing faces and writing down the Mets lineup. Finding out the starting pitcher was the highlight of the morning. And, of course, we played a lot of ball during the summer. A lot.
The Mets were so bad classmate Dana bet me a million dollars they wouldn't win a World Series in 20 years. Two years later and a sophomore in high school, I would be celebrating a World Series appearance. In an effort to see a game at home I would take the Nova the Wombie and I had, skip school, and in my excitement and speed, I'd fail to navigate Bertelson's corner correctly and did a 360. We won that year and I'm still waiting, Dana.
On my honeymoon with the current Mrs. Blythe, I made all the arrangements. I picked a trip to Chicago and fancy-schmantsy hotel. I wanted to see the famous works of art at the Art Institute. And I picked out a play to see with James Earl Jones, Master Harold and the Boys. But perhaps most important of all were the two games I had tickets for at Wrigley to see the Cubs play the Mets. We lost both games. A friend called WGN to tell them we were there on our honeymoon. Harry Caray talked about us on TV and said something to the effect, "Holy cow, what are these guys doing at a ball game on their honeymoon?"
I painted a picture with me and my son wearing our Met's shirts, went several years to St. Louis to see the boys and got Rusty Staub's and Hojo's autographs, saw them about 5 years ago down here playing the Ray's and the Met's bullpen gave Norah a baseball.
This story isn't terribly different from any other kid, I reckon. We love the sport, we get hooked on a team, we go through good times and bad. As our lives proceed with unrelenting drive from year to year, the sound of a game on TV still takes me back to when I was young. The incessant mindless chatter of voices describing this or that, the occasional action, and the seeming endlessness of it all is an elixir that bridges the "now" to "back then".
Go to any bar in the Midwest and if they have a TV it will likely be tuned to a baseball game. Old guys who can't reach their toes anymore can still reach for their team hat. And the love affair has had its ups and downs. I swore it off during the Strike of '94. The monumental collapses of 2007 and 2008 just about did me in for good. And I don't tweak with the lineups anymore like I did as a kid. I don't doodle anymore. Fantasy baseball as a game sometimes takes over as the most relevant exercise in a summer when the real thing loses its allure. But I have always come back. And you have always been there.
But here I am, this Thursday, Opening day, thinking about what it was like to be 11 years old, in love with my team, with my whole life in front of me. Now, most of it is in the rear view mirror, and after that first World Series trip when I almost rolled the car we returned in '73, '86, '00, and '15. All in all, for all the love I've given them, it's been returned in fair fashion. You don't owe me a thing.
Before I let you go, the Mets are going to win today. For some unreal reason they have the best winning percentage of opening day of any other team in baseball. A .653 winning rate and that even includes 8 straight opening losses after they began playing in 1962. I'm thinking there may be a Cardinal fan reading this, so I don't want to spoil your day. There's always a chance of rain.
In school I was a doodler. There were two things I specialized in: drawing faces and writing down the Mets lineup. Finding out the starting pitcher was the highlight of the morning. And, of course, we played a lot of ball during the summer. A lot.
The Mets were so bad classmate Dana bet me a million dollars they wouldn't win a World Series in 20 years. Two years later and a sophomore in high school, I would be celebrating a World Series appearance. In an effort to see a game at home I would take the Nova the Wombie and I had, skip school, and in my excitement and speed, I'd fail to navigate Bertelson's corner correctly and did a 360. We won that year and I'm still waiting, Dana.
On my honeymoon with the current Mrs. Blythe, I made all the arrangements. I picked a trip to Chicago and fancy-schmantsy hotel. I wanted to see the famous works of art at the Art Institute. And I picked out a play to see with James Earl Jones, Master Harold and the Boys. But perhaps most important of all were the two games I had tickets for at Wrigley to see the Cubs play the Mets. We lost both games. A friend called WGN to tell them we were there on our honeymoon. Harry Caray talked about us on TV and said something to the effect, "Holy cow, what are these guys doing at a ball game on their honeymoon?"
Our seats in '83.
Frank Howard was our manager then.
The Art institute was almost as cool as seeing Tom Seaver. And yeah, I've got on my Met's jacket.
I painted a picture with me and my son wearing our Met's shirts, went several years to St. Louis to see the boys and got Rusty Staub's and Hojo's autographs, saw them about 5 years ago down here playing the Ray's and the Met's bullpen gave Norah a baseball.
This story isn't terribly different from any other kid, I reckon. We love the sport, we get hooked on a team, we go through good times and bad. As our lives proceed with unrelenting drive from year to year, the sound of a game on TV still takes me back to when I was young. The incessant mindless chatter of voices describing this or that, the occasional action, and the seeming endlessness of it all is an elixir that bridges the "now" to "back then".
Go to any bar in the Midwest and if they have a TV it will likely be tuned to a baseball game. Old guys who can't reach their toes anymore can still reach for their team hat. And the love affair has had its ups and downs. I swore it off during the Strike of '94. The monumental collapses of 2007 and 2008 just about did me in for good. And I don't tweak with the lineups anymore like I did as a kid. I don't doodle anymore. Fantasy baseball as a game sometimes takes over as the most relevant exercise in a summer when the real thing loses its allure. But I have always come back. And you have always been there.
But here I am, this Thursday, Opening day, thinking about what it was like to be 11 years old, in love with my team, with my whole life in front of me. Now, most of it is in the rear view mirror, and after that first World Series trip when I almost rolled the car we returned in '73, '86, '00, and '15. All in all, for all the love I've given them, it's been returned in fair fashion. You don't owe me a thing.
Before I let you go, the Mets are going to win today. For some unreal reason they have the best winning percentage of opening day of any other team in baseball. A .653 winning rate and that even includes 8 straight opening losses after they began playing in 1962. I'm thinking there may be a Cardinal fan reading this, so I don't want to spoil your day. There's always a chance of rain.
1964. Every boy at Wataga Grade School is a fan of the New York Yankees. Well, almost every boy. I wanted to be different than the Yankee sheep and backed the St. Louis Cardinals. Several boys turned over their lunch money at the end of the World Series when the Cards won. So, win or lose to the Mets today I will still be a Cardinal fan.
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