In Pre-K, all of my classmates wore Yankees hats.
As a kid, I wanted to fit in and asked my parents if they could buy me one.
They both looked at each other and said, “Sure, we’ll buy you a Yankee hat, but that means we won’t take you to any games because we are Mets fans.”
“No, no. I’m a Mets fan!” I said back, not wanting to be left out.
Summer of 2001. My dad tells me to put a Mets shirt on. I asked him why and tried to coax him into telling me we were going to the Mets game.
“We are going to Queens,” he said.
I smiled and said, “So we are going to the Mets game!”
“No,” he smiled. “The Mets play in Flushing.”
I remember the butterflies as we drove to Shea Stadium in his cherry-red Jeep Cherokee, seeing the neon light silhouettes on the facing of the stadium, then parking and going up to our seats behind home plate in the Loge level.
In the middle of the game, Edgardo Alfonzo, my second-favorite player behind Mike Piazza, fouled a ball right into the aisle next to us.
“Get it, Robbie! Get it!” my dad shouted. I couldn’t move. I just stared at the ball while other fans fought for it. The guys behind us ended up with it.
My dad started talking to them and congratulated them. He told them somewhere during the conversation that it was my first game ever, and the guy handed me the ball. It’s still on my mantle to this day and is my first memento from a game, as well as the inciting incident of an inseparable bond between me and the Mets.
From that day forward, I had Mets everything: a Mets lunchbox, countless shirseys and jerseys, hats, backpacks, folders and notebooks and a plethora of cards.
Going to Shea became a regular routine. As the Mets struggled mightily from 2002 – 2004 and just barely finished over .500 in 2005, tickets came on the cheap and friends and family couldn’t get rid of them quickly enough. We were always happy to take them.
Being born in 1995 and not following baseball until 2001, I missed the Subway Series. The first year I really remember the Mets being good was 2006, and those guys were like superheroes to me.
I remember being in baseball camp that summer, and all the buzz was about the Mets. Even from other campers who were Yankees fans, I remember them talking about how even they thought the Mets were destined for a World Series title.
I didn’t quite understand what heartbreak was until Game 7 of the 2006 NLCS when Aaron Heilman served up that home run to Yadier Molina. Until that moment, I was used to mediocrity and was just so happy that they were good in ’06 for the first time in my fandom. Even still, I was shattered but had faith that they could rebound in 2007 and finally win a championship.
Boy, was I in for a rude awakening. We all know the historic collapse of ’07 and the equally sad disappointing end to the ’08 season and Shea Stadium.
Then it was the Ponzi schemes, the injury decimated team of 2009 highlighted by the Luis Castillo dropped ball against the Yankees.
The dark days of 2010-2014 with very little to be excited about, other than a budding farm system. Being a Mets fan was hard, but “Ya Gotta Believe,” right?
Then 2015 was magical. That team was like no other I’ve ever witnessed, and seeing them go to the World Series is one of the fondest memories of my life. The heartbreak was also like no other when they lost.
I remember sitting in my dorm building’s lounge with the Royals celebrating on the television as I cried with my face buried in my palms.
After they lost in the 2016 Wild Card game the next year, I think I finally came to terms that I was in for a life of suffering.
Sure, maybe as a Mets fan, we don’t have it as bad as the Cubs, White Sox or Red Sox droughts, but hey, I’m 24. I’ve never seen the Mets win anything, so it might as well be the same to me.
Never in a million years did I think we would see meaningful baseball played in September of 2019. And I gotta tell you, Sunday night’s loss at the hands of the Dodgers was as big of a gut punch as I’ve endured as a Mets fan.
I’m not really sure why. Obviously, it put us four games out of a playoff spot with just 13 games left to play. There has also been very frustrating and debilitating losses already this year. But Sunday just really hurt.
I was at work and felt like there was a frog in my throat. I just wanted to see the Mets win so bad and pull off a magical season as the team did 50 years ago.
Obviously, it’s not over yet numerically, but barring a miracle, it all but is.
It’s not like I had high expectations for this season going into it. In an article later today, I’ll talk about how the Mets were doomed from the onset with an incomplete offseason. After coming back from the dead, then being at the game last month where the Mets toppled the Nationals in Marcus Stroman‘s first start at home, I tasted that playoff vibe again. I wanted a dream, not another nightmare.
What happens for the rest of the year? I don’t know. Maybe the Mets will miss the playoffs, or maybe they’ll pull off an improbable run. Crazier things have happened.
Maybe they’ll go to the World Series in 2020, or maybe I’ll be an old man on AARP when they win or, heck, maybe they never will again. But, ya gotta believe.
I’m a Mets fan, and for all their flaws and the fundamental differences I have with them, it’s in my blood for better or for worse. I wouldn’t trade it for the world.
