Ed Kranepool chats with players during ’69 Mets Tribute at Citi Field.
As I sit here on this early but steamy bittersweet Sunday morning, sipping a more bitter than sweet cup of joe, perhaps it is fitting in the wake of yesterday’s experience at the ballpark, and most importantly, where we are as Mets fans. As the mornings of a summer-reluctant ’19 finally begin to warm, it is alas not even July and this season has gotten steamy early.
As our ’73 Skip once said, “It’s getting late early.” Sadly, we’ve all been waking up each morning after each of these last seven losses and late game ‘pen-plosions with an ensuing sense of mourn. (Pause, while I queue up the sloppy yet soothing sounds of Joplin’s ragtime… oh The Sting.)
While all of us 40,000+ at the ballpark, and countless more from home, knew enough to compartmentalize the touching tribute to ’69 and those that embodied the true grit, grime, and epitome of baseball, it still stung to not sneak away with a small victory by evening’s end. We all shed a tear or a flashback memory of family no longer with us. Yet neither Howie’s fire nor Kranepool’s spark could ignite the squad of today for all nine innings in what would have been what WFAN’s Evan Roberts refers to as “a therapy win.”
But to the truest of the true, there’s one shining reminder taken away from yesterday’s repurposed rank. As we supporters watch our boys of summer swoon too soon, 10 games under .500, 13 games back in the division, 7.5 in the wild card, less than a 5% chance to play October ball, with a minefield for a bullpen, and little reason for resurrection, I’m reminded why Mets fans are truly the best out there, bar none.
It’s not just the perennial hurt turned resilience, the daily defense at the water cooler from fans of those across town, or the daily dysfunction that we dissect. As Ed reminded us yesterday, it’s the intelligence. Mets fans are able to separate true fandom from blind following. Mets fans are wise enough to know the game, the system, the operation, and sure, throw in an occasional Howard Beale “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take this anymore.”
It takes a fine bit of character to walk the tightrope of passion and quit, teetering on the edge of misguided anger and reason. Mets fans have a savvy blend of intuition and rage. Sure, some of the trolls of twitter can explode behind anonymity. Sure, the 6 am calls to Boomer & Gio or the afternoon drive cries to Francesa can stray off said tightrope further darkening the cloud. But most Mets simply get it.
Mets fans know how culture, class, and even luck start from the top. We were reminded of that yesterday when Howie’s not-so-subtle singe ignited Citi when speaking of Gil Hodges. The crowd roared for Gil in a way Hollywood and TV viewers around the world roared when Billy Crystal made a cameo during the James Franco/Anne Hathaway butchering of the 2011 Oscars. Mets fans understand that no matter how many times you change the GM, the pitching coach, or inevitably this year’s manager, there are limitations in sports when it comes to changing ownership.
Mets fans are also intuitive enough to know that sometimes simply on the players. As much as there is blood for management, Eiland can’t make Diaz locate his slider. Regan can’t find Familia’s sink. And while we’re all freakin’ ready for Cano to slide to the 7-hole, neither Mick nor Chili can yank the yips from Robbie.
Photo: Mets.com
Despite the dismay towards the powers that be, if more of the guys played “Dirt Bag Baseball” like Jeff, or laid out like rookie Chris Mazza, or play with love for each other despite sharing a position like Pete and Dom, we’d be talking less about selling and more about buying.
To root for the laundry does not mean a pass is given to those who should be held accountable. To buy an Alonso jersey does not mean we blindly contribute to the Wilpon’s direct deposit. It means you can differentiate the love of the game, the team, and the pastime from those behind the curtain. And this is why Mets fans are truly the best out there.
It’s not just weathering the Seaver trade or watching Ryan go on to pitch seven no-nos for every non-Met team in existence. It’s not just watching our 80’s dynasty dissolve into a haze of white powder or the Bobby Bonilla Day that keeps on giving. It’s not just the 17 games back with 7 to play or the ‘pen construction of today. It’s not just the embattlement.
It’s the smarts mixed with sadness. It’s the loyalty linked to our loathing. Maybe misery does love company. But oh when things are good and right, as we saw in yesterday’s stroll down Miracle Memory Lane, as the city pulsed in the mid 80s, and even during ‘15’s flurry of Flores, Wright, Murph, Ces, and the arsenal of young arms… there really is nothing more magical. With the sting there is the shine. And that’s what makes the difference. And that is why Mets fans truly are the best out there.
