Sunday, September 28, 2008
Shea, au Revoir...
Yes. I cried.3 comments
Gotham City stands as old and as strong as its people.
Its people stand as strong as the places where they've congregated and made their voices heard.
From Union Square to Madison Square Garden to Katz's Deli.
This past Sunday marked the final game for historic—and dare I say it—beautiful Shea Stadium.
I'm not so sure I'll ever spend much time, if any, in the Mets' new Sub-Prime Field, owner Fred Wilpon's "I was a Dodger fan growing up!" wet dream. It would have been better if he had bought the Dodgers rather than the Mets. It would have been nice to see a new Mets field be a paean to Mets history in their own park, instead of to someone else's. That's simply disgusting. Wet dream, indeed.
Shea, named after William A. Shea, a New York National League baseball fan, as well as a lawyer and lobbyist—back in the days when those were actually honorable professions—did the bulk of the jawing that brought National League baseball back to New York after the Dodgers and Giants dumped New York like Republicans dump first wives—callous, cold, calculating, chasing something shiny and new.
Your humble Gotham servant was in the 9- to 11-year-old range as the discussions of bringing a new team to town were pursued and this new team was created—just the age when magic suffuses every endeavor.
"A BRAND NEW BASEBALL TEAM???!!! THAT NEVER EXISTED BEFORE?? Not like those dopey old Dodgers or Yankees or Indians or Red Sox!!?? ARE YOU KIDDING ME???"
This was basic 10-year-old crack.
Gotham sent in an entry in the name-the-team contest (sorry, since I lost, I've forgotten what I sent, but Rebels and Blue Jays were two of the main contenders). I had a scrapbook with every picture I could find from each of the in-those-days seven or eight daily newspapers New York had. Would certainly love to see that scrapbook now—but, like most everyone's baseball card collection and other treasures, it too is lost to time.
The Mets' inaugural yearbook cover proudly showed the famous Willard Mullins drawing of his infant son in diapers and a Mets hat, which became Baby Met. We were all SO THERE! Mr. Met made his first appearance the next year. In one of these videos, you get a quick shot of Homer, the beagle, holding a Let's Go, Mets! sign in his teeth. The Mets have never wanted for mascots!
So, my life has been Mets life; Mets life has been my life.
While this video says 1964-1965 (so, it'd be a pre-game crowd only), this is how I remember the number of fans at Shea in the mid-'70s to early '80's looking, when it became Grant's Tomb, so named to honor classic New York putz M. Donald Grant, who banished Tom Seaver to Cincinnati in 1977, a dark day in New York history. You see in this video roughly the level of attendance they got in the late '70s to early '80s. Weddings and Bar Mitsvahs drew more people in those days. The fans were almost on a first-name basis.
Allow me to wander:
*** My first memory of Shea was its opening day, April 14, 1964—a school day, unfortunately. I raced home from school, just in time to catch the final wrap-up by Lindsey Nelson and Bob Murphy. Of course we lost, that was expected. BUT WE HAD A STADIUM NOW! We were official! No one could say we didn't count! Went to a game on my birthday, and I remember pouring over the program and yearbook in the car as we rode home. Looking at all the very cool features of this space-age sporting wonder! All the amenities, all the escalators (every park had ramps before that), state of the art! How COOL!
*** My first view of Shea, actually, wasn't for a ballgame, it came while I was heading to the World's Fair across the street in Flushing Meadows Park.
When the 7 train pulled into the Willet's Point station—awash in bright orange and blue everywhere (the city's official colors, as well as the Mets'), one ramp took you to Shea, the other, larger ramp pointed to the fairy land of the World's Fair grounds. As my family dragged me towards the Fair, I kept staring over my shoulder at this most beautiful of structures, knowing full well there was BASEBALL going on in there! METS BASEBALL!
*** One gloriously beautiful Sunday in spring of 1969 or '70, my friend Mike and I went to Shea for a double-header. Spent extra for field-level seats just past first base. Weather-wise, perhaps one of those Top 10 days you savor during a great Spring. Great seats. Oh boy, two games of baseball. Tom Seaver, untouchable through the first four innings of Game 1, in total command—we had already zeroed in on that divot his left foot hit every time like a machine, and on how his right knee was already caked in dirt from how consistent his landing point was. And Jerry Koosman was scheduled for the second game.
Now, THIS was livin'.
Out of nowhere a cloud came over. Opened up with a deluge I have never experienced before or since. In a mere matter of minutes, 40,000 to 50,000 folks were drenched to the skin. By the time we could get back over to the subway, our clothes must have weighed forty pounds.
*** Have seen many Home Runs, obviously, over the years. But three I saw at Shea stand out:
1) At Shea, thereis was a very deep gap between the outfield wall at the 376 ft. mark, and the outer wall past the bullpens and picnic area. Behind the outer wall, there's a parking lot with massive light poles in it, with the first pole being roughly thirty to forty feet behind the outer wall.
In 1976, I saw Dave Kingman—one of the game's best home run hitters, and one of its worst people—hit one against the Dodgers that went over the outfield wall, over the bullpen, soaring over the back wall and bouncing off of the first light pole in the parking lot. Arguably (the best word in baseball), the longest home run hit at Shea. If not THE longest, definitely the longest I ever saw. Of course, as you would expect, Davey Lopes also hit one out, albeit much shorter, for LA and the Mets lost.
2) With all the games I'd sat through at Shea over the years, I'd never seen either a brawl or a grand-slam home run. I had seen each on TV, certainly, but neither one in person. In 1986, the Mets happily took care of that for me, against the Dodgers. On two pitches.
We were sitting in the upper deck behind home plate, chatting/ribbing the folks seated in front of us who were from LA. Late in a close game, notoriously cranky Dodger reliever Tom Niedenfuer loaded the bases, and was visibly upset. Up came an aging George Foster, the first of many Met mega-contracts that never panned out, but who was, in this, his last year, still dangerous on occasion. Like this occasion. Second pitch, straight into the Dodgers bullpen in left field for a grand salami, scoring four, putting the Mets ahead and blowing Neidenfuer's save opportunity.
Of course, as gracious hosts, we consoled our new LA friends sitting with us in typical NY fashion. I looked out at Niedenfuer on the mound, and even at that distance I could clearly see the steam coming out of his ears. He hadn't yet moved since the pitch to Foster left his hand. He stood frozen, fuming. This did not bode well. Someone was gonna pay. But, not being a bright child, Niedenfuer couldn't control his fury long enough to get past a few more batters before retaliating. Neidenfuer's next pitch landed with a thud heard in the upper deck, squarely between the "2s" of the "22" on the back of former Gold Glove boxer, and general 1986 Mets bad-ass, Ray Knight. DOWN went the bat; DOWN went the helmet; Knight flew out to the mound, fist cocked. Niedenfuer put his spike up to deter Knight, which only enraged him further. He grabbed Niedenfuer's leg with his right arm, pummeling the once-furious pitcher with his left fist, piston-like, as they both tumbled to the ground. Knight got 5 or 6 good punches in before they landed and continued once prone. Needless to say, the players jumped in, the benches emptied, both bullpens came flying in from the outfield—it seemed as if the teams' Triple-A affiliates in Tidewater and Alberquerque were flying in for for a piece of this one. No tea was served; no simple milling about. Fists were flying all about before order was finally restored, with the key participants banished for the night.
What fun!
3) My favorite Shea moment of all—
Darryl Strawberry just simply hit home runs differently than other people. I've seen many balls jet over the wall like a laser; fly over with grandeur; just edge past someone's straining glove; get crushed into the parking lot, like Kingman's above. But none were like Darryl's. Darryl's were parabolas. They seemed to go as far up, as they did out.
One night in 1989, against the Braves, I was sitting down the first base line in the field seats, towards the outfield. Good seats. On an angle, pointed toward third base. Late in the game, Darryl came up and hit a pitch. That's all; he hit a pitch to right field. That's all that actually happened.
But once the ball left the plane of the infield, something magical happened. Time stopped. The crowd went silent. Seconds became hours. I saw the most beautiful sight I have ever been lucky enough to witness in my lifetime: a gleaming bright white baseball hanging motionless, high against a coal-black night sky. We gaped, fixated, breathlessly, as if watching a distant but crystal clear moon traverse the heavens from some rural hill. Slowly. In tiny increments. This was the longest fly ball I have EVER experienced. Not in distance; but in time. I never saw it move; I was just aware that it was in a different place overhead than it was a long moment ago. Taking forever. Thankfully, since no one there wanted it to end. Ever. It just ticked slowly across the night sky. Taking its own sweet time, actually.
It landed, finally, eventually, in the back of the bullpen in right. The crowd, still silent, took a few long moments to adjust, to come back to the here. After three to five stunned seconds after it landed, with Darryl already on his way to third, the place erupted, producing a roar that shook the very belly of that beloved old concrete shell.
Wow. Clearly, a "Did you see that!!!???" moment.
*** In May of 1986, I was working a high-stress job. Was great at it. But I was fried. Needed a vacation, but as a single guy, where was I going to go? Solution: The Mets came off the road to play a 10-game home stand leading up to Memorial Day. Perfect. Went to the ticket window, bought a handful of single-seat cancellations for the games, then went every day. Since they were cancellations, the ticket guy could give me different seats for each game. I was all over: one day in the press box, one day behind the Mets dugout; one day three rows in from third base, etc. So, every day, I saw a great game, got some sun, met a whole lot of really great people in all those different areas, and had a ball! One of the best vacations I've ever been on.
Went back to work exhausted. Perfect.
NOTE: Trust me: those day games after a night game are, in fact, killers!
*** During that multiple seat home stand, I witnessed one of the most awful things I've ever seen: I was seated in the second section behind third base, when a fly ball headed for the right field gap. Reserve Mets outfielder Danny Heap, 28 years old, in center, and Stanley Jefferson, a highly touted 23-yr.-old call-up from Triple-A in right, both took off after it, fully focused on the ball. Everyone's worst nightmare: CRAAAAAAACK!! They collided at full speed. Neither saw the other coming. The sound of their hitting was as clear to hear in the far, opposite side of the field where I was, as it was right next to them. They lay motionless for many long minutes. Eventually, they got up, and could get off the field. Heep went on to remain a valuable role player for the Mets that year, but Jefferson was basically shot for the year. Shame. He was one of their top prospects, a 1st-Round pick in the 1983 Draft, and had a lot of promise.
*** Gotham's scariest moment:
Opening Day is THE high holy day of Gotham's World. The grass is never greener; the uniforms never more colorful; the day never more hopeful.
In 1985, friend Ron and I got tickets last-minute, and had seats up in the upper deck, ten rows from the back wall, out by the foul pole. As far away from home plate as you can get, and still be able to say you're in Shea Stadium. Or even in New York State, for that matter. WAAAAAAAAAY up there. But, hey, it's opening day! We get there early, around 11:30 am for a 1:00 pm game, because—well, it's opening day!
By 11:45 am, a dozen off-duty cops from somewhere on Long Island come up the stairs and commandeer the row directly behind us. At 11:45 am, these cops were as stinking drunk as Gotham would work diligently to become by, say, maybe 2 or 3 in the morning BEFORE GOING HOME! But these happy lads decided to go right to opening day. Yippee.
Of the twelve, the single-drunkest (of course!) sat directly behind me on the aisle. As the game began, this poor child kept yelling that I was an asshole. Considering that sometimes I am, I turned to ask politely if they'd keep the screaming down to a roar, since I was trying to watch the game. His partner next to him apologized, then muttered obscenities at me once I turned back to the game. The child behind me also spent the first four innings of the game, hanging close to passing out in a stupor as only a truly fractured individual can do, that glaze, holding his beer cup so that the edge of the liquid hung precariously at the lip of the cup, hovering directly over my back and right shoulder. In the fourth inning, these two got up, and went off in search of one of the famous Shea Stadium rice-paddy bathrooms. Eventually, as luck would have it, they returned, helping each other stagger up the steep steps. They settle in and I hear the partner lean over to the gnome behind me and hiss: "If you...EVER!! If you EVER...pull that gun on me again, I'M GONNA SHOVE IT UP YOUR FUCKING ASS!!! DO YOU HEAR ME!!!???"
On that note, friend Ron and I collected our belongings and wandered to the other end of the stadium to protect life and limb.
*** Once had the chance to be down in the dugouts and playing field in 1983. There was a charity run held at Shea while the Mets were out of town. It was a cold, miserable rainy day, just like so many other cold, miserable, rainy days I've spent at Shea (no other place can grab and absorb to the marrow cold like that place could, and did). Anyway, they roped off the grass, but we had the warning track all around the field. Running is not big in Gotham's World, so I would stop to take advantage of being here or there in the place, as best I could. The dugouts alone set off two dozen baseball fantasies. But standing with my back to the 410 FT. sign on the centerfield wall and looking back in at the grandstand was stunning. My thought: "Whoa. That's a looooonnnng way back in there. Jesus!!!! You mean, those bastards can hit that shit WAY OUT HERE????? DAMN!!!!" Gave me new respect for them all. Yeah, if I could hit it over my head, standing at that spot at the wall, then, hell yeah, I'd want a million dollars, too!
*** One of the times I saw my father the maddest. Early Sixties, I talked my Dad into going to Banner Day at Shea, a truly unique Mets experience. Of course, I was not about to tell him that Banner festivities were held between games of a double-header, and no true American could ever leave a game before the final out. Nor would it have been wise to inform him that the Banner Parade would last for close to two hours all by itself. My Dad's had happier Sundays. But I was a pig in mud.
*** Gosh, I wonder...which was better?
Watching Pat Zachary get lit up in the '70s then having a snit, or Doc Gooden mowing people down in 1984 and smiling?
A couple guys I enjoyed during the '70s, Craig Swan, John Sterns, closer Skip Lockwood (who the Mets could sorely use right about now), the People's Hot Dog Willie Montanez, Doug Flynn and Willie Taveras, and Lenny Randle. But mostly, GEORGE "STORK" THEODORE. The 1970's answer to Marvelous Marv Thronberry. Couldn't play a lick, but damn, we loved both of those lugs.
*** I was there the day Joe Torre set the major league record for hitting into four double plays in one game, because that bastard Felix Millan went a perfect 4-for-4 in the spot right in front of him. So, it was all Millan's fault! This may be the quintissential Mets story of all time. As Bob Murphy said about baseball one night, "Just when you think you've seen everything, you see something you never saw before!"
*** On Monday, July 2, 1984, again I was sitting in the field level, down the first base side toward the outfield. From there, you got a pretty good cross-view of home and first. The pitch looked like it was going from right to left. Doc Gooden pitching against the Houston Astros. The ManChild was being just simply stupid good. That night, I saw something I had never seen before: The ball would leave Gooden's hand, and fly across to Ron Hodges' mitt. As you'd expect. And at a great rate of speed. Again, as you'd expect. What was different was that I'd watch the ball leave Gooden's hand, heading to the plate. But, about two-thirds of the way there, I'd see a burst, and the ball would nearly double in speed. At the 2/3 mark. When you only have 1+ seconds to figure out what you're seeing in the first place. Yeeee gods!! How the hell was a human being supposed to hit THAT! My favorite was the reaction of Terry Puhl, the Houston right fielder, who was an excellent hitter, and was always considered dangerous in clutch situations. Excellent or no, he struck out three times that night.
The first time, he just flailed at it. With no hope of making contact. The second time up, he'd pull his head away in disgust, awe and dismay after the last couple of pitches. The third time up, it took a long time for him to get to the batter's box. Then, he stood stock still while three of those exploding missiles whizzed by him. He turned, and walked slowly back to the dugout, a despondent, beaten man. I still remember watching him hanging and shaking his head as he walked back after being humiliated the third time.
*** The night the Mets clinched the NL East crown in 1988. Sitting in the upper deck above first base, again we got there about an hour and a half early. The Celebration had already begun. The entire concrete bowl was rockin' wildly. The electricity was astonishing. The current ran through every living creature in the building! Ron Darling started that game for the Mets, and I don't think there was any question that the Mets would win this game, and the Division, the League, the Series! Well, the Division, anyway...
These are just a few of my memories. Each of the millions of fans, flakes and bemused who wandered through the joint have their own.
Shea will be missed. The Wilpons have damaged the team enough, already. Sub-Prime Field will be a beautiful place to see a ballgame if you can get a new mortgage in this environment. We can only hope against hope now, that the Mets also drop the ugly black unis, along with the Wilpon Wedding White unis, and returns full-time to the Mets real home uniforms: blue caps with blue pinstripes. Always. That's the uniform. Anything else is disrespect to the brand the fans attach to.
The closing ceremonies were classy and well done. I do admit to losing it at human moments during the ceremonies: hearing the cheers for Gooden; watching Keith Hernandez jump back into the batter's box; everyone touching home plate; seeing all the winners, the losers, the survivors; hearing Fanfare for the Common Man for, as opposed to the Temple in the Bronx, Shea has always been for the common guy. Until the suits rolled in for a World Series or All-Star Game, and force the tickets up. But, for 162 games a year, it's been the People's Ballpark. Yeah, it's been a helluva 45-yr. run for the old joint.
Goodbye, Shea.
Goodnight, my friend.Labels: Mets, New York City, Shea
posted by Gotham 12:11 PM
3 Comments:
Sadly, in typical Mets fashion, they chose to have the parting ceremonies AFTER the final game--WTF?!--which the team had lost! And, of course, dashing all post-season hopes in the process. The old girl shouldn't have gone out like that.
(I managed to make it out there one last time during the final week and pay my respects, even though I was wearing a Cubs jersey!)
By 
Kiko Jones, at
October 02, 2008 2:36 AM
Point well taken, Kiko.
Yep. Watched the Yankee Stadium closer, and thought that that was the way to go out. Have the ceremony first, then segue into the game. That also allows the retirees to start partying sooner!
It also hands the torch over to the current team--that you're part of a tradition, which you saw with the Yankee win. It does have an impact. This Mets team was on its own, which clearly wasn't enough.
Would Scott or Luis cough this game up with Seaver and Koosman sitting there, glowering at them?
Maybe not.
By Gotham, at
October 02, 2008 11:56 AM
Yeah, the Mets' tribute to Shea on the final day looked less like an organized event and more like after the team lost someone in ownership/mgmt said "Hey, I know what can cheer these fans up".
By Kiko Jones, at
October 02, 2008 12:26 PM
