Opening Day

19
April

It was my daughter Deborah’s birthday. Also, she owed me a belated birthday gift. So, along with her husband Tim, we decided to celebrate together by attending the New York Mets 2017 season opener. Now, in baseball, unlike most other sports, Opening Day is a Big Deal. Probably has something to do with the fact that Spring, long awaited, has just arrived; that it’s been many months since the last games were played in October, plus the fact that all fans believe their team has a chance to win. Optimism abounds.
It turned out to be a terrific day and not just because the Mets won. Here’s what made it so:
• Opening Day at many ballparks can be torture – cold, damp, overcast. Under such conditions, nine innings of baseball is no pleasure. Not this time. Temperatures were around 55-60o, with partly sunny skies. Came away with my first tan of the season!
• Taking the Long Island Railroad to Willets Point in Queens is a breeze. Getting on with us at Port Washington was a handful of fans, but at each successive station more boarded, eventually filling our car. Spirits are high, most everyone wearing some piece of Mets gear. It’s fathers and sons mostly, husbands and wives, groups of guys. The chatter is upbeat – “This team can do it this year,” “Gotta stay healthy,” “Thor is going to blow ‘em away.”
• Out of the train and onto the walkway leading to Citi Field just ahead. Police line the route; some with sizable German Shepherds, menacing but deceptively passive, resting at their feet. Hawkers offer Opening Day Mets shirts for ten dollars. Off to the side in one of the parking lots, tailgate parties are well underway amidst pulsating music. The plaza in front of the stadium is filling fast, even though game time is well over an hour off. Local radio station WOR is broadcasting to passersby. Programs are being peddled, someone is out there promising Divine Deliverance while others gather to extol the efforts of Habitat for Humanity.
Moving toward the entrance we pass over an area where years before fans, by the thousands, purchased patches of pavement upon which were inscribed endless expressions of fidelity to the Mets. I am the proud possessor of one such slab, but efforts to locate it proved futile. We pledged to return at a future date for a search far more substantial and systematic.
• You cannot stroll casually into Citi Field. There are lines, largely because security is tight. Back in the day who would have imagined it would come to this – at a baseball game, no less. But no one complains. Sadly our world has changed. Everyone cooperates as bags are searched and all are patted down by security personnel.
• Walking through the interior passageways, then catching your first glimpse of the ballfield, no matter how many times you’ve done it, is thrilling, even transformative. The broad unblemished expanse of green, the “Boys of Summer” scattered about lazily stretching, tossing balls about, gabbing with one another. A timeless tableau.
• Opening Day is a time for ceremonials and we’re treated to a half hour of “presentations.” Both teams are introduced, the Atlanta Braves evoking little fan reaction, except when two former Mets players are introduced, both one-time fan favorites at Citi Field. R.A. Dickey, who won the Cy Young Award while pitching for the Mets in 2012, receives a warm reception despite his presence in the “enemy camp.” And then there is Bartolo Colon, the ageless pitching wonder who time and again turned in dazzling pitching performances, even as much attention focused on a Mets pitching staff of highly prized and celebrated young hurlers. Bartolo smiled and tipped his cap; he surely enjoyed this heartfelt ovation. Every individual on both squads are introduced. Some smile, others remain impassive. Coaches, trainers, bullpen coaches – all get to have their names announced and their pictures flashed onto the huge screen in centerfield. Don’t imagine that will happen again during the entire season. (We even learn there is someone in the Mets clubhouse charged with maintaining the “mental fitness” of players, in addition to those tasked with conditioning ligaments and muscles.)
• Lending gravitas to the occasion, tributes are paid to a longtime NYC hero policeman, Steven McDonald, who recently passed away, and who, despite being paralyzed by a bullet years before, forgave his assailant and became a highly respected public figure by repeatedly offering messages of forgiveness. The family of slain EMT worker Yadira Arroyo also came onto the field to much applause, the tragic story of her recent death well known to New Yorkers.
• Officials from the Police and Fire Departments were warmly received. Not so Mayer Bill DeBlasio. Has he fallen victim to the general disillusionment with “politicians,” or is there an undercurrent of dissatisfaction around the City regarding his administration? We’ll know on November 7th of this year when the results of the mayoralty election are announced. “The Star Spangled Banner” was sung in clear, no nonsense, unadorned tones, the crowd (as has now become the case at sporting events across the nation) breaking in with cheers, even before the concluding phrases are underway. At the same time, overhead, a lumbering, massive helicopter passes over the field reinforcing the martial theme of our national anthem. Later on, during the 7th inning stretch, “America the Beautiful” is sung. Many in the crowd join in. These are serious times. Americans are uncertain, uneasy for a number of reasons. Singing this song seems very reassuring, an affirmation that America remains a special place. The mood changes when “Take me Out to the Ballgame” follows. Considerable comfort is to be found in the familiar melody and lyrics.
• Much was expected of Noah Syndergaard. And in inning number one he blows Atlanta batters away. The problem is that Braves pitcher Julio Teheran is nearly as effective. In short order the game settles into a pitchers’ duel, a “threat” here and there, but still, after six, no score. Fans generally divide as to whether they prefer a slugfest or a pitchers’ duel. Still, when the pitchers are in complete control, fans tend to lose interest. The game becomes sluggish. So, what do you do?
• Well, you eat. People, when they talk about Citi Field, tend to rate the food offerings as critically as the players. There’s plenty of good food here, and fans take full advantage of the opportunities. Inflated prices? Who cares? You’re at the ballpark to have a good time. Eating has, as everyone acknowledges, become a major recreational activity. Most generously, Tim agreed to go get us food. He would return (with steak sandwiches), but only after 15-20 minutes had elapsed. What happened? “The lines were endless,” he remarked. No one seems to mind. Curiously no vendors patrolled the stands where we sat. I had always come to look upon these folks as part of the show – shouting their spiel – moving rapidly up and down the aisles, tossing their products into the hands of eager customers with uncanny accuracy – spectators passing money and change along from hand to hand in a communal spirit of cooperation. Was our area, for some reason, underserved, or had new stadium policies banished these entertaining salesmen?
• A baseball game usually consumes three hours or more. Who can sit for so long? You don’t have to. You can, of course, head for the food counters or to the bathroom. But even if you stay put you are constantly obliged to move up and down at your seat. A full count, men on base, a batted ball sailing deep into the outfield – in all such instances you gotta get up and see what’s happening or about to happen. You don’t have a choice, because everyone in front of you has stood up. Stay in our seat and you’ll see nothing. And then consider the fact that people are constantly on the move. Getting up and heading off for food and drink and then returning with their purchases. Up and down you go – repeatedly. No problem keeping your circulation going at a ballgame.
• The occasional crack of the bat, chatter around the infield, the call of the umpire, a plane flying overhead. Baseball has its sounds. But go out to the ballparks across America and be prepared to be blasted out of your seat! Enormous sound systems are in place that easily fill stadiums to levels that are probably medically contra-indicated. Fans, especially the younger ones, surely are accustomed to such a din. To my mind it is at odds with the calm temper of the game. Nonetheless, there’s a steady beat out there, music especially tailored to the image and personality of each Mets player, plus a rhythmic pulse intended to stir up excitement and get fans rooting for Mets bats to thunder.
• Then, as in every major stadium across America, there’s a huge screen, a vast flat expanse dwarfing any such home device, to keep fans occupied by presenting information on the players, reviewing key plays, offering highlights of other games along with scenes from the park – an endless montage of information and illustration. Between innings, it features fan quizzes, covers “events” on the field, such as races and other contests, as well as documenting fan smooching, thanks to the Kiss Cam, which zeroes in on couples around the ballpark, compelling them to embrace and kiss, whatever their inclination, once they’re highlighted on screen.
• Now back to the contest, which reached its decisive moments in the bottom of the seventh with the Mets at bat in a scoreless game. With Wilmer Flores on second, Asdrubol Cabrera rifled a single out to center field, which was picked up by Euder Inciarte, who unleashed a strong throw to the plate. Flores slid, catcher Tyler Flowers applied the bag, and the ump declared the runner out. It looked as if the Mets would be turned away. But manager Terry Collins promptly challenged the call. Out on the big screen in Centerfield the play could be reviewed by all. The fans response was instant and electric. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The replay showed Flores had touched home before the tag. The crowd grew quiet awaiting the results of the review, sensing there’d be a reversal. The “safe sign” came from the umpire: the Mets had broken through. They would go on to add five more runs in the inning and put the game out of reach. So what can be said about the impact of replay? In years past, there would have been no recourse. The ump’s decision, however, flawed, would be final. The impact of the call significant, a testament to human fallibility. The umpire had been perfectly positioned to see the play. Still, he got it wrong. It happens.
• We all agreed it was the fans around us who helped make the day. We watched the warm embraces of “regulars” who, with yet another season getting under way, were reunited once more. We spotted “characters’ garbed in most bizarre fashion parading up and down, one elderly woman with wings attached to her head in apparent tribute to Mets ace “Thor.” We saw fathers and sons, families, groups of friends, together, immersed in afternoon delights. Then, there were the five or six guys sitting right behind us. Couldn’t have scripted it any better. Every imaginable baseball cliché got tossed around in endless rounds of banter. Each one attempted to outdo the other in colorful play by play commentary. For sure they were buzzed, but short of being inebriated. Not obnoxious, their rants were standard fan fare. The home plate ump, of course, was repeatedly missing calls when he failed to call every pitch Syndegaard threw a strike. They mocked the obvious futility of the Braves players; they uttered trash when Cespedes failed to move up from first base when a ball got away from the Atlanta catcher, and berated Mets baserunners for not taking bigger leads off base. Nearly every development on the field provoked commentary from one or another of the group in a raucous chorus of one-upmanship. Sure you can stay home and watch the game on TV, but consider the “show” you’d be missing.
• With the Mets well out ahead we left in the top of the 8th. A derailment on the LIRR was causing significant backup and delays, so the thought of getting stuck quickened our departure. The train pulled in just as we arrived on the station platform. We followed the rest of the game on our phones and so learned the Mets had secured the victory. It would be hard to imagine a more rewarding afternoon. Opening Day and Noah Syndergaard had delivered.

OPENING DAY
It was my daughter Deborah’s birthday. Also, she owed me a belated birthday gift. So, along with her husband Tim, we decided to celebrate together by attending the New York Mets 2017 season opener. Now, in baseball, unlike most other sports, Opening Day is a Big Deal. Probably has something to do with the fact that Spring, long awaited, has just arrived; that it’s been many months since the last games were played in October, plus the fact that all fans believe their team has a chance to win. Optimism abounds.
It turned out to be a terrific day and not just because the Mets won. Here’s what made it so:
• Opening Day at many ballparks can be torture – cold, damp, overcast. Under such conditions, nine innings of baseball is no pleasure. Not this time. Temperatures were around 55-60o, with partly sunny skies. Came away with my first tan of the season!
• Taking the Long Island Railroad to Willets Point in Queens is a breeze. Getting on with us at Port Washington was a handful of fans, but at each successive station more boarded, eventually filling our car. Spirits are high, most everyone wearing some piece of Mets gear. It’s fathers and sons mostly, husbands and wives, groups of guys. The chatter is upbeat – “This team can do it this year,” “Gotta stay healthy,” “Thor is going to blow ‘em away.”
• Out of the train and onto the walkway leading to Citi Field just ahead. Police line the route; some with sizable German Shepherds, menacing but deceptively passive, resting at their feet. Hawkers offer Opening Day Mets shirts for ten dollars. Off to the side in one of the parking lots, tailgate parties are well underway amidst pulsating music. The plaza in front of the stadium is filling fast, even though game time is well over an hour off. Local radio station WOR is broadcasting to passersby. Programs are being peddled, someone is out there promising Divine Deliverance while others gather to extol the efforts of Habitat for Humanity.
Moving toward the entrance we pass over an area where years before fans, by the thousands, purchased patches of pavement upon which were inscribed endless expressions of fidelity to the Mets. I am the proud possessor of one such slab, but efforts to locate it proved futile. We pledged to return at a future date for a search far more substantial and systematic.
• You cannot stroll casually into Citi Field. There are lines, largely because security is tight. Back in the day who would have imagined it would come to this – at a baseball game, no less. But no one complains. Sadly our world has changed. Everyone cooperates as bags are searched and all are patted down by security personnel.
• Walking through the interior passageways, then catching your first glimpse of the ballfield, no matter how many times you’ve done it, is thrilling, even transformative. The broad unblemished expanse of green, the “Boys of Summer” scattered about lazily stretching, tossing balls about, gabbing with one another. A timeless tableau.
• Opening Day is a time for ceremonials and we’re treated to a half hour of “presentations.” Both teams are introduced, the Atlanta Braves evoking little fan reaction, except when two former Mets players are introduced, both one-time fan favorites at Citi Field. R.A. Dickey, who won the Cy Young Award while pitching for the Mets in 2012, receives a warm reception despite his presence in the “enemy camp.” And then there is Bartolo Colon, the ageless pitching wonder who time and again turned in dazzling pitching performances, even as much attention focused on a Mets pitching staff of highly prized and celebrated young hurlers. Bartolo smiled and tipped his cap; he surely enjoyed this heartfelt ovation. Every individual on both squads are introduced. Some smile, others remain impassive. Coaches, trainers, bullpen coaches – all get to have their names announced and their pictures flashed onto the huge screen in centerfield. Don’t imagine that will happen again during the entire season. (We even learn there is someone in the Mets clubhouse charged with maintaining the “mental fitness” of players, in addition to those tasked with conditioning ligaments and muscles.)
• Lending gravitas to the occasion, tributes are paid to a longtime NYC hero policeman, Steven McDonald, who recently passed away, and who, despite being paralyzed by a bullet years before, forgave his assailant and became a highly respected public figure by repeatedly offering messages of forgiveness. The family of slain EMT worker Yadira Arroyo also came onto the field to much applause, the tragic story of her recent death well known to New Yorkers.
• Officials from the Police and Fire Departments were warmly received. Not so Mayer Bill DeBlasio. Has he fallen victim to the general disillusionment with “politicians,” or is there an undercurrent of dissatisfaction around the City regarding his administration? We’ll know on November 7th of this year when the results of the mayoralty election are announced. “The Star Spangled Banner” was sung in clear, no nonsense, unadorned tones, the crowd (as has now become the case at sporting events across the nation) breaking in with cheers, even before the concluding phrases are underway. At the same time, overhead, a lumbering, massive helicopter passes over the field reinforcing the martial theme of our national anthem. Later on, during the 7th inning stretch, “America the Beautiful” is sung. Many in the crowd join in. These are serious times. Americans are uncertain, uneasy for a number of reasons. Singing this song seems very reassuring, an affirmation that America remains a special place. The mood changes when “Take me Out to the Ballgame” follows. Considerable comfort is to be found in the familiar melody and lyrics.
• Much was expected of Noah Syndergaard. And in inning number one he blows Atlanta batters away. The problem is that Braves pitcher Julio Teheran is nearly as effective. In short order the game settles into a pitchers’ duel, a “threat” here and there, but still, after six, no score. Fans generally divide as to whether they prefer a slugfest or a pitchers’ duel. Still, when the pitchers are in complete control, fans tend to lose interest. The game becomes sluggish. So, what do you do?
• Well, you eat. People, when they talk about Citi Field, tend to rate the food offerings as critically as the players. There’s plenty of good food here, and fans take full advantage of the opportunities. Inflated prices? Who cares? You’re at the ballpark to have a good time. Eating has, as everyone acknowledges, become a major recreational activity. Most generously, Tim agreed to go get us food. He would return (with steak sandwiches), but only after 15-20 minutes had elapsed. What happened? “The lines were endless,” he remarked. No one seems to mind. Curiously no vendors patrolled the stands where we sat. I had always come to look upon these folks as part of the show – shouting their spiel – moving rapidly up and down the aisles, tossing their products into the hands of eager customers with uncanny accuracy – spectators passing money and change along from hand to hand in a communal spirit of cooperation. Was our area, for some reason, underserved, or had new stadium policies banished these entertaining salesmen?
• A baseball game usually consumes three hours or more. Who can sit for so long? You don’t have to. You can, of course, head for the food counters or to the bathroom. But even if you stay put you are constantly obliged to move up and down at your seat. A full count, men on base, a batted ball sailing deep into the outfield – in all such instances you gotta get up and see what’s happening or about to happen. You don’t have a choice, because everyone in front of you has stood up. Stay in our seat and you’ll see nothing. And then consider the fact that people are constantly on the move. Getting up and heading off for food and drink and then returning with their purchases. Up and down you go – repeatedly. No problem keeping your circulation going at a ballgame.
• The occasional crack of the bat, chatter around the infield, the call of the umpire, a plane flying overhead. Baseball has its sounds. But go out to the ballparks across America and be prepared to be blasted out of your seat! Enormous sound systems are in place that easily fill stadiums to levels that are probably medically contra-indicated. Fans, especially the younger ones, surely are accustomed to such a din. To my mind it is at odds with the calm temper of the game. Nonetheless, there’s a steady beat out there, music especially tailored to the image and personality of each Mets player, plus a rhythmic pulse intended to stir up excitement and get fans rooting for Mets bats to thunder.
• Then, as in every major stadium across America, there’s a huge screen, a vast flat expanse dwarfing any such home device, to keep fans occupied by presenting information on the players, reviewing key plays, offering highlights of other games along with scenes from the park – an endless montage of information and illustration. Between innings, it features fan quizzes, covers “events” on the field, such as races and other contests, as well as documenting fan smooching, thanks to the Kiss Cam, which zeroes in on couples around the ballpark, compelling them to embrace and kiss, whatever their inclination, once they’re highlighted on screen.
• Now back to the contest, which reached its decisive moments in the bottom of the seventh with the Mets at bat in a scoreless game. With Wilmer Flores on second, Asdrubol Cabrera rifled a single out to center field, which was picked up by Euder Inciarte, who unleashed a strong throw to the plate. Flores slid, catcher Tyler Flowers applied the bag, and the ump declared the runner out. It looked as if the Mets would be turned away. But manager Terry Collins promptly challenged the call. Out on the big screen in Centerfield the play could be reviewed by all. The fans response was instant and electric. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The replay showed Flores had touched home before the tag. The crowd grew quiet awaiting the results of the review, sensing there’d be a reversal. The “safe sign” came from the umpire: the Mets had broken through. They would go on to add five more runs in the inning and put the game out of reach. So what can be said about the impact of replay? In years past, there would have been no recourse. The ump’s decision, however, flawed, would be final. The impact of the call significant, a testament to human fallibility. The umpire had been perfectly positioned to see the play. Still, he got it wrong. It happens.
• We all agreed it was the fans around us who helped make the day. We watched the warm embraces of “regulars” who, with yet another season getting under way, were reunited once more. We spotted “characters’ garbed in most bizarre fashion parading up and down, one elderly woman with wings attached to her head in apparent tribute to Mets ace “Thor.” We saw fathers and sons, families, groups of friends, together, immersed in afternoon delights. Then, there were the five or six guys sitting right behind us. Couldn’t have scripted it any better. Every imaginable baseball cliché got tossed around in endless rounds of banter. Each one attempted to outdo the other in colorful play by play commentary. For sure they were buzzed, but short of being inebriated. Not obnoxious, their rants were standard fan fare. The home plate ump, of course, was repeatedly missing calls when he failed to call every pitch Syndegaard threw a strike. They mocked the obvious futility of the Braves players; they uttered trash when Cespedes failed to move up from first base when a ball got away from the Atlanta catcher, and berated Mets baserunners for not taking bigger leads off base. Nearly every development on the field provoked commentary from one or another of the group in a raucous chorus of one-upmanship. Sure you can stay home and watch the game on TV, but consider the “show” you’d be missing.
• With the Mets well out ahead we left in the top of the 8th. A derailment on the LIRR was causing significant backup and delays, so the thought of getting stuck quickened our departure. The train pulled in just as we arrived on the station platform. We followed the rest of the game on our phones and so learned the Mets had secured the victory. It would be hard to imagine a more rewarding afternoon. Opening Day and Noah Syndergaard had delivered.

It was my daughter Deborah’s birthday. Also, she owed me a belated birthday gift. So, along with her husband Tim, we decided to celebrate together by attending the New York Mets 2017 season opener. Now, in baseball, unlike most other sports, Opening Day is a Big Deal. Probably has something to do with the fact that Spring, long awaited, has just arrived; that it’s been many months since the last games were played in October, plus the fact that all fans believe their team has a chance to win. Optimism abounds.
It turned out to be a terrific day and not just because the Mets won. Here’s what made it so:
• Opening Day at many ballparks can be torture – cold, damp, overcast. Under such conditions, nine innings of baseball is no pleasure. Not this time. Temperatures were around 55-60o, with partly sunny skies. Came away with my first tan of the season!
• Taking the Long Island Railroad to Willets Point in Queens is a breeze. Getting on with us at Port Washington was a handful of fans, but at each successive station more boarded, eventually filling our car. Spirits are high, most everyone wearing some piece of Mets gear. It’s fathers and sons mostly, husbands and wives, groups of guys. The chatter is upbeat – “This team can do it this year,” “Gotta stay healthy,” “Thor is going to blow ‘em away.”
• Out of the train and onto the walkway leading to Citi Field just ahead. Police line the route; some with sizable German Shepherds, menacing but deceptively passive, resting at their feet. Hawkers offer Opening Day Mets shirts for ten dollars. Off to the side in one of the parking lots, tailgate parties are well underway amidst pulsating music. The plaza in front of the stadium is filling fast, even though game time is well over an hour off. Local radio station WOR is broadcasting to passersby. Programs are being peddled, someone is out there promising Divine Deliverance while others gather to extol the efforts of Habitat for Humanity.
Moving toward the entrance we pass over an area where years before fans, by the thousands, purchased patches of pavement upon which were inscribed endless expressions of fidelity to the Mets. I am the proud possessor of one such slab, but efforts to locate it proved futile. We pledged to return at a future date for a search far more substantial and systematic.
• You cannot stroll casually into Citi Field. There are lines, largely because security is tight. Back in the day who would have imagined it would come to this – at a baseball game, no less. But no one complains. Sadly our world has changed. Everyone cooperates as bags are searched and all are patted down by security personnel.
• Walking through the interior passageways, then catching your first glimpse of the ballfield, no matter how many times you’ve done it, is thrilling, even transformative. The broad unblemished expanse of green, the “Boys of Summer” scattered about lazily stretching, tossing balls about, gabbing with one another. A timeless tableau.
• Opening Day is a time for ceremonials and we’re treated to a half hour of “presentations.” Both teams are introduced, the Atlanta Braves evoking little fan reaction, except when two former Mets players are introduced, both one-time fan favorites at Citi Field. R.A. Dickey, who won the Cy Young Award while pitching for the Mets in 2012, receives a warm reception despite his presence in the “enemy camp.” And then there is Bartolo Colon, the ageless pitching wonder who time and again turned in dazzling pitching performances, even as much attention focused on a Mets pitching staff of highly prized and celebrated young hurlers. Bartolo smiled and tipped his cap; he surely enjoyed this heartfelt ovation. Every individual on both squads are introduced. Some smile, others remain impassive. Coaches, trainers, bullpen coaches – all get to have their names announced and their pictures flashed onto the huge screen in centerfield. Don’t imagine that will happen again during the entire season. (We even learn there is someone in the Mets clubhouse charged with maintaining the “mental fitness” of players, in addition to those tasked with conditioning ligaments and muscles.)
• Lending gravitas to the occasion, tributes are paid to a longtime NYC hero policeman, Steven McDonald, who recently passed away, and who, despite being paralyzed by a bullet years before, forgave his assailant and became a highly respected public figure by repeatedly offering messages of forgiveness. The family of slain EMT worker Yadira Arroyo also came onto the field to much applause, the tragic story of her recent death well known to New Yorkers.
• Officials from the Police and Fire Departments were warmly received. Not so Mayer Bill DeBlasio. Has he fallen victim to the general disillusionment with “politicians,” or is there an undercurrent of dissatisfaction around the City regarding his administration? We’ll know on November 7th of this year when the results of the mayoralty election are announced. “The Star Spangled Banner” was sung in clear, no nonsense, unadorned tones, the crowd (as has now become the case at sporting events across the nation) breaking in with cheers, even before the concluding phrases are underway. At the same time, overhead, a lumbering, massive helicopter passes over the field reinforcing the martial theme of our national anthem. Later on, during the 7th inning stretch, “America the Beautiful” is sung. Many in the crowd join in. These are serious times. Americans are uncertain, uneasy for a number of reasons. Singing this song seems very reassuring, an affirmation that America remains a special place. The mood changes when “Take me Out to the Ballgame” follows. Considerable comfort is to be found in the familiar melody and lyrics.
• Much was expected of Noah Syndergaard. And in inning number one he blows Atlanta batters away. The problem is that Braves pitcher Julio Teheran is nearly as effective. In short order the game settles into a pitchers’ duel, a “threat” here and there, but still, after six, no score. Fans generally divide as to whether they prefer a slugfest or a pitchers’ duel. Still, when the pitchers are in complete control, fans tend to lose interest. The game becomes sluggish. So, what do you do?
• Well, you eat. People, when they talk about Citi Field, tend to rate the food offerings as critically as the players. There’s plenty of good food here, and fans take full advantage of the opportunities. Inflated prices? Who cares? You’re at the ballpark to have a good time. Eating has, as everyone acknowledges, become a major recreational activity. Most generously, Tim agreed to go get us food. He would return (with steak sandwiches), but only after 15-20 minutes had elapsed. What happened? “The lines were endless,” he remarked. No one seems to mind. Curiously no vendors patrolled the stands where we sat. I had always come to look upon these folks as part of the show – shouting their spiel – moving rapidly up and down the aisles, tossing their products into the hands of eager customers with uncanny accuracy – spectators passing money and change along from hand to hand in a communal spirit of cooperation. Was our area, for some reason, underserved, or had new stadium policies banished these entertaining salesmen?
• A baseball game usually consumes three hours or more. Who can sit for so long? You don’t have to. You can, of course, head for the food counters or to the bathroom. But even if you stay put you are constantly obliged to move up and down at your seat. A full count, men on base, a batted ball sailing deep into the outfield – in all such instances you gotta get up and see what’s happening or about to happen. You don’t have a choice, because everyone in front of you has stood up. Stay in our seat and you’ll see nothing. And then consider the fact that people are constantly on the move. Getting up and heading off for food and drink and then returning with their purchases. Up and down you go – repeatedly. No problem keeping your circulation going at a ballgame.
• The occasional crack of the bat, chatter around the infield, the call of the umpire, a plane flying overhead. Baseball has its sounds. But go out to the ballparks across America and be prepared to be blasted out of your seat! Enormous sound systems are in place that easily fill stadiums to levels that are probably medically contra-indicated. Fans, especially the younger ones, surely are accustomed to such a din. To my mind it is at odds with the calm temper of the game. Nonetheless, there’s a steady beat out there, music especially tailored to the image and personality of each Mets player, plus a rhythmic pulse intended to stir up excitement and get fans rooting for Mets bats to thunder.
• Then, as in every major stadium across America, there’s a huge screen, a vast flat expanse dwarfing any such home device, to keep fans occupied by presenting information on the players, reviewing key plays, offering highlights of other games along with scenes from the park – an endless montage of information and illustration. Between innings, it features fan quizzes, covers “events” on the field, such as races and other contests, as well as documenting fan smooching, thanks to the Kiss Cam, which zeroes in on couples around the ballpark, compelling them to embrace and kiss, whatever their inclination, once they’re highlighted on screen.
• Now back to the contest, which reached its decisive moments in the bottom of the seventh with the Mets at bat in a scoreless game. With Wilmer Flores on second, Asdrubol Cabrera rifled a single out to center field, which was picked up by Euder Inciarte, who unleashed a strong throw to the plate. Flores slid, catcher Tyler Flowers applied the bag, and the ump declared the runner out. It looked as if the Mets would be turned away. But manager Terry Collins promptly challenged the call. Out on the big screen in Centerfield the play could be reviewed by all. The fans response was instant and electric. The roar of the crowd was deafening. The replay showed Flores had touched home before the tag. The crowd grew quiet awaiting the results of the review, sensing there’d be a reversal. The “safe sign” came from the umpire: the Mets had broken through. They would go on to add five more runs in the inning and put the game out of reach. So what can be said about the impact of replay? In years past, there would have been no recourse. The ump’s decision, however, flawed, would be final. The impact of the call significant, a testament to human fallibility. The umpire had been perfectly positioned to see the play. Still, he got it wrong. It happens.
• We all agreed it was the fans around us who helped make the day. We watched the warm embraces of “regulars” who, with yet another season getting under way, were reunited once more. We spotted “characters’ garbed in most bizarre fashion parading up and down, one elderly woman with wings attached to her head in apparent tribute to Mets ace “Thor.” We saw fathers and sons, families, groups of friends, together, immersed in afternoon delights. Then, there were the five or six guys sitting right behind us. Couldn’t have scripted it any better. Every imaginable baseball cliché got tossed around in endless rounds of banter. Each one attempted to outdo the other in colorful play by play commentary. For sure they were buzzed, but short of being inebriated. Not obnoxious, their rants were standard fan fare. The home plate ump, of course, was repeatedly missing calls when he failed to call every pitch Syndegaard threw a strike. They mocked the obvious futility of the Braves players; they uttered trash when Cespedes failed to move up from first base when a ball got away from the Atlanta catcher, and berated Mets baserunners for not taking bigger leads off base. Nearly every development on the field provoked commentary from one or another of the group in a raucous chorus of one-upmanship. Sure you can stay home and watch the game on TV, but consider the “show” you’d be missing.
• With the Mets well out ahead we left in the top of the 8th. A derailment on the LIRR was causing significant backup and delays, so the thought of getting stuck quickened our departure. The train pulled in just as we arrived on the station platform. We followed the rest of the game on our phones and so learned the Mets had secured the victory. It would be hard to imagine a more rewarding afternoon. Opening Day and Noah Syndergaard had delivered.

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