Grounds for optimism

Young eyes shed light on an otherwise dreary Opening Day

Let me tell you about Opening Day at Shea Stadium, which by now you've probably heard about on account of the Mets' historic 15-2 loss to the Cubs -- the worst first-game rout since Other Team 63, Peanuts Gang 0. Mets lefty Tom Glavine took the mound and a few minutes later, there went the shutout.

Not that I actually saw Glavine give up his four first-inning runs, seeing as I was snarled in traffic outside the Stadium. Monday marked my 19th Opening Day at Shea, which qualifies me as me an expert on the subject of Mets lid-lifters. I've also spent a measurable percentage of my life wedged into New Yawk, bumper-to-bumper, horn-blowing, middle-finger-raising traffic. Monday's jam? Fuggedaboutit. Must have been all the security checks (and a crowd of 56,749) grinding the procession to a near-halt, which is why no one was really complaining.

Of all my Openers this was the first to which I was escorted by my 7-year-old girl, thus keeping alive the long family tradition -- started by me as soon as I was old enough to spell hooky -- that grade school is never, ever as important as the first day of a new season.

The first pitch was only a few minutes away by the time we were within sight of Shea, at which point the 7-year-old and I agreed: We shoulda taken the train. Even long division is more fun than traffic. Then there was the issue of parking. We had to inch entirely around the Stadium in vain ("Maybe we should just go home," my 7-year-old whimpered.) until we finally found a dubious spot on a cramped, industrial-looking and litter-strewn Queens side street, right outside a chop shop. We were maybe a mile and a half from home plate.

By the time we reached our seats the Mets were down 4-0 and the air was very, very cold. Not 1985 Opener cold -- Sir Ernest Shackleton couldn't have waited out Gary Carter's extra-inning home run on that day -- but it was low-30s, NFC-East-football-weather cold. We had gloves and scarves and Mets caps and a blanket; so we were OK as long as the sun stayed on us. My sidekick provided some play-by-play. "It's the top of the second!" she exclaimed as we sat down.

We had pretty good seats, save for the fact that right in front of us sat a guy who smelled like the bathroom at CBGB. He was on his 89th beer and he stood up every few pitches to tell the umpire and various Cubs players that they were the ones who stunk. His voice was already hoarse by the time we took our seats and when someone yelled, "Down in front!" the red-faced guy turned around and croaked: "Up in back!" The 7-year-old beside me caught my eye and windmilled her index finger by her temple. "He is craaaazy," she explained.

The game was two hours and 15 minutes old by the fifth inning and the Cubs were well on their way to scoring more Opening Day runs than they'd scored since 1899, when John Franco was just a rookie. In the sixth we went for some hot chocolate, which not only meant standing in line for 28 minutes but also forced us to listen to the Cubs turning a 6-2 lead into a 10-2 advantage while the crowd registered its frustration. "Uh-oh," said my astute observer in response to each collective groan.

By the seventh our seats were in the shade, and we sat there picking out bits of something or other from our cocoa as the Cubs added five all-important insurance runs. The Shea faithful had dwindled to about 10,000. That brought us to the seventh-inning stretch, and we stood for a canned, chorusy and chintzy sounding version of God Bless America blaring from the P.A. system. Then we swayed together during Take Me out to the Ballgame. "Can we go home now?" I was asked. I agreed that it was high time to do so; we'd heard enough fans muttering things like, "Oh my effin' god, this is so effin' embarrassing."

We started our hike out to the car ("Can you carry me?" the little one asked, and I did), and the good news was that our vehicle hadn't been towed. The other news involved the matter of a $105 ticket on the windshield. The 7-year-old slept during the long ride home -- through a lot more traffic -- while I listened on the radio as the Mets rallied with a two-out double in the ninth.

Later that night, after we'd stuck our magnetic schedule on the refrigerator and reminisced about Mike Piazza's long fly ball in the third inning, I tucked my tired little one into bed and went downstairs. A friend called and I told him about the day. About the awful loss, the heavy traffic, the late arrival, the cold weather, the heckling fan -- and the huge parking ticket.

"Rough day," he reasoned.

"Nah," I said. "I wouldn't have traded it for anything."

Sports Illustrated senior writer Kostya Kennedy takes sides each week at SI.com.

 

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