Saying Goodbye to Shea

I'm heading north this weekend to say goodbye to Shea Stadium with old friends Mike Crane, Alec Stais and Craig Henneberger. The demise of Shea coincides with the 30th anniversary of my graduation from high school. Waves of memories are moving across my brain like the wake from a speedboat.

Shea in the 1970s was a cold, gray, noisy, charmless and impersonal place to watch a baseball game, as if all the flaws of the multi-purpose stadium were rolled into one building. What's more, there was no neighborhood for the stadium to grace: It was built near the World's Fair grounds, a site selected more for its accessibility to highways than stores or bars. In fact, during one of the strikes, Shea's neighborhood was the least affected, because there was no neighboring area to affect.

The upgrades -- removing the sheet-metal acne, the big scoreboard -- were OK. And there were some laughable attempts to spice things up -- remember Mettle the Mets mule? But aside from the Serval Zipper sign, replaced by UHaul, and the sign guy, Shea lacked a personality. many of the stadiums built in the 1960s and 70s already are gone, with the exception of Dodger Stadium. Shea stadium is the one of the last, and definitely the least.

That said, I have many fond memories of Shea. I saw my first ballgame at Shea. My dad came home at noon from work -- I remember sitting on a chair on the front lawn waiting for him -- picked me up and took me to Shea. We sat long the first-base side. Seaver pitched. Seaver was great. He had such command, such stage presence -- and in 1969, he was at his best. He threw heat. The Mets were playing the Cardinals. The Mets won. I was hooked.

In the 1970s, Shea's accessibility from Garden City -- even if you did have to change trains both at Jamaica AND Woodside -- meant that I could go there with my friends. Shea remains a symbol of the independence my parents lent me in allowing me to travel there with the group -- independence that eventually expanded to include trips to Manhattan. On the train and in the stadium, we engaged in a rather odd form of male bonding. We even published a magazine to read on the way -- lots of it stolen from the Sporting News, to which we subscribed (this was when it was still good). On at least one occasion, we declared it to be "brother's day at Shea," and we brought along our younger siblings. On our trips home, we'd go down into the Jamaica train station to buy a knish at the hot dog stand. the Long Island Rail Road fare was half-price on Sundays, and with general admission tickets and some sort of nourishment, we rarely spent more than $10 or $15 apiece. So I guess you get what you pay for.

At Shea, we would walk up to the very back row of general admission, from which you could see the entire field. The players were very, very far away, but it gave you a bird's-eye-view of strategy. The games in early April were especially memorable -- one was bitterly cold, and we were reduced to buying hot dogs to keep warm. Another Sunday, some of the guys tried experimental french fries, which were no better than oily, friend, mashed foam. I remember Bret Watson shouting to passers-by, "Don't eat the fries!" A couple of the guys wrote to complain, and they got coupons and apologies. I don't think I ate the fries.

This was the era when the Mets slided from mediocre to really bad under Yogi Berra, Roy McMillan, Joe Frazier (who had managed Tidewater) and Joe Torre. The stadium rarely was full or even all that crowded. Rusty Staub was traded to the Tigers for Mickey Lolich. In his first game, a freezing Sunday game I went to, the first two Expos to bat bunted against him, and he couldn't field the balls. In the ultimate betrayal that haunts me to this day, Seaver was traded in 1977 to the Reds because he dared to ask for money commensurate with his future-Hall of Fame skills. Tug McGraw, Bud Harrelson, Jerry Koosman, Ed Kranepool, Felix Milan, John Stearns and John Matlack were the class of the Mets. But the team that went to the World Series in 1973 gradually disintegrated, and we ended up hoping that John Milner (this is the year of the Hammer), George "The Stork" Theodore and Roy Staiger would somehow pan out. They didn't. Players like Torre and George Foster, who were noted hitters, somehow became less-noted hitters when traded to the Mets. And then there was Dave Kingman, whose foul balls would drift as high up as we were sitting. He was a one-dimensional player, exciting to watch at bat for his occasional huge homers and his more than occasional wild strikeouts.

What Shea lacked in character was made up in part by the colorfulness of the fans who seemed to live in the upper decks. The three most recognizable were Fuzzy, Kess and Igor. Frankly, I always got Fuzzy and Igor confused, but Crane could tell the difference. Whenever The New York Times wanted a fan quote, the reporter would traipse up to the upper deck and interview Fuzzy, and referred to him only as Fuzzy. (That must have been some conversation with the editor.) Kess would shout insulting thing at the players, who OF COURSE COULD HEAR HIM. I'm sure some of my friends interacted with them, but I didn't, in part because they scared me a tad.

Of the games I remember clearly, most involved Seaver. There were two in 1977 -- one in which he was still a Met. It was a pitching masterpiece -- I believe it was a two-hitter. Then there was the one in which he returned to Shea as a Red. The stadium was almost filled. Chants of "Seaver!" filled it. It was a great homecoming. When Seaver left the game, however, the occasional chant of "Let's go, Mets!" started returning. The Mets lost, of course.

When I went away to college, my trips to Shea grew more and more infrequent. My family, including my mother (a rabid Met fan from 1973 onward) went to Met Medallion day in 1980. Yes, I still have my Medallion. The stadium was sun-soaked and almost full, and Steve Henderson, one of the guys who came in the Seaver trade, hit a three-run homer in the bottom of the ninth (his first homer of the season) to win the game. By then, the Mets had started to recover -- I think the team had Mookie Wilson by that time, perhaps the luckiest player in World Series history. I went to a few games now and then through the 1980s, and celebrated their World Series win in 1986, but later on I drifted away from following the Mets in the 1990s. I was living in Missouri, Kansas, Florida and Nevada; I had gotten married (to a Cardinals fan) and had kids.

In 2005, when my mother died, I decided I was going to start following the Mets again. They had exciting young players, particularly David Wright. Now they were just good enough to break my heart, which they did in 2006 (you could have swung and missed and everything would be forgiven, Carlos) and 2007 (no need to go into that). And now, I'm returning to Shea for the last time to see a team that desperately needs something (Ryan Church to get healthy). They will be playing the Dodgers, now led by Joe Torre on his return to New York. Shea will be no more intimate than it was in 1976. For intimacy, I can go to the AA ballparks in Alabama where the Birmingham Barons and the Montgomery Biscuits (the all-time worst sports team name) play. (The Montgomery stadium, built downtown in a former train station, is particularly fun.) Mets fan are far more unruly than they are in St. Louis or Phoenix, where I've also seen games. Shea's demise has been a long time coming, and one that needed to happen, but I'm happy I get to be there once more before it goes gentle into that good night.