This virus is making me nuts. I mean absolutely crazy. Somebody asked me what day it was. I looked at my phone and replied, “Tuesday.”
The next question. “What month is this?”
I again looked at my phone. “May.”
I had lost touch with the calendar.
I stopped for a moment as this thought came to mind. “You have no idea what day it is and it doesn’t matter.”
It dawned on me. My life has always been defined by sporting events.
“Pitchers and catchers report to Spring Training.” It’s late February.
“It’s tournament time,” means we are in March.
“Augusta National… an OASIS of career-DEFINING moments.” Hello April.
“Here we are ready for the beginning of another fortnight at Wimbledon.” It’s mid-June.
“Welcome to Canton, everybody.” NFL Hall of Fame in late July and football season is coming.
“Well everyone, just like that it’s rivalry week and the college scene is ready to explode.” Hello Thanksgiving.
Okay, so you get the picture. But here’s the thing. There have been no sports to report since the world went dark in March. I have no reason to stay up late watching a crucial game or get up early to watch ESPN.
After a full month of no sports and going to bed early we had the NFL college draft. Let me start with It is mind-blowing how three supposed experts rated the New York Jets college draft with a grade of C- and two others said it was a B+.
The draft was fun. A few days of escape from the virus. Dads make their picks and hug their kids. Bill Belichick and his dog. Roger Goodell and his easy chair. But that was it. Three days and endless discussions. Who had the best draft? I bet they’ll regret not picking him. What were they thinking? Over and over and over. Hello Groundhog Day.
My friend Joe, a big Philadelphia sports fan, has grown so tired of sports talk, he did the unthinkable. He turned off WIP sports talk and is watching Daryl’s House on MTV
So, where does that leave us? With stories. My stories. Your stories. If ESPN and FS1 and every other sports channel can re-package games from the 1980’s so can we.
Oh, before I begin. ESPN moving up the Michael Jordan documentary was brilliant. With nothing on TV all weekend, we now know when Sunday night is here. I have no idea why this had been locked up for twenty years but we can now end this ridiculous argument of who the greatest basketball player of all time was or is.
Wilt? Kareem? Bill Russell? Jerry West? Doctor J? Lebron? All are first-ballot Hall of Fame ballplayers.
Michael Jordan exemplifies the drive to win PLUS unlimited ability. The guy who when asked who would take the last shot in a game with every Hall of Fame ballplayer on the court answered, “Me,” with no hesitation.
I’m not an acronym guy. I hate seeing capitalized letters (in this case GOAT), with no periods after each letter, and trying to figure out what they mean (CDC, ADD, PANS, POS come to mind). But he is the GOAT. (Remember when that was a bad thing?)
Meet the Mets
I grew up twenty minutes from Shea Stadium and am exactly one year older than the New York Mets. My father was a die-hard Brooklyn Dodgers fan who in the fall of 1957, felt homeless. His team headed for the sunshine and palm trees of Los Angeles, taking the New York
Giants with them as they landed in San Francisco.
He was left with the hated New York Yankees. In other words, he had no baseball. As a national league fan, he was not about to learn a new league or cheer for a rival team. “Kissing my sister would have been a better option.”
In 1962, the New York Mets were born. They were in the National League and while not walking distance from the new home he occupied with his wife and three kids, they were twenty minutes by car, and they were on local tv.
By proxy, my older brother and I became fans. My brother was a Micky Mantle guy, but by that point, he was so wrapped up in tape before each game he was a mere shell of himself sacrificing center field for first base and hardly able to move. The Designated Hitter had yet to be born.
The Mets, on the other hand, were known as “lovable losers.” They set the record for most losses with 120 that first year with a group of ballplayers past their prime. You can imagine my shock, along with the rest of the baseball universe, when they went from losers to winners in 1969. I still get chills thinking about that season, when our principal, Mr. Harvey, piped the game (afternoon World Series?) over the PA system.
They challenged again in 1973, but lost in seven games to the Oakland Athletics, bringing me to my point.
When the Yankees signed him in 1977, I was sixteen and my brother, twenty-three, called me into his room. The owner of the Yankees, George Steinbrenner, was taking advantage of free agency and signing the best players in the game.
“It’s like watching the All-Star game every day,” he said. “So, I think we should start watching them. The Mets are so bad and if Seaver gives up a run, he’ll lose because they can’t score.” (Tom Seaver, “Mr. Met,” was traded on June 15th).
Our dad arrived home from work and asked my mother why my brother’s door was shut.
She shrugged. “They’ve been in there for two hours. I don’t know what they’re doing but I was told it was serious and they were not to be disturbed until some decision was agreed upon. I thought I heard rumblings a few minutes ago and the white smoke would be released, but nothing yet.”
The door opened and the decision had been made. We had converted. We traded in Channel 9 and were new members of Channel 11, home of the New York Yankees. New league to learn, new rivalries, new cities, but we could now watch Reggie Jackson every day.
We explained it to our parents. My mother shrugged, shook her head, and said that she needed to check on her pot roast.
Our dad stared at us. “You guys gave up your allegiance to the Jets as well?”
“Never,” we said in unison.
“Ya know, when I was your age, you would get beat up if you switched, went against the hometown team.”
My brother looked him squarely in the eye. “Your team deserted you. Did any of the players call you and apologize for moving away. Maybe you too should embrace the new world.”
My dad thought for a moment. “I don’t really have time to sit in on a two-hour initiation.”
“Yeah, but we had to set the rules of how to do it and decide if we were non-committal to the Mets or we would now hate them. This wasn’t a decision we made lightly.”
“And?”
I smiled. “Let us know your decision and we’ll tell you. This must be kept confidential. I mean, if one day the Mets become good again, we can’t go back. This is who we are.”
We never did get an answer. But it was a fun summer. The Yankees were on the back page of the newspaper daily not for winning, but for
fighting. All we talked about were the Yankees. Dad was in.
The Yankees went on to win the World Series that year and the next. The thing about it was, they were never boring.
I own suits, sports jackets, and Yankee tee shirts. My sons, 19 and 17, know of only one baseball team and that is the New York Yankees.
Today, you can stream any team you want on your phone, tablet, pc, or 60-inch TV screen. You can be a Brewers fan in Las Vegas or a Dodgers fan in Montana. Allegiances don’t seem to matter anymore. In fact, now there are fans who cheer for cool uniforms.
I still live and die with the Yankees. I remember my meeting with my brother like it was yesterday. Rooting for the Mets? Can’t do it. The Marlins? I live in South Florida, but I pledged to my team. As I get older, I suppose it shouldn’t matter but you know what? “Sweet Caroline. Red Sox Suck!”