UPCOMING EVENTS

Watch this space!

Next Stop: Animosity

If you've attended Subway Series games in the past and went again this year, as I have/did, you would have noticed a change.

I don't mean the supposed handing over of the city's baseball reins from the Yankees to the Mets, which some sportswriters have been declaring. That's still years away from happening, if ever, and if it never happens that's fine by me. The only thing that being #1 truly buys you is the capricious affection of front-running bandwagon-hopping douchebags. I'd just as soon have said douchebags continue to spend their fickle fan dollars on Jeter jerseys.

The real change was one you could only have experienced if you'd gone to a game this year--and if you had the scars of seasons gone by dented on your psyche. In years past, you could guarantee that you would sit somewhere near an enormous block of Yankees fans, doing the same roll call chants as they did at the Stadium, booing Mike Piazza loudly simply because he once made Roger Clemens look like the headhunting dickhead he is. At best, the split attendance between fans of the two teams would be 50/50, but more often it was 60/40 in favor of the Yankees, if not a larger disparity.

Basically, a Mets fan was made to feel like an intruder in his/her team's home stadium. The games were nerve-wracking ordeals where you were almost afraid to cheer a David Wright home run for fear of getting brained by a D-cell. And if the Mets actually won the game, there was a sense that angry Yankees fans would be waiting by the 7 train to make you pay for your insolence.

They would laugh at your pathetic victory and incessantly mention the 26 Rings, as if they had either witnessed all of them or personally assisted in their acquisition. Because there is a certain type of Yankee fan who is not really a fan of the Yankees, or baseball, or even sports. They're fans of being better than somebody else. By adopting a team that's won more championships than God and Tiger Woods combined, a guy can pretend he's on top of the world even if he eats diarrhea for a living.

It also didn't help that, by the time I was lucky enough to be able to attend these games, the Mets were languishing under the malaise of the Art Howe Regime, running out stiffs like Jeromy Burnitz and Mo Vaughn, the Twilight Edition of Al Leiter (100 pitches by inning number four), 17 quadruple-A players and daring to call it a major league baseball team. I can barely believe that I watched that crap and yet still like the game of baseball.

This year, the Mets fans were the overwhelming majority, at least when I attended on Friday and Saturday. By my own unscientific survey, the crowds were 70/30 in favor of Mets fans, at least. That shouldn't be amazing, but it is.

In the offseason, Subway Series tickets were distributed via random online lottery, which I thought for sure would guarantee seats going to a plethora of unscrupulous scalpers--and subsequently, well-heeled Yankee fans. But I guess the system worked, insofar as Mets fans were able to claim Shea Stadium for their own (not that anyone else would want the dump).

Most of the Yankees fans seemed to come with pals who were fans of the home team. So rather than the angry, hateful chanting usually given voice in the Subway Series, you had the playful ball-busting that goes on between friends. Not that there wasn't anger and hate voiced by partisans of both teams (more on that later), but there was far less of the menace of years past.

Plus, the Yankees fans who did come on their own were in much smaller packs than before. Thus outnumbered and surrounded, their vocals were confined mostly to simple cheering of the visitors, as opposed to taunting of the home squad. I have no problem with a fan of The Other Team (whoever that may be) cheering on their boys. Just don't scream at my boys like they're a coven of war criminals. 'Kay?

I was able to attend on Friday thanks to the generosity of a friend and the willingness of my mother-in-law to babysit. Our seats were in the next-to-last row of the upper deck, but right behind home plate, so we had an excellent view of the proceedings. We also had a wicked wind whipping against us from the grated opening at the top of the stadium. It was reminiscent of game one of last year's NLCS, which I spent in the last row turning into a popsicle.

Luckily, it was as crisp a ballgame as I've ever seen in person. Excellent pitching and excellent fielding from both sides, over in a mere 2 hours 20 minutes. The best kind of game to watch from a cramped, uncomfortable seat, particularly if your team comes out on top.

The same could not be said for Saturday's contest. From Darrell Rasner's injury and Robinson Cano's holey glove, to Scott Schoenweis's generous gopher balls and Billy Wagner's idiotic throw to the plate, it was a game only a mother could love. Not to mention the atrocious weather. I was out of harm's way in the mezzanine section, but I can't imagine how an unprotected fan could have stuck around past the 6th inning--or why they would have wanted to.

Once the Mets took an 8-2 lead, a Yankees fan in the section next to us began to make her voice heard. She was a youngish woman with a voice that could peel paint from 50 yards, screaming at some guy in the row in front of her. She invoked the 26 Rings, which some Yankees fans recite like novenas to ward off evil. She also brought up the trauma of game 7, while conveniently leaving unmentioned the fact that A-Rod and co. were playing golf on that date.

She also tried to chant '1986', which didn't work for a multitude of reasons. For one thing, 1986 is within the living memory of most adults. So even though that's now 21 years ago, it doesn't feel that long ago. The year also doesn't have the cadence of '1918', so it fails from a poetic standpoint. Plus, you can't mention 1986 to a Mets fan and not get an appreciative smile in return. Why? Because 1986 was awesome on every single level. Jerry Seinfeld once said that the Mets' championship have quality over quantity. They only have two, but they're both amazing stories.

I desperately wanted to ignore The Siren, but that was impossible for anyone within a 3-mile radius. And she just kept going on and on and on, screaming at this man in front of her. After 5 minutes of her tirade, there were moans and groans from everyone in her vicinity--regardless of fan affiliation. After 10 minutes, the moans and groans turned into yells and clever retorts like "Shut up, you stupid bitch!" And after 15 minutes, there wasn't one person around who didn't want to strangle her.

Finally, the specific object of her scorn left his seat, at which point I noticed that he walked with a cane. He hobbled his way down the aisle, down the steps, and into the tunnel leading to the concession area. The woman continued her rant, to no one in particular and in the face of vociferous protest from every living thing around her.

Then security showed up. I couldn't hear exactly what the Men In Orange said to her, but I imagine it was something along the lines of "shut the hell up and get out of here". That was when she affected a transformation worthy of Lon Chaney. Within seconds, the woman changed from The Human EBS Signal to Sally Field. The waterworks were in full effect, tears just pouring down her face. But between the sobs, she obviously expressed a reluctance to leave, because she didn't budge. Since the security guys were all men, they couldn't do much but glower and implore her to leave.

This tactic was unsuccessful until the phalanx of four security personnel was soon increased to six, plus some guy in an even fancier orange jacket, who I took to be some kind of supervisor. They were ably assisted by the lungs of three sections, screaming for her dismissal. With this opposition, the woman finally conceded defeat and let the Men in Orange accompany her to the 7 train. She left to a surprisingly harmonious chorus of "na na na na, hey hey hey, goodbye..."

Within seconds of the woman's departure, the Yankees began their Schoenweis-assisted comeback. One Bomber fan to my left said to another, "We've been hitting the ball like crazy ever since they kicked that bitch out!"

I have to assume she didn't make a return trip on Sunday, as the Yankees' bats finally woke up all over John Maine. And if they're smart, they won't let that woman anywhere near the Bronx this week.

Posted 05.21.07 09:01pm * Permalink

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