Summer in the CitiPosted: Friday, September 3, 2010
I briskly walk down the steps of the subway station on a gray and unseasonably cold weekday afternoon in August. I am in Queens. It is six days after my 38th birthday, and I can’t remember the last time I rode a subway in New York. As the steps fall beneath my feet and the overhang of the station clears my view, I see the reddish-brown brick rotunda and the giant red apple in the plaza in front of me. I am at Citi Field.
A man sitting on a low wall near the apple talks to me about the park. A plane takes off low overhead. I call my friends, who I will meet inside the park later, and laugh. I am smirking as wide as a 9-year-old boy when they lower the lights and bring out his candle-topped birthday cake.
I buy my tickets from perhaps the most patient ticket agent in all of New York, and I cynically think, is this what it is like when you have a .500 ballclub that doesn’t sell all of its seats? Is it the Mets, or do teams just treat their fans better when the home club is playing poorly, the experience created because this is a weekday game for a non-pennant contender? No reason to ponder this further; my first impression of a 2010 Mets representative is a positive one, and a ballpark looms.
I enter the rotunda and, of course, I look up at the high, arched windows, and I look down at the marble floor. It is 90 minutes before gametime, and the crowd inside the rotunda is small. I go through the team store and I poke my head into the Hall of Fame museum, but only briefly. I ride the escalator up and walk around a bend and I see the field. It still gets me — how green the grass is for major league baseball, whether your team is in first place or last. The park is both larger and smaller than I expected, and I can’t stop taking pictures with my camera-phone, and I walk around the entire field-level concourse, even up and down some stairs to peek through the fence at the bullpen and behind me I see how close the auto-chop shops are across the street, and I love this new stadium.
It is a windy late afternoon, and it will become a windy, misty night, and with our seats in the upper deck promenade, I am glad I wore my rain jacket on this August night. But that is later. I as am giddy as a child on this first trip to this 2-year-old park of my adopted team.
I complete my circle around the concourse and then double back to the food area behind center field. I take a peek at the kiddie wiffle ball field I hope my son will get a chance to try out someday, and I buy him an orange Mr. Met T-shirt that he will surely outgrow in six months. I go upstairs eventually to check out our seats and am satisfied.
My friends arrive and call me from the center field area I just vacated. I practically run down the stairs to meet them and we embrace and eat soft tacos and drink beer while standing a table in center field, the wind battering us like we were on a fishing boat in the bay. We watch R.A. Dickey from a distance, warming up in right field. I grab a second round of beer just before the National Anthem, and we stay at our stand-up table underneath a giant scoreboard for the first inning while buffeted by the wind and I love every minute of watching baseball, drinking beer, eating food, and spending time with my friends, away, temporarily, from work, family, household chores. I miss my family, admittedly momentarily, but I also think about how I can’t wait to introduce my 4-year-old son to this baseball experience (minus the beer, of course) and how I can’t wait to point out all the architectural nooks and crannies to my wife over good food. But, selfishly, not tonight. Tonight is my birthday present to me, and the Mets later add a cherry on top with a ninth-inning win.
But the victory is secondary to me, paradoxically, to getting to experience a big new park for the first time, to eat (separately, of course) Mexican tacos behind center field and a Kosher hot dog topped with pastrami high above the left field line, to cheer with friends for the Mets, for a 35-year-old knuckleballer, for Mets hitters coming up to the plate to the strains of the Stones’ “Start Me Up” (for rookie Ike Davis) and Van Halen’s “Panama” (for the aforementioned Dickey), to enjoying the company of old friends for a few hours, wind and light rain be damned, to enjoy a few last laughs and photos, and to finally take an express subway and a long commuter train back to my parents’ home, where my precocious boy sleeps peacefully on an air mattress at his grandparents’ house.