The author and her dad in his season’s ticket-holder seats at a game in Oct 2022.
The author and her dad in his season’s ticket-holder seats at a game in Oct 2022.Courtesy of Stacey Brook
My father was regularly one of the first diehard fans to leave a Mets game. During the seventh inning stretch he would rise from his season ticket-holder seats, sing a spirited version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” and head straight to the parking lot to beat traffic. He would leave even earlier if the Mets had dug themselves into an early, deep hole. He loved his team enough not to want to watch them suffer.
The thing about rooting for a team that has the best opening day winning percentage record in the history of baseball, is that they start each season with hope. My father loved the possibilities a new season held and was present for many a highlight. He saw Johan Santana pitch a no-hitter and was probably eating a hot dog during Robin Ventura’s famous grand slam single in the 1999 NLCS Game 5. He also fought not to cover his eyes during countless blooper errors, players left stranded on base and strings of utter collapse.
My father was 8 when the Mets franchise set up shop in Queens, and he remained a devotee for life. Still, he would often say, “I love them, but they’ll break your heart.”
The last time Dad and I were together in Shea Stadium before the opening of Citi Field, I asked him if he was devastated to leave the stadium of his childhood behind.
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My Dad Always Said The Mets Will Break Your Heart. I Never Thought It Would Happen Like This.
“I was in physical pain. I wanted my dad. How could he be missing this? How was it fair that he wasn’t there?”
By
Stacey Brook
Oct 17, 2024, 08:30 AM EDT
18 COMMENTS
The author and her dad in his season’s ticket-holder seats at a game in Oct 2022.
The author and her dad in his season’s ticket-holder seats at a game in Oct 2022.Courtesy of Stacey Brook
My father was regularly one of the first diehard fans to leave a Mets game. During the seventh inning stretch he would rise from his season ticket-holder seats, sing a spirited version of “Take Me Out to the Ballgame,” and head straight to the parking lot to beat traffic. He would leave even earlier if the Mets had dug themselves into an early, deep hole. He loved his team enough not to want to watch them suffer.
The thing about rooting for a team that has the best opening day winning percentage record in the history of baseball, is that they start each season with hope. My father loved the possibilities a new season held and was present for many a highlight. He saw Johan Santana pitch a no-hitter and was probably eating a hot dog during Robin Ventura’s famous grand slam single in the 1999 NLCS Game 5. He also fought not to cover his eyes during countless blooper errors, players left stranded on base and strings of utter collapse.
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My father was 8 when the Mets franchise set up shop in Queens, and he remained a devotee for life. Still, he would often say, “I love them, but they’ll break your heart.”
The last time Dad and I were together in Shea Stadium before the opening of Citi Field, I asked him if he was devastated to leave the stadium of his childhood behind.
You have to be good at moving on to be a Mets fan.
When my father was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in February 2023, the Mets were about to spend $350 million staffing up with monster pitchers to chase owner Steve Cohen’s dream of a money-won victory. A little over a year later, an intensive surgery had removed my father’s tumor, chemo had blasted what it could of a disease more virulent than steroids in late ’90s baseball, and three months of clean scans had alleviated my family’s persistent worries.
Soon after his treatment ended, my father danced at my brother Adam’s wedding, flourishing a fold-up cane like a magic wand, allowing it to unfurl to the beat of the music with a flick of his wrist. It was a new season. He was giddy with hope.
