From the Sidelines: A return to the old battleground

By David Altschuler

This Tuesday, however, I didn't make my 11:30, and I was up well before 10:30 a.m. I had my Snapple and picked up the Post, but instead of the customary trip to WLH, my destination was the Herald office. And at 12:45 p.m., I was sitting in traffic on the exit ramp for Northern Boulevard in Flushing, Queens. For the vast majority who don't know, Flushing houses none other than Shea Stadium, home of the New York Mets. And Tues., Mar. 31 was Opening Day.

I've been making trips to Shea since September 11, 1985. That night, the Mets faced off against their arch-rivals, the St. Louis Cardinals, and Dwight "Doc" Gooden of the Mets battled John Tudor of the Cardinals in a scoreless pitcher's duel that went into extra innings. Cesar Cedeño went deep for the Redbirds off Jesse Orosco in the 10th and handed my home team a critical loss. Before the game started, though, Mets third basemen and eventual World Series hero Ray Knight threw me a ball, cementing a connection with a team that would carry to the present day.

The Mets of the mid '80s had heart. While the team had star power, its leaders were not high-priced free agents worried about their market value. Rather, the Mets were stocked with exciting homegrown talent (Doc, Darryl) and established veterans (Hernandez, Carter). The old guys set the example for the rookies, and the clubhouse was full of practical jokes, rally caps, and nicknames like "Nails" and "Mookie." The team might not have had the most talent, but in 1986 they simply dominated, and there wasn't a bigger attraction in New York.

It was these kind of memories that filled my head as we sat in bumper to bumper traffic on Tuesday morning. Listening to the pre-game, and as it turned out, the first inning, on the radio, I couldn't help but draw comparisons between the 1998 version of the Mets and the Amazin's of 12 years ago. This year's team relies even more on chemistry and less on well-known superstars. Names like Gilkey, Huskey, and Alfonzo probably don't ring a bell for most. But team chemistry and a strong grasp of the fundamentals led the team to a startling 88 wins last year.

All we hear is how baseball in 1998 is not what it was in 1986. The wounds of the '94 strike still run deep, and many fans have not returned. Expansion has diluted talent and created weak divisions like the NL Central. Interleague play has tarnished the sanctity of the National and American Leagues and diminished the novelty of the World Series. High salaries have created a world of free agency, arbitration, and soaring ticket prices. Wayne Huizenga, Jerry Reinsdorf...not a pretty picture.

But when push comes to shove, baseball is still our national pastime, and Opening Day is its crown jewel. Dads still call in sick and take their kids out of school. Diehards still arrive at the game hours before the first pitch to tailgate in the parking lot. And there's a tangible sense of excitement in the air, a feeling shared by the kid enjoying his first hot dog and the old man who has kept score at every game since Tom Seaver was on the mound. No event in professional sports shares the ceremony and ritual of Opening Day, and every fan in attendance knows it.

After the fifth inning, I snuck by a security guard and made my way down to the field boxes to meet my dad. He was sitting about ten rows up from the Phillies' dugout with a bunch of lawyers in a box that now enjoys waitered service (I was in the nosebleed seats with a group of Met-crazy Heralders). We remembered sitting on top of the Mets' dugout on Opening Day in 1987 and 1988. As we watched the bottom of the fifth, we both realized that Opening Day still had its magic.

These days I can't name two pitchers on the Milwaukee Brewers (Cal Eldred, and, uh, help?) or keep up with six pennant and two wild card races. But sitting in the cheap seats at Shea on a perfect spring afternoon puts it all in perspective. The "Let's Go Mets" chants rang loudly from the upper deck, the wave made its way from first to third, and I sat back to enjoy a 14-inning gem. And as it turned out, the last guy on the Mets bench, a no-name backup catcher named Alberto Castillo, smashed a bases-loaded single to break a scoreless tie and the place went wild. Only 161 games to go.

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