Guest article by Mary Hudson
Because I had not been able to concentrate on work for the majority of the afternoon, I began to clean up my desk and shut down my computer around 4:30pm. I was out the door by 4:45 PM. By the time I picked up my sister from her job at the college book store, The Mets had squandered a lead off single in the top half of the 1st inning and Al Leiter had managed to hit 2 batters and walk another and Piazza had allowed a double steal. How can a catcher not be able to throw to 2nd?
My sister Liz jumped in the car as the Hated Braves were putting their first runs on the board. By the time we walked in the front door of my sister's place, Leiter was gone from the game and runs 4 & 5 were crossing the plate. We sat down on separate couches with a feeling of despair and thoughts that the Mets had a long night ahead of them. How could they show so much heart and fight and have started off this life or death game in such an abominable manner? The Mets had scored only 13 runs in the previous 5 games. The lead seemed insurmountable.
Let me backtrack a bit. I am a 27 year old responsible, professional woman who, for more than a month has had no life to speak of beyond the New York Mets. I, as I do every year, closely followed the NY Mets all season. They are my team. I began to get nervous, as all Mets fans did, during their end of the season skid. I would walk down to the local bar to catch the game and/or flip on Baseball tonight as I walked in the door or log onto sports ticker for frequent updates to see how the Mets were doing. Typical Mets I thought. They had a great season and they were going to blow it in the closing weeks. Such is the plight of a Met fan. But here they were, having survived a 1-run playoff and inching by the Arizona Diamond backs to find themselves in game 6 of the NLCS at Turner Field after being behind 3-0. I watched the playoff game against the Reds at a sportsbar by my work with a co-worker. I wore my Met cap and he wore his Dodger cap. I forgive him for being a Dodger fan because, as you will see, he became part of my psycho superstition. After the Mets won the playoff, I made my friend and his cap return to the same sports bar, the Flat Iron, where the Mets pulled off their victory against the Reds. Each game we watched there resulted in a Met victory so I made him go back again and again after work. I in my Met cap. He in his Dodger cap. When the Mets lost game one against the Braves as we watched from the Flat Iron, the superstition ended and we would not return to watch another game. (Side note: I think this loss we witnessed at the Flat Iron may have had more to do with the fact that while my friend wore his Dodger cap, I forgot my Met cap and we had another companion with us who was providing negative energy, so we jinxed the scenario).
During this time, and through the remainder of the NLCS, I lost contact with friends. I ceased working out. Stopped paying bills and taking care of my responsibilities. Everything took a back seat to the Mets. I didn't even show up for a wedding I had replied I would attend in order not to miss game 3. Who would schedule a wedding during a weekend in October?
And so we return to the 1st inning of game 1 of the NLCS. Somehow, the Mets got out of inning behind Pat Mahomes. Mahomes looked good for 4 innings keeping the Braves bats silent. But it was already through the 5th and the Mets bats had not woken up yet. A single here and there, but they couldn't capitalize. I watched in disbelief. How could the Mets let it end like this? They were playing well. If only we could erase the first inning. Don't they know what they are doing to me? Don't they know how I feel about the Braves? I despise the Braves. How can you be an Atlanta Braves fan? How can you respect a city whose team wins the Division title and they have thousands of empty seats at home games during an NLCS game?
Now, I am a good-natured, reasonable person. I enjoy life and get along well with people. I don't hold grudges and there are few things and people I dislike, but when I watch the Braves, I become this seething, hateful maniac. I Hate the Braves. Yes, hate is a strong word, but it is how I feel about this team. John Rocker, Greg Maddux, Andruw Jones, Brian Jordan, Walt Weiss, and the most hated, LARRY "Chipper" Jones. They are all awful men. They make my skin crawl. I am filled with anger each time their names are spoken or they are given a close-up.
The Mets are my team. My beloved Mets. A team that I have followed closely every year, despite moving from Long Island to Southern California when I was young. My whole family is Mets fans. My relatives still in Brooklyn and Long Island and my immediate family, now all on the West Coast, are all Mets fans. It is in my blood. I love this Met organization which brought me such a dramatic and exciting World Series championship in 1986 with Hernandez, Carter, Mookie, Dykstra, Gooden, Strawberry, and of course, Lee Mazilli. This '99 team showed similarities. Coming from behind, clutch hits and homeruns, and pulling out victories that seemed impossible. It was for this reason that I couldn't give up on the Mets, even as they continued to trail by 5 as the game wore on.
And so we move into the 6th. I am lying on my side on the couch, Met cap on, head propped up by my left hand. I decide in this inning to point my right finger towards the TV screen. Towards the Met batters...and something happened. The Mets bats came alive. Alfonzo doubles. Olerud singles. Alfonzo scores on Piazza sac. fly. My sister, her boyfriend and I are getting a good feeling. Here we go. Ventura doubles. My finger is still suspended in the air. Hamilton singles and 2 more runs cross the plate. 5-3. Here we go. 2 runs is not impossible. Ordonez does what he does best, behind fielding, which is hit into a double play. But that is OK. We are on the board. We can do this. We begin to feel more positive about this situation and the superstitions are setting in. My sister will sit in the same spot and position while the Mets bat for the remainder of the game. I will lay on the other couch with my cap on and my finger extended, despite cramping in my arm, each time the Mets come to the plate. Chris, my sister's boyfriend, will remain in another chair and even rearrange furniture to be in the correct position to help the Mets. I guess this is sort of like Fueng Shi or something.
It is 5-3 Atlanta as the Braves come to bat in the bottom of the 6th. The momentum of the Mets at bat in the top of the inning was not enough to hold the Braves as they came storming back putting 2 more runs on the board. A 7-3 lead and only 9 more outs to make their move.
But like the '86 Mets, this team has something special. Matt Franco comes into pinch hit and gets aboard with a double. The next batter, Henderson, doubles and Franco crossed the plate. 7-4. Alfonzo flies out deep to right and Henderson advances to 3rd. Olerud singles and Henderson scores. 7-5. One out. We can feel the momentum. Bob Costas and Joe Morgan are calling this game doing the best the can to ruin the Mets chances. Costas, in mine and my sisters minds, is solely responsible for the outcome of many games. I cannot tell you how many times I have heard the man say something that affects the game. He is legendary for this. For example, the mets could be up by 3 runs in a game, with 2 outs and bases loaded in the 9th, with the 8th batter who is hitting .079 for his carreer at the plate. Costa would say, "A grandslam would win this ballgame, but so and so has Never hit a grandslam, let alone a double" and as soon as the sentence is finished the ball is sailing over the outfield fence and my team has lost the game. My sister and I took to singing and humming over Costa's voice and muting the TV when we could sense he was going to say something destructive. I know this is hard to believe, but Costa actually determines the outcome of the game.
So, I'm laying on my side on the couch, finger still extended and humming so as to drown at Bob Costas voice. My sister is sitting on the couch in her 1986 royal blue satin Met jacket, doing her best impression of Rain man as she rocks back in forth in her Met batting trance.
Piazza steps to the plate with Olerud on 1st. I am in love with Mike Piazza. He is my man. I love is mullet haircut (short on top, long in back) I love his chops and his pencil thin mustache that tapers down both sides of his mouth to his chin. As much as I love Piazza, my knock on him is that he is not clutch. He hits homeruns in games where the Mets are up by 7 runs, but I had yet to see him produce in a clutch situation. I erase these bad thoughts from my mind and send Mike my Waterboy, "You Can Do It" vibe. And lo and behold, we watch as Piazza swings, connects and the ball sails over the wall and just like that the game is knotted at 7.
The jubilation in my sister's house at this point is indescribable. There is jumping up and down and screaming and chest bumping and high fives. With that hit, I can feel deep inside that the Mets will win this game. Piazza was clutch. It can be done. But, knowing these Mets, I keep this feeling to myself not wanting to jinx this feeling.
You could feel the tension and excitement. I had lost my appetite days earlier and had even self-diagnosed myself with an ulcer. These games were taking everything out of me.
The Mets shut down the Braves in the bottom of the inning, which I watch through the holes of my ball cap that I hold over my face, a trick my brother taught me. He had watched game 5 of this series at a bar in San Diego and as the game wore on into extra inning he laid in a booth with his cap over his head watching through the holes and in this case the Mets were victorious.
And so we move into the 8th.Benny Agbayani, whom my 3 yr old niece calls "Penny Abanani" as she chants his name. Chanting is a big part of the way the Hudson's watch the Mets. Agbayani advances to second on a sacrifice. Melvin Mora steps to the plate and singles to center. Agbayani scores and the Mets are ahead for the first time all game. They are retired in the inning, but head to the bottom of the 8th with a one run lead.
At this point, I am literally dying. I feel an ache in my chest and tingling in my arm. My sister's boyfriend, who in the course of the game has gone from not really caring about the Mets, to screaming obscenities, along with my sister and I, at the Braves, predicts that one, or all of us will end up in the emergency room. I come to understand how person's with weak hearts are advised not to watch their children play in competitive events and important games because it is so stressful.
I have never met any of these men, but yet I know them. I live through them. How they perform has become a direct reflection on myself. I am such a freak when watching the game, that I only feel comfortable watching with family.
The Braves, with their stupid fans, chopping the air with red puffy tomahawks and putting down an entire race of people, come right back. They put a run on the board with a couple of singles and a, surprise, throwing error by Piazza. I am, however, able to forgive him this error as Piazza has played his heart out in this series. He had been knocked around and bruised and battered, but he continued to fight.
We head into the 9th with my stomach in knots. We are all humming to drown out Costas, sitting in our "lucky" seats and wanting a win so bad we cannot express it. The most awful Brave ever, John Rocker, comes steaming out of the bullpen. The beefy, cross-eyed, trash talking reliever is the worst. He got his due the previous game when the Mets pulled out the victory and the crowd at Shea berated the reliever unmercilessly. The Mets send 3 batters from the heart of their line-up to the plate and the 3 are quickly retired.
As the Braves come to bat, I can barely stand to watch. But the powerful Armando Benitez, the Mets strongest reliever is on the mound and I have a good feeling. His result is the same as Rockers. 3 Braves up. 3 Braves down and the tomahawks grow silent.
Agbayani walks to lead off the 10th. This is a good sign. He reaches second on a throwing error and 3rd on a Mora single. Todd Pratt, who has hero potential, drives a ball to the outfield. It is caught and Agbayani races home, sliding head first to avoid the tag. My sister, AKA the ump, swipes are arms to imitate the ump calling Agbayani safe. As Chris and I are jumping up and down in celebration, my sister has grown silent. I look down to see her clutching her hand in the fetal position. Somehow, in making the safe call, she slammed her hand into the corner of the coffee table and has a huge contusion on her hand. Baseball is not for the weak or faint of heart. I tell her to shake it off and pat her on the butt. She lifts her head and spits on the floor. This is the NLCS. She is back.
The nerves are going crazy and the Braves come to bat in the bottom of the 9th. A single and a walk leaves runners at 1st and 2nd with one out when Bobby Cox bring Ozzie Guillen, who I actually believed to be dead, in to bat for Weiss. It is at this moment that Costas comment on the fact that while Guillen is a veteran player who does not see much playing time; he can put the ball in play. We were too slow to mute and Guillen lined a single up the right field line scoring Andruw Jones. Mora made a game saving throw to 3rd to get Klesko out. And with the flyout by the next batter. We head to the 11th with the scored tied at 9 a piece.
The Mets are silent. 3 up 3 down. As Kenny Rogers walks to the mound I am filled with a sense of dread. Valentine has Dotel in the bullpen, but decides Rogers will throw strikes, and he will take a chance with his defense making the plays. As Williams leads off with a double, the house grows silent. We all sense impending doom but hold onto hope in our hearts that the Mets can stop the other Braves hitters. Williams advances to 3rd on a sacrifice, but Valentine chooses to walk Jones and Jordan to try his luck with Andruw Jones. We are hoping Jones will ground into a double play. All Rogers has to do is throw strikes, a task that would prove to be too much for the pitcher. We knew it was over at 3-1. We were silent as Rogers threw ball four high and outside and the game ended. A terrible end to a terrific game.
We were, in a word, despondent. Nothing could be said. We were emotionally exhausted, physically hurt and inconsolable.
And what were we to do now? I had known no life other than Mets baseball for over a month. How could I adapt back to the real world? There were friends to call and responsibilities to see to, but I didn't know where to start. I was at a loss. What did people do outside of baseball? The answer escaped me.
But here I am a few days later. Still trying to come to grips with the loss, but slowing getting accustomed to life again. I've paid my bills. Been back to the gym. Been out with old friends. But I still feel the loss. Only time will heal. I received condolences from friends and am planning trips to spring training. I guess I can now turn my thoughts to football for a distraction. Too bad I'm a Jets fan...