Should I feel guilty because I made my son
a Met fan. After all, that team hasn’t won a
World Series since 1986 (and they’ve won
only two titles in their multiple decades of
existence). What makes it worse is that he
did the same to his son . . . but I feel no
guilt. Empathy, perhaps . . . but certainly
no blame, not even when I realize that my
granddaughter, too, shares this fate.
To truly understand, I’m afraid that
you’d have to be a Met fan; you’d have to
sit among the eclectic, electric throng of
eternal optimists who are the Met fans of
what we call the nation’s borough (and
Long Island and, based on chants of
“Let’s go, Mets!” echoing in stadiums
across the States, from anywhere
where lovers of the underdog reside,
in those “foreign” stadiums) and intently
listen to the heartbeats of the thousands
as we wait for the next reason to erupt,
the next homer off the bat of what Casey
called “our Metsies.” Life is full of set-backs
and disappointments, but we Met fans know
how to handle them. We’ve had a great deal
of practice. (Think the 1988 playoffs against
the Dodgers.) We also know how quickly
things can change for the better. We know
that from 1968 to 1969 the Mets went from
worst to first … and then the championship!
So do not weep for us Met fans. Save your
tears. We adore our team and cannot be
denied the thrill of the great unexpected, we
who every season have a reason to hope for
the Miracle Mets to pull it off again. After all,
our forever motto is, “You gotta believe!”
THE POETRY OF THE GAME