It was just down the right-field line, parallel to right fielder Curtis Granderson and about 30 rows up from the grass. I stood up in the aisle against a side wall -- with a perfect view of the field. A perfect view for the top of the ninth inning. A perfect view to watch Matt Harvey close out his complete game and send the Mets back to Kansas City for Game 6 of the World Series.
As he jogged out onto the field and fired in his warm-up pitches, the "Harvey" chants were deafening. An older fan to the right rapped his cane against the seat in front of him, slightly grimacing with each "Har-vey" as though he knew what's coming. Another man leaning over the railing above me screamed at his fellow brethren to get louder, worried that his Mets couldn't hear us ... nervous we weren't doing a good enough job. Two middle-school aged boys in front of me, possibly brothers, danced around to the chorus of cheers in their deGrom and Harvey shirts.
Were these two kids alive during the 2000 World Series, my thoughts wander. Do they know about the great Timo Perez? What about Butch Huskey? Eric Valent?
Harvey finished his warm-up tosses and Lorenzo Cain stepped up to the plate. Optimism is at its highest.
Terry Collins had listened to us maniacal fans! He left him in the game! Harvey is a true competitor. This would be the turning point in the series.
Terry Collins had listened to us maniacal fans! He left him in the game! Harvey is a true competitor. This would be the turning point in the series.
Cain walks.
Optimism wanes, but there's still much confidence among the over-capacity crowd. Harvey chants continue, gaining in seriousness and necessity.
Cain steals second. Eric Hosmer doubles him home. Harvey comes out of the game.
Things begin to get restless.
The father of the two boys in front of me moves up the aisle toward the section's exit, squinting out at the field like he's trying to shield his eyes from some nuclear explosion.
The fan above me is now shrieking at us to join him in a "Let's Go Mets" chant, his voice nearly gone, his heart stronger than ever.
The father of the two boys in front of me moves up the aisle toward the section's exit, squinting out at the field like he's trying to shield his eyes from some nuclear explosion.
The fan above me is now shrieking at us to join him in a "Let's Go Mets" chant, his voice nearly gone, his heart stronger than ever.
Jeurys Familia enters the game. He's one of the best closers in baseball, yet, you wouldn't know it looking at the grim faces in the Citi Field seats.
Mike Moustakas grounds out to first base, moving Hosmer along to third. One out.
The Queens' faithful are now all standing, hunched over, cheering, hands crossed above their heads, hands clapping on beat ... off-beat ... hands back above their heads.
A crushed beer can rolls sheepishly off the ledge next to me and falls behind the deGrom/Harvey boys. They look back then quickly turn their attention to the action.
I've lost sight of the older fan with the cane. Had he left? Was he in the bathroom? The Shake Shack line? There couldn't be a Shake Shack line at this point in the game, right?
I've lost sight of the older fan with the cane. Had he left? Was he in the bathroom? The Shake Shack line? There couldn't be a Shake Shack line at this point in the game, right?
I reach for the side of the same ledge, ready to brace myself for whatever's coming next. The hard cement is caked in peanut shells and spilled drinks, but I hardly notice. I need something to hold onto.
Hoping for happiness, preparing for nothing close to it.
And then ...
Hoping for happiness, preparing for nothing close to it.
And then ...
As soon as the ball sails past d'arnaud's glove, heads spin away from the field as if they're on some metronomic swivel. Aghast and unable to watch any longer, some fans pack up their belongings and head for the exits. Perhaps they'll listen to the legendary Howie Rose call the ebbing moments of the 2015 season on the drive home or maybe they'll journey in silence -- letting the night and dark consume them.
I'd fault them for giving up so quickly, but, well, you know what happened.
I stand there in my spot until the 12th inning, hearing the father call his two boys up to go home and seeing the man above me slam his fist into a table before ending his shift for the year.
I leave the stadium later on when it's nearly empty, making my way past the home run apple and up toward the 7 train steps. Even with the loss, I'm overcome with a good feeling. The Mets had a great season. They had been to the World Series. I had been to the World Series. I turn around for one last look at the stadium's warm glow -- a reminder of the memorable summer that was:
Same time next year?
