I Go as The Mets Go
It was October 15, 1964. My grandfather, Louis Modica, was watching his beloved Yankees in a heated World Series game seven against the St. Louis Cardinals. Mel Stottlemyre, the Yankees starter, was tasked with facing one of the greatest and most feared pitchers in baseball history, Bob Gibson. It was a heated back and forth series.
The house my dad, Michael Modica, grew up in was having its aluminum siding refurbished that day. My grandfather invited the blue-collar workers inside on the hunch that they might rather be watching baseball’s most important game of the season. He was correct. They sat and joined him to watch.
The Yankees lost the game.
“This is a Mets house now!” my grandfather exclaimed, looking my dad in the eye. On August 26, 1965, came my dad’s first Mets game. Longtime reliever Tug McGraw
was called upon to start the game for the Mets, although the bulk of his career was served out of the bullpen. His opponent was Sandy Koufax, an all-time great, and the Los Angeles Dodgers, a better team.
Koufax, having already collected 21 wins by the end of August, came into the game with a 13-0 lifetime record against the lowly Mets, who boasted a 41-86 record coming into the matchup. The Dodgers were cruising at a respectable 73-56 clip.
The Mets won the game.
On July 14th, 2005, I attended my first game. The Mets faced off against the Atlanta Braves, who I have long loathed. I was a four-year-old.
On a hunch, my dad strategically parked our Toyota Camry to allow for a potential early exit from the stadium’s crowded parking lot. Being that I was a young, emotional kid, he figured there was a good chance we would leave early. We did.
However, we stayed long enough to watch David Wright, who would later become my favorite athlete of all time, hit two solo home runs in his first two at bats off Braves lefty starter Horacio Ramirez.
“We left after four innings because you wanted to know when we were leaving. Little kids don’t stop asking that question,” my dad recently told me.
All of that aside, the Mets won the game.
I grew up watching games with my dad. We have gone to several games at this point and
watched hundreds in our respective spots on the couch, which have never changed.
They won the first eight games we attended together. Each time, my love for the team
grew deeper. The mold of a diehard fan was hardening.
On October 19, 2006, Carlos Beltran stared at strike three. The pitch was a curveball
from a then-youthful Adam Wainwright, who was called upon to close the crucial game seven victory for the Cardinals over the Mets in the National League Championship Series. That game, which finished 3-1, was one of the best in MLB history, one of the worst and most wretched in my mind, and one I will never forget. It is among my earlier memories.
In the sixth inning of a 1-1 game, Mets southpaw Oliver Perez left a pitch over the plate, and Scott Rolen hit it deep to left field, when outfielder Endy Chavez would sky several feet above the fence to ‘snow cone’ the ball in the tip of his glove, robbing Rolen of a home run to keep the game tied at one. A perfect relay would double up Jim Edmonds at first base. Shea Stadium erupted. The Mets were inching closer.
Just a few innings later, Shea, along with my soul, was left airless and silent.
That was my first heartbreak.
A 9th inning two-run home run by Yadier Molina off Aaron Heilman, whose name, to
this day, I can barely type without smashing my laptop, gave the Cardinals the lead.
The bases were loaded with two outs for Beltran in the ninth. He struck out on three
pitches, watching strike three. I cried and cried.
Today is October 2, 2022. Although the Mets are nearing 100 wins and have long secured a playoff spot via the wildcard, I feel like the sky is falling. I needed the division crown like my body needs oxygen. I need a World Series the same way.
It is those damned Braves again. They just stole three straight games from my Mets, dismantling their three best pitchers: Jacob deGrom, Max Scherzer, and Chris Bassitt, likely securing the division. I am broken. How can 98 wins with three to go feel like such a failure?
My mental state has been off since the Mets surrendered the lead in the series’ first game on Friday. They got swept when they needed to win just one to keep the division tied. I am hurt. This is the type of fan I am. I have always been this way. I go as the Mets go.
Tonight, I felt hope slipping away.
“We had a chance.” I say to myself.
I should be saying, “we still have a chance.”
The hope is still there. After all, “it ain’t over ‘til it’s over.” “Wildcard teams can win the World Series.”
Try convincing me of that at this moment.
I am irrational. Love makes people do crazy things.
Other fans will say that I am a fair-weather guy; only feeling happiness and the willingness to support the Mets when things are going swimmingly.
I am just the opposite. I feel every win and loss, as it holds an indescribable significance to me. Big wins bring tremendous elation, while important losses can ruin an entire day, sometimes stretches of days that consist of much more than a three-hour baseball game. Much like the Yankees games meant to my grandfather 58 years ago, my Mets mean everything to me.