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Igniting ashes of dying Mets devotion

By ANDREW SKERRITT
Published October 15, 2006

My old friend, a diehard baseball fan, called Friday morning.

"How about that Tommy Glavine?" he asked excitedly.

Glavine, the former longtime Atlanta Braves ace, is now a New York Met. On Thursday night, he shut out the St. Louis Cardinals to give the Mets a 1-0 lead in the best-of-seven National League Championship Series.

My friend caught me flatfooted, like a runner leaning too far off first base. I'd been watching Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy, I admitted sheepishly. I wasn't even aware of the baseball game.

Twenty years after my once-beloved New York Mets won it all, they're in serious contention to do it again. But after all the suffering, after all the years of Mets mediocrity, I'm in no condition to savor the experience. I'm a lapsed fan.

This isn't a diatribe about the evils of baseball. This is no rant about how much money baseball players make. I've never begrudged anyone profiting from his or her God-given talent. It wasn't the steroid scandal, either, although it's hard to root for Barry Bonds' breaking of Hank Aaron's home run record with the whiff of steroid abuse hanging over Bonds. No, it was caused by one heartbreak too many.

But of course, before the disappointments, it was a classic love affair between the game and me.

We were introduced through satellite TV in the Caribbean - the Chicago Cubs on WGN and the New York Mets on WOR. I was an instant fan of Mets slugger Darryl Strawberry and those towering home runs. Later, it was Tampa native Doc Gooden and his rising fastball. The combination of power and heat was irresistible.

Then came 1986, when the Mets bashed their way through the National League. That was the year to forget all those disappointing pennant races against the Cardinals and the Pirates. That was the year Mets fans didn't spend the offseason lamenting the heroics of Vince Coleman, Terry Pendleton and Jack Clark or the baseball genius of Whitey Herzog.

That was the year of Gooden and Strawberry, Gary Carter, Wally Backman and, of course, Mookie Wilson.

Yes, Boston Red Sox fans would rather forget '86 and Bill Buckner. But Mets fans can't. That was our last moment of glory. And since then, the Boston faithful have erased the bitter taste of '86 with their World Series Championship in 2004.

Over the past two decades, Mets fans have had little to cheer about. There was the Subway Series tease in 2000, but for Mets fans, it has been mostly disappointments with fallen heroes and washed up superstars.

Five years after he won a World Series ring with the Mets, Strawberry signed with the Los Angeles Dodgers. He went west, and his career went south. Gooden's career died once his fastball stopped blowing hitters away.

Both of my heroes dug themselves a deep hole with the law.

But the third strike for me and baseball was when players threatened a walkout as the 2002 playoffs approached. I quit cold turkey. I haven't watched an entire inning of baseball on television since.

My friend's call - and his excitement for the game - reignited my interest. Maybe it's like other relationships that go sour for a time.

It's October; there's a chill in the air, and I'm remembering more of the good things now, including how much fun it was to hate the Cardinals.

Now, where did I pack away that old blue Mets jacket?

Andrew Skerritt can be reached at 813 909-4602 or toll-free at 1-800-333-7505, ext. 4602. His e-mail address is askerritt@sptimes.com.

[Last modified October 14, 2006, 21:40:43]