Gimme Shelter: More than a game
There are only two unassailable certainties in life, and they’re not that nonsense about death and taxes. I, and everyone I love, will never die, and neither will Ted Williams, whose head at this very moment is frozen solid in Arizona waiting to get a body so next spring he can crack frozen ropes off the outfield wall.
And taxes? Come on. If you’ve got enough money in America your accountant will make sure you’re exempt from paying. It’s only right.
No, the two inescapable predicaments are: You Lose When You Bet American Money On Another Person’s Game. And: Baseball Will Humble You. (Other words to live by: Never Eat In a Place Called Moms; Never Play Cards With a Man Named Doc.)
Where was I? Oh, right, baseball. I’ve been thinking of the truly horrible teams I’ve played on. My Little League team had a second baseman who often sat down in the infield, weeping. My American Legion team had a center fielder, Steve, a really talented kid who could hit, run, had a Winchester for an arm, but just one flaw. The most difficult ball for center fielders to judge off the bat, old pros will tell you, is the one hit straight at them, and our center fielder added one better to that. Whenever the ball was hit right at Steve, he had a tendency to black out.
There would be the crack of the bat, and there would be Steve, falling over like a sniper had shot him. People would bolt from the stands to help the boy. I gave up saying as they tore past my position at first base, “No, see, that’s just Steve, he …”
Our high school team was beyond awful. We had no talent, but added to that was a coach who was a moron and a martinet, a combination that will screw up a two-car funeral. Our best player was our catcher, Kevin Vescovo. And we lost him five games into the season my junior year.
Ves was behind the plate when a batter fouled off a pitch straight down into his crotch. The hard plastic cup, which protected Ves, split open just a bit, a part of Ves came through, and then the plastic snapped shut. Poor Ves was on the ground, making like an upside down sea turtle, purple-faced, screaming.
We gathered around as Coach came up yelling, “Give him some air!” Seeing Ves gripping what hurt, Coach ordered someone to loosen his belt and then screamed, “Come on Vescovo, be a man! Rub some dirt on it and get back in there!”
Talk about being humbled. Finally, the umpire and the other team’s coach found out what was ailing our catcher and an ambulance was called. Coach muttered he’d seen lots worse injuries than that and guys just taped it up and played.
We weren’t the best team, but we had consistency. Lost every game the rest of the season.
The game will do a number on you. In 1986, my fellow Mets fanatics Donahoe and Greenberg and I scored tickets for the playoffs against the Astros and the Series against the Red Sox. After Lenny Dykstra hit one into the cheap seats in right to beat Houston, there were grown men staggering through the parking lot, tears in their eyes, screaming “Lenny!” to the high heavens.
We were there for Game Six. Bobby Ojeda had a count of 1-0 on the first Boston batter, when everyone turned to see a man flying in over the center field lights, his parachute trailing a “Go Mets!” banner, and landing between home and first as casually as a man reaching the bottom step of a staircase. I’ve never heard a sound like that in any stadium as the Shea faithful was roaring. Talk about a stadium moving under your feet.
Two of New York’s Finest took the parachutist into custody on the field. Later, when they got him into the tunnel under the stands, it was reported, rather than cuffing him, they high-fived the daring young man.
And the never-to-be-forgotten play, which made us all know for certain that God is a Mets fan, when Boston’s Bill Buckner let Mookie’s 10-mph grounder go under him. If he’d scooped it up, the Sox win the series. Did you know that a few years later, Bill B. had a close call? Yeah, he stepped off a curb and a bus was bearing down on him. No problem; the bus went right between his legs.
The other evening on my way home, I stopped and watched a couple of innings of a pickup game. The crowd consisted of a few geezers like me, some landscapers after work sharing a six-pack, and the brothers and sisters of the kids on the field. We didn’t care about wins, losses, or poor play.
We were too busy watching the young lefthander’s motion on the mound, the crouch of the third baseman before each pitch, and listening to the infield chatter. The beauty of the summer game in early spring was more than enough.
