by Salvatore A. Barcia Jr. (posted: May 2, 2018)

It was a crystal clear night, perfect for an outdoor sporting event. On this particular night it was the ultimate competition.

Game 7. NLCS, October 2006 in Shea Stadium.

Ghosts of Playoffs Past

Although postseason play has been limited for the Mets, their journeys into October have always created memorable experiences. During the legendary Game 6 of the ‘86 series I rushed home from a friend’s house to watch extra innings at home. My Uncle Louie was over with his wife and new baby. As the Mets mounted their unlikely comeback, my Dad and I were summoning his newborn powers and willing the Mets to a win. To this day we’re sure we changed the course of the game.

My first chance to attend a playoff game was in 1999. I choked up seeing Shea Stadium from the subway. The fever of the postseason was surrounding me and I was overwhelmed with excitement and awe. For the first time the smell of every hot dog, cheers for each at-bat, and taste of watered-down beer was elevated with the intensity of the playoffs.

Thereafter I managed to see my fair share of postseason games. In 2000 I was the benefactor of a last-minute World Series ticket, happy to see the only Mets win in the series. Although the Mets eventually lost, the subway series was something I imagined since I was a little kid. As I swung my Dad’s bat in the basement, I pictured myself hitting a home run to win the series.

Shea Stadium

For anyone who follows sports, there is an aura surrounding Game 7. The moment Shawn and I entered the stadium you could taste the levity of the moment. It was a season of expectations brought to the brink in a tighter-than-expected series. Towels were waved. Cheers filled every pocket of air. Adrenaline coursed through our bodies.

And of course we were at Shea Stadium.

Shea was no relic from the golden era of baseball when you could see your favorite shortstop in the neighborhood grocery, spend a nickel on the subway getting to the game, or huddle with a group listening to “Dem Bums” on the radio. Still, for those of us who grew up on Shea it holds special place in our hearts. The walls were gray cement, the seats were uncomfortable, the steps were poorly measured, and the amenities didn’t meander too far from beer, soda and hot dogs. We loved it.

As a kid we went to games often, simply because we had time. Time is one of those pleasures of youth, when to-do lists and schedules haven’t yet taken hold. Life as a kid means free time (at least it used to; I question the over-scheduling of our children today). A Mets game, therefore, was an all-day affair.

We started at my cousin’s house in Brooklyn early in the morning and caught the subway. Usually we’d arrive three hours or more before the game, paying $1.50 or so for a general admission ticket. My paper route and carrying groceries covered the cost. General admission seating didn’t really matter since there was never too large of a crowd.

We sat in the area behind home plate and listened to a group of regulars calling themselves “Fuzzy and the Grandstand Gang.” Each had lines, commentaries, and player nicknames (some not very flattering). Keeping score on our $0.50 scorecards, we enjoyed batting practice, scrutinized every pitch, prayed for wins, and analyzed their chances.

This period in the late 1970s and early 1980s was a middling time for baseball. It was after the charmed days of the Dodgers, Giants and Yankees stopping time when they played, and after the dawn of free agency changed everything. Still, it was before replays, bloated contracts (those were just starting), and steroids. Baseball still had grit. A starter went out to pitch a full game, nobody followed pitch counts, and kids could afford tickets from doing odd jobs. Sports weren’t micromanaged with data, and big money hadn’t yet overwhelmed every nook and cranny. Fans could storm the field after a big victory, and spending a day at the ballpark for a doubleheader wasn’t beneath the players. People went to watch the game, not spend the entire nine innings streaming and posting to prove their presence.

Shea Stadium was my Graceland, my playground, my Ebbets Field, my Field of Dreams. It didn’t hold the lure of Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, or old Yankee Stadium, and compared to the modernized Citi Field it lacked amenities and comfort. But it was the sports mantle of my childhood.

Besides, Shea Stadium’s unique architecture had a special feature enjoyed by ballparks from its era.

The upper deck shook.

The Catch

As Game 7 progressed, runs were valuable. It seemed nobody wanted to score. Innings passed quickly and defense was dominant. Cautious optimism ruled. The Cards had a runner on first. The score was still tied one-one. Bam! A fly ball was hit deep to left. You could feel the tension in the crowd, a collective but quiet “oh no” coupled with gasps and groans.

Endy Chavez jumped high. His glove escalated above the railing of the fence. Seeming to slow time, the ball followed a magical magnet into his glove. He caught a home run!

As the stadium erupted, I jumped so high I thought I would fall from the upper deck. Coming down I could feel the shaking of the deck, like a ship at sea in a squall. As Chavez doubled up the sleeping base runner, the seas became even mightier for a brief moment.

Another deck-shaker was Todd Zeile’s bases clearing double in the 2000 National League clincher. The Mets won the night and made their way to the World Series, every fan cheering and high-fiving while traversing Shea’s ramps.

At the first game after 9-11, it wasn’t the shaking I remember but the silence. Unfortunately a moment of silence in a stadium isn’t usually taken so seriously, but on this night you only heard the sound of the flags flapping in the wind.

Unhappy Ending

Unfortunately the Mets lost Game 7. Following Endy’s catch, the Mets squandered momentum and couldn’t take the lead. Later our hearts broke as Yadier Molina’s home run eluded capture – this time too high for a miracle embrace – and Carlos Beltran watched strike three pass to end the game.

I don’t ever remember greater disappointment from a sporting event. Since that time I promised myself I would limit my emotional investment into sports – maybe because of age, too many years watching teams come up short, or a shift in priorities. Still, I couldn’t resist shouting in frustration when Lucas Duda had trouble throwing home in the 2015 series.

Yet I retain my connection to sports, to baseball, to Shea Stadium. Although we complain about the price tag, the overpaid players, and the game being more about business than competition, we look to sports as an escape . . . and as a connection to our youth.

I never want to let go of it, and I will hold onto my memories. And I will never forget the night the upper deck shook.