Following the Mets Can Be Fun. Really.

Every now and then, even in a ghost-season like this one – ephemeral, amorphous, in flux, would-frighten-Scooby-Doo, “are they really there?” – following the Mets can be most entertaining. Take Sunday night (6/5) for example. Wonderful pitching from our friend R. A. Dickey, scoring like a Chicago election (early-and-often), even giving the Atlanta fans a tease in the ninth, made even sweeter by the sight of Chipper Jones stranded in the on-deck circle. (As an aside, I really cannot stand Larry Wayne Jones. I am a Met fan after all, and he has made his name tormenting the Borough of Queens. Besides that, I think there’s something kind of creepy about a 40-odd-year-old man still being called “Chipper.” And my Dad was called “Skip” until the day he died at 82, so yes, you can hang an MSM-worthy set of hypocrite horns on me.) Terrific game, but that’s not really where the fun lay for me. You see, sometimes the fun is in the pursuit.

Let me tell you what I mean.

Despite popular romance, sometimes watching the game on TV is better than being there: you’re not trying to survive a rainy, raw, cold home opening loss. And sometimes listening on the radio is better than watching on TV: you can get some Met history from Howie Rose and Wayne Hagin might be on vacation. And sometimes following along on a Blackberry or other PDF is better than listening on the radio: Wayne Hagin might not be on vacation. And sometimes following along sporadically on a PDF is better than full-out following: in a 10-1 blowout, you only need check every couple of innings until mercy arrives in the ninth.

And sometimes you can get what I consider the best of all: following the game as a thread as you go through your day or evening, as I did on June 5. A night out to dinner with my wife and a couple of friends ended with me craning my neck to see through the window of the restaurant to catch Jason Pridie snatching a fly and trotting off to finish the fifth as I waited in the parking lot for my wife and my friends smoked. This is old-time baseball, before we all became slaves to electronics. A snatch of a radio call from a taxi, a stop in front of an electronics store or a glimpse of a mis-tinted batter from an ancient Magnavox over a bar can tell you all you need to know if you’re a seasoned baseball watcher. I have become a part-time student of body language from these half-paid-attention-to moments.

I could look up and see a batter take a half-hearted swing, toss his helmet away in frustration and know that it was Jason Bay without needing a scorecard. Or I see an imp land at third base, pop up, start applauding furiously and I recognize Jose Reyes in half an instant. Or Francisco Rodriguez point skyward and know that we’ll be getting a “Happy Recap.”

Pursue the game, find your fun.