THE VIRGINIAN-PILOT
Copyright (c) 1994, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: Sunday, July 17, 1994 TAG: 9407150238
SECTION: PORTSMOUTH CURRENTS PAGE: 10 EDITION: FINAL
SOURCE: Joseph Banks
LENGTH: Medium: 78 lines
I thought I had died and gone to baseball heaven.
There I was, 25 years later, having a drink and dinner with my eighth-grade heroes - the '69 Mets.
Infielders Ed Kranepool, Donn Clendenon, Bud Harrelson, Ed Charles, Wayne Garrett.
Outfielders Ron Swoboda, Art Shamsky, Tommie Agee, Cleon Jones.
Pitchers Jerry Koosman, Gary Gentry, Tug McGraw and catcher Jerry Grote.
Only the presence of Tom Seaver, Nolan Ryan, Al Weis and the late Gil Hodges could have made it any better for me.
I was too cheap to spend $50 for a cocktail hour and dinner with the Miracle Mets. But when I walked into San Antonio Sam's last weekend, and the bartender, Whitley Barcalow, offered me an extra ticket, I left the Ghent restaurant/bar quicker than you could say ``Strike three. You're outta here!''
``THE METS ARE in the playoffs . . . The Mets are in the playoffs . . . The Mets are in the playoffs . . .'' I can still hear Lindsey Nelson shouting into the microphone the night the '62 expansion team beat the St. Louis Cardinals and - thanks to some help from the Chicago Cubs - made it to post-season play.
That Wednesday, on the way home from the weekly Boy Scout meeting in Hazlet, N.J., Jimmy Speck, Bobby Smythe and I stopped at Norman's, a mom-pop forerunner of convenience stores, in part to stock up on candy, in part to catch up on the score of the 7:05 p.m. game.
Though the Mets were ahead, it still was too early to celebrate. They had been known to blow a late-inning lead and a game or two - especially in the preceding season. Their fans had been conditioned not to count chickens before they hatched.
By the time we reached the police station about a mile down the road, the Cardinals were at bat in the top of the ninth, down 6-0.
It was 9:07 p.m., Wednesday, Sept. 24, 1969, when the Mets retired the Cardinals and became the National League East champs.
It was then that Nelson, whose sportscoats were the epitome of loud, began screaming into the mike, and I began hooting and hollering in the police station lobby to the dismay of the desk cop.
But what was he going to do, arrest a 13-year-old relishing the end of the Mets era as a hapless team? Arrest a kid, who Friday night after Friday night, year after year, had cheered for baseball's butt of a joke as he watched them on the portable black and white TV in the kitchen? A kid who, along with four of his brothers, had ``treated'' Dad to Father's Day at Shea Stadium? A kid who, months early, stood in line with his brother Bill for two to three hours to get the autographs of Seaver and Swoboda? A kid who, on that hot, humid Saturday, ice-cream cone melting down his hand, rehearsed the questions he would pitch to the ballplayers - only to choke with stage fright when the moment arrived.
I'M NOT A baseball groupie who never got a life, who never grew up.
Seaver's and Swoboda's autographs were the last ones I ever sought, ever got.
But had I known earlier that I would be heading for beers and beef with the '69 Mets last weekend, I would have gone up to the attic, grabbed one of the '69 yearbooks from my visits to Shea, and headed to Harbor Park.
Just one more time would I have moved from ballplayer to ballplayer and, at age 38, embarassingly asked for autographs.
Instead, without the Mets memorabilia in hand, I opted, in part, to just stand back as if taking a pitch.
A sweet-toothed kid in a candy shop.
Probably the last heroes I ever had. And here they were.
On occasion, I approached one or another of the Miracle Mets, shook hands, offered a Mets-related anecdote, and said to them, ``On behalf of my father and my brothers, thanks for the memories.'' ILLUSTRATION: Photo
Memorabilia from the 1969 season of the ``Miracle Mets.''
by CNB