A Word About Fandom

face painters
Originally uploaded by dangunderman.

I write this shortly before Game 4 of the NLCS, with the Mets down two games to one and the most frustrating pitcher on earth about to take the mound for the Mets. Pessimism courses through my veins.

Thursday night, however, I was at Shea Stadium for the first game in the series, a game the Mets won, sitting in the upper deck along with the rest of the real fans.

During the playoffs, the upper deck is reserved for those fans with the less expensive season ticket packages. For example, I was sitting with people who, during the regular season, had a Monday/Thursday home game ticket package with seats in the Mezzanine. Their package included the rights to purchase playoff tickets. Playoff seats, however, are worse than regular season seats. Why is that, do you ask?

You know how if you watch a baseball game, especially one in a major city like New York, the cameras will occasionally show a celebrity at the game? Yeah, there are a few more comps handed out by the stadium to the respective participants, ballplayers, advertisers, sponsors, etc. They get better seats. Because they're better than us.

But the upper decks are filled with genuine fans -- fans with real passion, fans without irony, fans without reserve... Seriously. Real fans.

I haven't spent enough time at other stadiums to get a sense of the fans outside of Shea. So it's very possible that my description of a Mets fan could apply to true fans everywhere. My thoughts on the subject are still half-baked, and I suspect my words will be as well, but the thought of those Mets fans on Thursday night have been tickling the back of my head ever since that playoff game.

The Mets fan embodies a complete lack of snobbery. He (and Mets fans are predominantly male) has a hard time finding his seat, he has no fashion sense, he occasionally has no teeth. He has an inferiority complex thanks to the neighboring and usually superior American League team across the river in the Bronx. When I sit among my fellow Mets fans, I'm both proud and embarrassed to be one of them.

The ironic, observant part of me finds the Mets fan to be hilarious. The earnest side of me empathizes (after all, I'm a fan, too). And the desperation of the Mets fan is overwhelmingly sad.

The playoffs are no time to be objective or ironic. I rooted for the Mets in earnest. I chanted, "Let's go, Mets!" I heckled the Cardinals pitcher with calls of "WEEEAAAVERRRR!" I high-fived my neighbors as Tom Glavine finished another shutout inning. I woke up hoarse the next day. And it was just great.

The game was a pitcher's duel. Tense, exciting stuff. In the sixth inning, Carlos Beltran hit a monster home run. The resulting two runs would be all the scoring the game would see. Shea Stadium erupted like I've seen only twice before (stories for another time -- lucky you, B&E readers). The upper deck was shaking.

And even while I was pumping my fist in the air, and screaming, "YEAH!" I was grabbed from across the aisle, embraced by a complete stranger, bruising my ribs on the handrail. This man was close to tears.

And for just a heartbeat, during this moment of pure joy, I feel tremendous sadness. This man has nothing but these Mets. He lives alone. Or maybe with his abusive mother, even though he's at least forty. His boss rides his ass every fucking day of the week. He struggles with gambling debts. His drinking problem caused his wife to leave him, and he hasn't felt the touch of a woman in over a year. Except for that one he paid to touch him about six months ago. Unfortunately he's still paying for it today, and the medication's side effects includes sleeplessness and oily discharge. Beltran's homer is this man's only joy.

I'm a Mets fan, of course, and I want them to win. But it is imperative that the Mets win for the sake of this man. It is vital, for his health and safety, that the Mets succeed. It will be the only success of this man's life. If the Mets lose, this man will not survive. And I would fear for the safety of his boss, mother, and ex-wife. And of course for the woman who gave him the clap.

You must win, Mets. You must. Lives depend upon it.

(The photo features the worst doctoring job I've ever seen.)