The Mets Ruined My Childhood

Whenever anyone talks to me about the New York Mets, my response is so dead-panned and instantaneous, it probably seems pre-programmed: "The Mets? Yeah, they ruined my childhood."

The Mets ruined my childhood. It's succinctly obscure. It's intriguing but believable. It's even easy to remember. As a personal creed, it perhaps lacks the accessibility of "dance like no one's is watching," but one could do worse.

Growing up in South Florida, the weather was so perpetually pleasant that every kid played an outdoor sport. I was too much of a pussy to play football, I was too lazy to play soccer, and I was too heterosexual to play tennis. That pretty much left Little League baseball.

Anyone who has ever known a single mom should know that the quickest way to win her heart is to show an interest in her child. Whenever my Mom would bring a new "uncle" home for dinner, he would inevitably try and charm her by engaging me in conversation. When people hear you play baseball, they naturally assume you won't mind talking about it. Thus, dozens of childhood dinners were made awkward by lame questions some new guy would feel obligated to ask. You like baseball? What position do you play? What's your favorite baseball team? After dinner, would you mind going to your room and putting on your headphones? I desperately needed a favorite baseball team.

The Florida Marlins wouldn't be established for almost another decade, so I would have to entertain bids from the nation at large. My methods weren't scientific. I turned on the television one night and the Houston Astros were battling the New York Mets. It was the 6th game of the National League Championship Series and the score was tied 3-3 in the bottom of the ninth. The winner, I decided, would enjoy the honor of becoming my favorite team. An hour later, we were entering the 13th inning and the score had not changed. This was turning out to be a historically significant game. Sadly, it was past my bed time.

The next morning, I found out the Mets had eventually won (I'm still convinced sleep deprivation caused the Astros to forfeit in the 349th inning). Hooray, my new favorite team was in the World Series! A few days later, Mookie Wilson hit a playable ground ball that effectively ruined Bill Buckner's career. The Mets were World Champions! I was hooked. Darryl Strawberry quickly became my MostFavoritistPlayerEVER (mostly because of his name). Doc Gooden was pretty rad too. I collected all their baseball cards, watched as many games as I could, demanded tacky apparel from my parents, etc. Orange and blue blood pumped through my veins.

The very next spring, my Aunt C. and Grandma R. took me on my first trip to NYC. The entire vacation was exceptionally awesome but the unquestionable highlight was visiting Shea Stadium for the first time. (Yes, I went to Yankee Stadium too. Fuck Yankee Stadium.)

Tuesday, April 7, 1987, the World Champion Mets hosted the lowly Pittsburgh Pirates (Barry Bonds was BALCO-free in those days). In the first inning Darryl Fucking Strawberry hit a home run and I dropped the ice cold lemonade I had been sipping in between bites of dog (my first stadium hot dog, mind you; no one had told me about the 7-7-7 Club*). The Home Run Apple emerged from the giant top hat beyond the outfield fences, completely balancing out the traumatic lemonade accident from eight seconds prior. Time corrupts all memories but I'm 96% sure that, as the Home Run Apple rose, so too did my first erection. The Mets won, 3-2. I was ecstatic, Shea Municipal Stadium was my new Mecca.

If I could surgically remove that moment from my brain, wrap my hands around it, and wring it over a juicer... the orange and blue liquidy discharge would be the literal essence of one man's perfectly happy youth. Do you know how much most pedophiles would pay for an ounce of distilled childhood innocence? It’s priceless you fucking pervent -- It’s not for sale!

A few months after my magical pilgrimage to Shea, Darryl Strawberry was arrested for breaking his wife's nose. I had reached my life's pinnacle and now I was beginning the descent. The Mets of the late 1980s were the worst role models a young boy could have. Pablo Escobar told me once in a phone interview that, back in '88, he would split each shipment of cocaine unevenly between two truckloads. The smaller truckload would be broken up and eventually circulate through the streets of Miami; the larger truckload went directly to the New York Mets clubhouse.

In a recent ESPN The Magazine feature, Hall of Famer Gary Carter admits, "I once saw Keith Hernandez snort a cocaine portrait of Corey Feldman. Seriously, our supply man had a Lost Boys fetish. It was weird." Strawberry, Hernandez, Gooden, Lenny Dykstra... when they weren't doing blow, they were beating their spouses. Yup, my heroes were fucking dicks. In the span of two years, I went from jovial lad to cynical young adult. And I began to hate baseball.

Eventually, the All-Star cast of douchebags washed out of the league. I only went to a handful of games after my ’87 adventure at Shea until 1993, when the expansion Florida Marlins sought to renew my spirit. It was fitting that Opening Day brought the Los Angeles Dodgers and their newest acquisition, Darryl Strawberry, into town. I remember watching him meander through the outfield. Fans enjoy heckling has-beens. “Dar-ryl, Dar-ryl,” they chanted over and over again hoping to invoke his infamous rage. Strawberry didn’t resemble the Adonis who dominated his sport only six years ago. He was a shell of a man. He was pathetic. A wreck. I wished my seats that day were close enough to sling my stale kosher salted pretzel at him.

Let's jump ahead 15 years to 2008. For the second year in a row, the Marlins have eliminated my the Mets from playoff contention on the last day of the regular season. This year is more dramatic, however, because Shea Stadium is being dismantled to make way for a newer, shinier facility with all the bells-and-whistles one could ask for… but none of my young memories. The last golden relic of my happy childhood is soon to be torn limb from limb. No, friends, there will not be any erections tonight.

---

*7-7-7 Club - Founded by KC, Dustin, and myself @ Coors Field. To join the 7-7-7 Club, one must successfully ingest seven hot dogs and seven beers before the end of the seventh inning.