It’s late in the game, and you’re not gonna believe this, but the Mets are losing.
Our last few outs are dwindling in unimpressive fashion. Up to bat is no one in particular, with an OPS well under .700.
There’s a pall over the ballpark. All the unfaithfuls left at least an inning ago, so the only ones left here want to believe, but we feel a little embarrassed about it.
Some kid in the next section over starts up a chant. “Let’s go METS,” he hollers into the night. A few stragglers pick it up.
Sometimes when I’m interacting with strangers, my voice disappears. I’ll mouth words to my neighbor in the elevator without making any sound. No such issue right now. I unhinge my jaw and bellow “LET’S GO METS” with all the vocal power of Beelzebub.
I’m surrounded by like-minded fools. A few rows in front of me, a guy is wearing his hat backwards and inside-out to reverse the team’s luck. An elderly man a few seats over is scoring the game in a notebook with tired serenity. A woman whose white jersey has become papyrus-colored with time is on her feet.
Oh, I realize suddenly. We’re all doing this because we all think we’re helping. The inside-out hat is helping. The screaming kid is helping. The people watching on TV at home are helping. We’re all working together.
⚾
I’m lost in thought passing through security and accidentally start to walk past the two guys scanning tickets at the entrance. As if scripted by Nora Ephron, they launch into a series of charming New York admonishments in classic New York accents.
“Eyy, where do you think you’re going?”
“Oh, she thinks if she acts all casual we won’t notice!”
“—Waltzing in here like she owns the place!”
“Sure, she acts all nonchalant, but does she have a ticket?”
I act sheepish as I present my phone, but I already know I’ll be retelling the anecdote for weeks.
⚾
I’ve decided gender doesn’t exist at the ballpark. (“Juan Soto is babygirl,” I text my friends, who promptly agree.) Sometimes I wear a binder. Sometimes I wear lipstick. Sometimes I wear both. Ballcap? Gender euphoria. Backwards ballcap to hold your sweaty hair off your forehead? Even more gender euphoria. It’s all money.
In the sixth inning, hopping from sink to sink to find a working soap dispenser, I notice myself in the bathroom mirror. My eyes are wild. I look incredible.
⚾
Tonight’s fireworks feature songs from 1986, since that’s the last time the Mets won the World Series. I’m skeptical, but it turns out that just about every banger of the 1980s came out in 1986. As color explodes in the sky, it feels like the whole stadium is screaming: Oh, we’re halfway there. My friend Alex and I are screaming, too. I feel both small and expansive, as if I’m looking at this planet from space.
⚾
I joke that I hold on to the wins for days but wipe the losses from my memory immediately. This turns out to be more true than I realized when I finally look at the division standings and am genuinely astonished to see the Mets in last place. This knowledge does not inoculate me: I continue to be surprised by the Mets’ actual stats.
No one could claim I’m a bandwagon fan. If anything I’m the opposite. Buy low, sell high.
⚾
Mrs. Met, like any true star, enters our lives with no pretentiousness. She politely asks (via hand gestures) if she can take the empty seat in front of me and my friend Talia. We soon realize this is standard Mrs. Met procedure because her enormous head genuinely obstructs sightlines – not that we’re complaining. In between the action, she slings an arm over the back of her chair as she turns to chat with us, complimenting Talia’s earrings.
What to say to baseball-headed royalty? Flustered, I explain to Mrs. Met that we’re celebrating my birthday. She draws a heart in the air with her fingers, and her handler brings her a bundle that she passes to me – a T-shirt. I thank her profusely; I had no idea this was a thing that could happen.
After Mrs. Met has moved on to light up others’ lives, Talia and I look at each other in shock. “I’m actually starstruck,” I confess.
⚾
Every team plays 162 games in the regular season. The games run together as the stats take shape. Following a baseball season is watching math happen, watching averages play out event by event, waiting for the magical outlier moments. You wade through the mundane so you can savor the exceptional.
“This is the first time in franchise history the Mets have given up 14 runs and still won the game,” one of the announcers says. After an unduly stressful three hours on the couch, you have to laugh.
⚾
It’s taken too many tries, but I’ve finally cracked how to get to the express 7 platform after the game. The homie Talia and I climb up to see a mostly empty car waiting for us and scamper on. A comedy of errors plays out rapidly: I realize the train is heading the wrong way. Talia denies the accusation. (The speaker announces the doors are about to close.) I present the evidence, pointing to the map above the windows; she realizes I’m right and jumps back onto the platform. In the instant before I can follow her, the doors close between us.
We’re breathless with laughter on opposite sides of the glass. Talia snaps a photo of me through the doors before the train carries me away, deeper into Queens.
I take my seat grinning like a celebrity who’s just wrapped up an acceptance speech, buoyed by the absurdity. A family who appear to be tourists, the only other people in the car, stare at me in silent bemusement.
The ballpark, still glowing with light, is beautiful as it recedes from view. At the next stop I switch trains, and get to see it again from the other direction.