Shea Stadium’s final season began ten years ago. If ever a ballpark were conceived in sin yet born to provide pleasure running the range from farce to finery, the Big Shea—as we Met fans since the day they were born called it—was it. It was long years since I’d last sat in the park, but whatever the beauties of its successor Citi Field something precious died when the last portion of the park came down at last.
When the most interesting thing about your team, other than its star (and Cy Young candidate) knuckleballer, is the manner in which its home fans say farewell to a career-long tormentor, that’s when you can put paid, for the most part, to the season at hand.
If confession is good for the soul, I don’t know what good it does to confess I’ve been a Met fan since the day they were born. All I know is that weekend past, for us Met fans, brought nothing more interesting to our sights and sounds than saying goodbye to Chipper Jones in New York.