Root, Root, Root for the Home Team

Lately, after the mini-Beach Ghost has been put to bed, MLW is oftentimes busy surfing the 'net trolling for a job or selflessly giving of her time to one of the associations to which she belongs. This leaves me with some free time; naturally, instead of using it for something creative or constructive, I'll take advantage of the time to hone my fine motor skills. But I've also been watching quite a bit of baseball; I've probably viewed more games this year than in any other season since I've started following the sport. Of course, it helps when your team is winning, and that's certainly been the case with the Mets this year.

I didn't start out a Mets fan. My initial team loyalty was based on fair weather geography: my father's family was near the Cincinnati area, the Reds were in the midst of their Big Red Machine days, and Rose was still playing. So, I decided I was a Reds fan. But it wasn't like I made any effort to actually see what was going on. If any of my classmates (the vast majority of whom were fans of that other New York team) back when I was a wee tike asked who I favored, I had an answer. I don't think I would have been able to name anyone other than Mr. Rose from that team, but I was able to pass the minimum masculinity requirements necessary for that age.

I continued this passive form of fandom until the fall of 1986, my first semester of college in New York City. One of the new friends I had made was a Mets fan, so of course he was glued to the television for the World Series. Now just about every baseball fan or New York resident (and, I suspect, many folks who live in the Boston area) remembers how this turned out, but I had no idea what would occur when I went to his room to watch Game Six. And it was there that I saw a routine ground ball, dribbling right to the first baseman, go right through his legs. The winning run scored and the series went to Game Seven.

I don't remember most of the last game of that series, but I do remember what happened after the final out: my friend turned down the volume on the TV and opened the window. Outside the city was cheering, thousands of people screaming their jubilation in unison.

From that day on, I was a Mets fan.

Granted, I still wasn't paying very close attention, but I would keep an eye on the standings and catch the last few innings of a game on the tube now and then. It was probably my lack of scrutiny that allowed me to maintain my allegiance, as I missed the concerted--and all too successful--effort the team's management went through to dismantle them.

When I started to become more focused on the team (during the ill-fated 2000 "Subway Series"), I quickly picked up the team hallmarks:

-- Hot players that get traded to the Mets very quickly cool off (read: Mo Vaughn)

-- Players traded by the Mets will go on to have very productive careers (read: Scott Kazmir)

-- Getting a closer to perform consistently is nearly impossible.

-- If the game is close, the Mets will lose.

-- If the game is important, the Mets will lose.

-- If you get your hopes up, you will be crushed.

So I've learned that not expecting too much is essential to retaining one's stomach lining. This year, however, has been different. The team's new manager actually seems to know how to scout talent, and not only are their new acquisitions perfoming superbly, but the players they've promoted from the minors to fill in when the marquee players have gotten hurt are also getting the job done. Better still, they are winning the close games, winning series against teams they have to beat (2 out of 3 from the Yankees, a 4-game sweep of the Diamondbacks, a 3-game sweep of the Phillies) if they want a shot at the post-season, and battling back to win games they would always have lost just a few years ago.

It's exciting to see, so any fence sitters would be well advised to get on the bandwagon now. And if you want some insight into the minutiae that hides beneath the seeming simplicity of the game, do yourself a favor and pick up this book.