Preserving the Mystique

Baseball as it ought to be.

That's the latest slogan at Shea Stadium these days. Actually, it's "Baseball as it oughta be," italicized and everything, plastered right across the upper deck facade. Mets owner Frank Cashen probably felt defeated since the Atlanta Braves had already proclaimed themselves "America's Team."

What does that mean, anyway--baseball as it oughta be? When I journeyed to Shea for the Mets home opener against the Cards and Howard Johnson let an easy grounder go through his legs, allowing the winning run to score in the 13th inning--was that baseball as it oughta be?

Even if the Mets go on to win the World Series, baseball as it oughta be is a thing of the past. It ended when I was in eighth grade--I'm sure of that.

There was just Jon and I. We played after school and on weekends; we played when it was in the 40's and when it was in the 90's; we played in the wind and in the dark.

He was the Yankees and I was the Mets or Red Sox (depending on my preference on a given day).

My family would take him to Mets games and his family would take me to Yankees games. Almost without fail, the Mets would always lose and the Yankees would always win.

But none of that mattered; the real games were played in our backyards.

There was a plastic bat and a plastic ball, a thick slate plate, and a chalk batters box. At Jon's house, we used to play hard ball--until Jon fouled one back through his kitchen window. Then we had to play whiff there too.

At my house, there were foul poles (garden posts) and an on-deck circle with extra bats (if you swung two or more at a time, you were pretty cool). There was a home-made dugout occupied only by the "ghost runners" and even a resin bag (stuffed and clipped white rag) on the mound.

There was a short, Fenway-esque left field wall and a chance to "roof" one on the house deep down the right field line. A small tree was first base, until it got sick and had to be cut down--then the hole where the tree used to be was first base. The corner of the swing-set was second base and the flat rock by the woods was third.

We saluted America by listening to a recording of the National Anthem before the game and honored our heroes with post-game interviews afterwards.

I was Lindsey Nelson, Ralph Kiner, and Bob Murphy; Jon was Phil Rizzutto, Frank Messer, and Bill White.

Jon was big and slow and liked to play long-ball; I was short and quick and liked to take it a base or two at a time.

We both wanted to win every game, but not at the expense of cheating by batting righty when Yaz, John Milner or Bobby Murcer came up. Nor at the expense of dramatic third strikes we called on ourselves--often with the bases loaded--I guess to preserve the mystique of the game.

At the plate, I always choked up like Felix Milan and crouched like Rusty Staub. In the field, Jon always hot-dogged like Mickey Rivers and dived for line drives like Greg Nettles.

There were the times our mothers made us let our sisters play, and the times friends joined to make it two-against-two or even three-on-three.

But that didn't count. It wasn't me against him.

We must have replayed the '78 Yankees-Red Sox playoff game at least 20 times. Whenever it was Bucky Dent's turn in the late innings, Jon would intentionally foul one off so he could claim he broke his bat. Then he would go get one of the spare bats which wasn't his and attempt to re-create the homer. It never worked.

Then, the inevitable happened. After sixth grade, I went to a different school than Jon, and by eighth grade we hardly played at all. Jon tried to justify everything by saying that my franchise was bought out and had to move away.

We were re-united in high school after 10th grade but haven't played a single game since we turned 14.

Jon and I still talk now and then--we even joke sometimes about getting together for an "Old-Timers Day" game. Actually, he jokes; I suggest a time and a place.

The swing-set is now gone, and so is the tree that prevented a Wayne Garrett home run from giving me the 1976 season.

Grass hasn't yet returned to the pitcher's mound where Jon Matlack once tossed a one-hitter or to the home plate area from where Fred Stanley once hit three grand slams in one game.

I guess that's to be expected after years and years of playing baseball there.

Baseball as it ought to be.