"JOHAN SANTANA'S NO-HITTER (PART TWO)...AND THE IMPERFECT GAME STORY"

Hi Friends!

There is a connection - a shared experience - between all of us who were teenagers in the late sixties. The Beatles, Woodstock, Summer of Love...add Top Forty Radio (ABC-AM, WMCA) and their great DJs (Cousin Brucie, Ron Lundy, Harry Harrison, etc.) if you lived in New York... and - the 1969 Mets. I was reminded of that connection as I listened to the ecstatic individuals who have called into WFAN over the past few days to verbally bask in the afterglow of Johan Santana's no-hitter. Many of these callers referenced Tom Seaver's "Imperfect Game" in discussing the Santana masterpiece. Clearly the Seaver game - almost forty-three years later - continues to resonate among Mets fans of a certain age. Including myself. It was my first thought as Santana walked to the pitching mound in the top of the ninth inning.

It wasn't just that Tom Seaver pitched 8 1/3 innings of perfect baseball against the Chicago Cubs in front of a packed crowd in Shea Stadium. More was at stake. The Mets - losers since their inaugural season of 1962 - were making an unexpected move on the first place Chicago Cubs. A team of many stars (Ernie Banks, Ron Santo, Billy Williams, Ferguson Jenkins). Managed by the legendary Leo ("Nice Guys Finish Last") Durocher, who managed both the Brooklyn Dodgers and New York Giants to pennants and - in the case of the Giants - to two Worlds Series titles. The Mets had Tom Seaver. Jerry Koosman. A couple of other decent players. Their new found ability to compete successfully in the National League wasn't a complete surprise. But here they were in second place, sneaking up on the Cubs. When the Cubs came to New York in July 1969 there was the electricity of a pennant race in the air. The Mets first pennant race. And that was quite unexpected. A pennant race! Which took the three game midweek Mets/Cubs series to a whole other level.

Physically I was quite removed from all of this excitement. Just two weeks earlier my parents had moved us from Brooklyn to Holtsville.  (Holtsville? Until the IRS opened up a center there in the seventies, no one had even heard of Holtsville!)  I once called into WBAB, a radio station in Babylon, LI, and won a trivia contest.  The DJ asked me where I was from.  I said "Holtsville".  To which the DJ replied, "No...really.  Where are you from?" A few weeks later WBAB ran another contest. For this one the DJ would ask for the first caller from a particular town to call into the station for an opportunity to participate in the contest. This one time he said "first caller from Holtsville."  I called in and the DJ answered the telephone by saying "Hi Steve - how are you?" Holtsville.  The Long island Expressway didn't even go out that far in 1969! We were in the middle of nowhere. (A few years ago I sent to  a friend's home out there to sit shiva - his father had passed away. During the conversation I started complaining about the 1969nmove out to Holtsville.  My friend stopped me. "You're still complaining about that?" he said. "Time to get over it!" I looked at him. Not yet...)

Our new home...my parents were thrilled - lifetime apartment dwellers, they now actually owned their first home. Very exciting. So far as I was concerned, they'd moved me to Siberia. I knew no one (the new school wouldn't start their fall semester for another two months). In an era without cell phones and inexpensive long distance rates - no Internet, text messaging or AIM - I absolutely had nobody with whom to discuss the Mets' sudden success. On top of that, television and New York City radio reception was horrible. I begged my parents - who were on a very strict budget - to install a cable line so I could at least watch Mets games when they were televised. On July 7, 1969 my Dad had the cable installed. On July 8 the Cubs came to town and the Mets  rallied from several runs down to win the game in the bottom of the ninth. An exciting walk-off victory (years before that term would come into vogue). Which at least was able to witness.

That victory set the stage for the Seaver game. My Dad worked two jobs in Brooklyn, sometimes stayed with relatives and so wasn't always home in the evening. On this night he was home and the two of watched Tom Seaver go to work. Dad and I actually rarely talked baseball (he would come off jaded but I always suspected there was residual bitterness relating from the departure of the Dodgers from Brooklyn).  Sitting together as the Mets battled the Cubs and Seaver completely throttled the Cubs lineup, Dad and I talked about the Mets and how the season was progressing. He seemed excited (mostly for me I think - that was OK.) And when the game entered the ninth inning and Seaver's perfect game remained intact, we were on the edge of our seats. Quality time with my Dad as we watched a quality performance.

One batter into the ninth inning someone named Jimmy Qualls (who?) singled for the Cubs and ended the perfect game. The Mets won the game - two straight over the Cubs! but I was beside myself. My Dad consoled me. He was disappointed too. But he was not a particularly emotional man - I get that from my Mom. Then he said it: "Steven...the Mets are a game closer to first...isn't that wonderful?" He gave me a hug. A moment I will always remember - and treasure. (And of course Dad was right....the Mets went all the way and eventually beat the Orioles in the World Series.)

But ...like every other Mets fan...the loss of the perfect game couldn't quite be forgotten. Tom Seaver would go on to pitch into the ninth inning twice more and lose no-hitters. The Mets would go on to pitch a number of one-hit games. Like every other Mets fan I was sure I would die before the Mets would throw their first no-hitter.

If it did happen... I'd always thought I'd miss the moment, that I would miss the first no-hitter in Mets' history. A social activity...a late game on the coast..an emergency...an obligatory visit to the grocery store. A trip to the dentist.  Something.

And them came last Friday. I was out with my girlfriend and her children. I happen to check for messages.  There was one.  From my daughter. She is attending college down in New Zealand. A message from the other side of the world. The message read:

                                  "Mets' no-hitter through seven innings!"

Here it was, another opportunity. My daughter is a big-time Mets fan. Loved Mike Piazza back in the day. These days she roots hard for David Wright. (Of course.) As she grew up the Mets had helped us bond  in an important way.  It was very sweet of her to alert me to the possibility. I was touched. I love her dearly.

I explained the situation to my girlfriend - she understood, she's awesome as well - and so I headed out to watch the last two innings somewhere. I was in Manhattan. Find a bar...it should not have been much of a problem. There are bars in every neighborhood. I walked into the first one. Three televisions were on, all tuned to an NBA playoff game. The bartender came over, asked what I wanted to drink. I asked him to please turn on the Mets game. He repeated his question. What would I have to drink? I repeated my request. The bartender he wasn't going to put on the Mets game. Why not? "I'm a Yankee fan" he responded. And walked away.

I didn't have time to argue with him. The game was in the eighth inning. I was missing it.  Drama. I love the drama of baseball. A dramatic moment can transcend some of the non-baseball issues that seem to have permeated the game since I became an adult: drugs, steroids - and (especially) those astronomical salaries. Mookie Wilson's at-bat in Game Six (how many balls did he foul off with the Mets one strike away from losing the 1986 World Series?)  Endy Chavez' catch against in the Cardinals in the seventh game of that NL playoff series. Those are the moments that keep the inner child going...it had already been a few precious minutes since I'd seen the text. What was happening? My "smart" phone takes forever to load. Not an option. Besides - I wanted to see the game live. I walked two blocks up, found another bar. It was crowded. Karaoke. Some young kid was crooning "Feelings". He sounded like a cat in heat. I'd hated that song back in the seventies. How did this kid know from that song? I have jeans older than he was!  There was one television inside that i could see...the insipid lyrics of "Feelings" were on the screen. I kept searching...

The next bar had three customers, two young guys and an old man. And two televisions. I was told one TV was broken. The other one had the basketball game on. The bartender did not want to turn on the baseball game. His answer was no. "It's a no-hitter" I explained. "The Mets may throw the first no-hit game in their history!" I appealed to the three customers. The young guys  shrugged. They had some money on the basketball game. They weren't turning it off. I looked at the old man. Turned out he was deaf...no help there.

I raced down the Avenue now. Finally found another bar. The owner agreed to turn on the game...and I watched with the sound off. I just took in the drama. The shots of Santana. RA Dickey in the dugout with a towel around his head. Graphics indicating Santana's pitch count. A closeup of the manager Terry Collins. (You just knew he was wrestling with the pitch-count issue.) Shots of the fans. I sent  text messages to a number of friends...turn on the Mets game now. The final strikeout...the celebration. Reaction shots. In my head, I was sixteen-years-old again, hanging out with my Dad. Drinking in the moment. "About time", I thought."About time."

My Dad can no longer relate very well to the outside world. He is unable to hold any type of conversation by telephone. But next month when I visit him I will talk about the night the Mets pitched their first no-hitter. I need to tell him. Then I will give him a big hug.

See you all soon...till then,
Stevenn