.354

We finally felt that we were making headway in cleaning out the cellar in anticipation of the house being sold, but every new corner straightened out and organized would end up as another blast from the past, followed by inevitable chit chat. A partially enjoyed bottle of Seagram’s 7 that belonged to my grandfather (he died eleven years before I was born) opened up a flood gate of memories about the pool parties in our twenty five by thirty foot Williamsburg yard. Zia Katherine once told me that the local beat cops from McCarren Park would occasionally show, throw their duty belts, service weapons and all, on top of the fridge to keep them away from the kids, and take a dip in the pool while enjoying a few cold ones after lunch. 

A heavy piece of what felt to be ceramic, carefully wrapped in jaundiced pages of the New York Daily News revealed a statuette of Padre Pio, in all his stigmatized glory, which Nanny brought back from her trip to Apulia in the early 70’s. A decrepit looking Radio Flyer wagon contained binders stuffed to the brim with old photographs and baseball cards of every forgettable New York Met one could imagine. 

“Let’s go through these.”, suggested my younger brother, Mikey. “Never know, maybe we could find a few gems.” 

He had a facetious smirk on his face, knowing full well as a long-suffering Met fan that we’re more likely to find lump coal than any diamonds. We grabbed one binder of photos and cards each and headed up to Ma’s apartment on the second floor. 

When we walked through the narrow hallway and into the rear apartment door, Ma had just put the macchinetta on the stove’s burner. The inviting odor of Lavazza espresso was beginning to fill the apartment. There was a fine line between burning the delicate powdery grounds and concocting the perfect coffee, and she seemed to have mastered the ritual with daily practice. 

“Anything good down there?”, inquired Ma. “Nobody’s gone through those binders in years. Probably since you guys were little.”, she continued over her shoulder as she cleaned dishes in the sink. 

“We’re gonna start to chip away at these binders. Brought up two each.” Mikey wet a paper towel and wiped the covers of the four binders to keep the years of dust and cellar mold from dirtying the dining room table where coffee and s-shaped biscotti were about to be shared. The steaming macchinetta was placed on a pink quilted pot holder, and we began with the binder labeled “1998”.

“Not a bad year for the Mets. Not a good year either.”, muttered Mikey. 

“You were fucking six. You remember?”, I said. 

“Easy. I remember they got Piazza, and that it was more exciting than it is now. You’re eighteen months older than me and you’re a fucking baseball historian now?”

We turned over the cover and began our parade of mediocre major league ballplayers. I felt a pang of guilt at my uncanny ability to pass judgment on a ballplayer’s life’s work in a matter of seconds. Afterall, these guys were the best in the world at what they did, even the ones who washed out with but a whimper. But, as always, my ability to shamelessly categorize them triumphed. 

“Jermaine Allensworth, hitting a cool .204. Next.” 

“Mike Kinkade, Jesus…”

“Cookie Rojas?”, I said with vitriol, pointing to a card featuring a short, plump, Latino man in his early sixties, donning Dahmer-style aviator eyeglasses. “What fucking kid wants a card of the third base coach?”

All cynicism aside, the Mets had a decent summer that year. They finished with a more-than-playoff-worthy record of 88-74, but narrowly missed the cut right at the end. Nationally, the summer of ‘98 was best remembered for the home run race between Mark McGwire and Sammy Sosa. Yes, the one that resulted in a congressional hearing and eventual barring of the two men from the Baseball Hall of Fame for steroid allegations. 

We had made it about two thirds through the “1998” binder, when, stuck to the back side of one of the plastic pages I noticed a small photograph with a Kodak watermark dated ‘98 01 24. I slipped my hand into the sleeve and slowly peeled the photo away from its sticky plastic housing where it remained for the last quarter century. Taking care not to tear it, I was able to shimmy it out gently. I paused for a moment, staring blankly at the date, hopeful that hidden deep in the cobwebbed caverns of my brain was a synapse from which I’d be able to recall January 24, 1998. 

“Holy shit! It’s us and Johnny O!”

The picture showed Mikey and I, at six and eight years old, dressed in jeans, oversized bubble jackets, scarves, and blue Mets beanies. Next to us stood a very tall, very lanky man, with short dirty blonde hair, parted on the left side. He wore a black leather jacket with a corduroy collar. His sharp, angular face was softened by a genuine smile. The royal blue outside façade of Shea Stadium provided a backdrop.

“John Olerud. Guy hit .354 that year. No Met has come close since. This must’ve been at the season ticket holder’s event in the Shea parking lot.” 

Holding the photograph stirred something unusual within me. I was able to recall the very moment I fell in love with the game of baseball, a moment from which all the moments after would never be the same. All years after that day were now measured in baseball seasons, good or bad. Regardless of pre-season projections, spring training brought with it all of the cliches of being born again among the tulips and hatchlings. It was that cold January Saturday that got me hooked. 

“Do you remember this?”I asked Mikey.

“Negatory, I remember hearing about it though. We met Franco too, I think, right?” 

“Yeah. We didn’t even get to go into the stadium. For some reason I remember Uncle Joey talking to all the ballplayers about the upcoming season like he knew them personally. It was freezing and there were Dunkin’ Donuts coffee jugs on every folding table in the parking lot. A lot of the other players were being dickheads, but Olerud saw us and we got to cut the line and I worked up the courage to tell him I also played first base.” 

I hadn’t realized I was still clutching the photograph as if I didn’t ever want to let go of it. The thickness of the memory put me in a deep fog, and I wasn’t ready to return just yet. A second, prolonged glance at it brought on a deluge of unrelated pieces of nostalgia that were somehow connected to that time. Mister Softee, manhunt, block parties, Nintendo 64, Time Warner City Cable commercials, the Pepsi Picnic Area at Shea Stadium, The Subway Series, Super Soakers, Derek Jeter. 

“Yo, wake up. I wanna finish this binder." said Mikey.

I put the photo on the end table next to the couch so I wouldn’t spill any espresso on it. I sat back down and took a sip of my coffee to collect myself. I remembered reading somewhere that taking a sip of liquid can act as a mental reset, yet I still felt as if I were in a dream-like state. Mikey continued through the 1998 binder, rattling off names I thought I’d never hear again. 

“Todd Pratt, Dennis Cook, Rigo Beltran…”

My mind was tracing a line from the day the photo was taken to the present. Filaments of  New York City history and my life entwined with Mets baseball made an ever-extending length of rope. 9/11? Piazza’s home run. The 2003 Blackout? Mo Vaughn, Roberto Alomar, disappointment. Bernie Madoff? Wilpons and the year they closed Shea Stadium. 2020? Opening Day in July. 

After finishing the first of the four binders, we downed our coffees and biscotti. Mikey returned to the cellar, and I remained at the table while Ma cleaned it off. I at once felt that the passage of time had terrifyingly occurred in the blink of an eye, yet was hopeful for what was to come next. Almost every afternoon or evening, from late March to late September, baseball is broadcast on AM radio and television. A real life soap opera. The news without any true consequence. Grown men getting paid millions to play a boy’s game. A necessary escape. 

The true value of the days and nights spent following Mets baseball for the past twenty five years cannot be quantified in wins or losses, but in the precious minutiae through which I’m able to find harmony in the passage of time. 

I reached over to the end table, folded the photograph neatly in half, and put it into my inside coat pocket.