(Originally
published 6/25/12)
On this
very night thirty-nine years ago—June 25, 1973—I attended my first Mets' game
at “beautiful Shea Stadium.” That is how announcer Curt Gowdy described the
place a mere four years earlier in a 1969 World Series highlight film. Anyway,
it was more than beautiful to me as a ten-year-old boy. In fact, from my
wide-eyed vantage point, it was awe-inspiring—Shea Stadium was the
quintessential Wonder of the World. While I had been to Yankee Stadium
on multiple occasions, I had only seen the "Big Shea" through the
screen of my family’s black-and-white television set. So, to experience Shea
Stadium in the flesh and in living color with its singular ballpark din—in the
flight path of nearby LaGuardia Airport—made it a night to remember.
An older
neighbor chauffeured five of us to the game in a firetruck-red Rebel, a classic
AMC car from early 1970s. We had secured the tickets by snipping coupons from
the backs of Dairylea-brand milk cartons, which was not as easy as it sounds.
Looking back, the actual ticket values were $1.30 a pop—grandstand seating in
the stadium’s high-altitude, dizzyingly steep upper deck. (The same ticket cost
a $1.50 a couple of years later.) The Mets just were not doling out box seats
to the area’s milk carton cutters. But it was a simpler time when free tickets
of any kind were coveted.
While I
remembered this incredibly special day in history—hence this blog—I did not
recall the starting pitcher or the lineup. I knew for certain my boyhood idol,
Tom Seaver, was not on the mound, and was quite sure the legendary Willie Mays did
not get into the game, either. Yogi Berra was the team’s manager—I knew
that—and a not especially memorable Met named Jim Gosger was one of the
outfielders that night. I do not know why I remembered Gosger being in the
game, but I did. I recalled, too, the tragic outcome. Entering the ninth
inning, my team led two to nothing. The opposition Chicago Cubs, however,
scored three runs in the top of the ninth and won the game. I was cruelly
razzed by a couple of older males in my company—fans, of course, of my home
borough's team in that other league and the Mets' cross-town rivals.
Crestfallen, my older sister, who also was along for the ride, bought me a
Mets' helmet as we exited paradise—so all was not lost. And life went on—almost
four decades now and counting.
Postscript:
Due to the magic of the Internet and the unfathomable depths of the information
superhighway, I resurrected that evening’s box score. I was right about Jim
Gosger. Tug McGraw blew a save opportunity and Jon Matlack took the loss that
night. The attendance was 31,984 and the game time temperature was seventy
degrees, ideal evening weather for a ballgame.
