In the majors

            If there were ever two people less interested in watching a Mets game yesterday, then it was my crony Erin and I. It was like pulling teeth to get myself out of the murk of my apartment, after hibernating in its bounds, contemplating the direction of my life for two days. But, I literally paid for these tickets with my blood so, dang it, we were going to this game and we were going to make ourselves enjoy the stupid thing if it was the last thing we did. Erin was on her way from work and we were cutting it close to game time but we had our rendezvous down to a science. From the 7-train heading to Flushing, Queens I met Erin at exactly six thirty in the first car at the 61st Street, Woodside stop. I could see her sitting in front of the window as the train pulled up, trying to grin excitement, but I could tell that she was just as thrilled as I was to be anywhere but hiding under the sheets of her bed. And not just from the game, but from her life as well. Apparently, I wasn't the only one in hibernation over the weekend, we just happened to be in two different caves at the same time. Between our matching blue hoodies and forlorn faces, we looked like a pair of decrepit blueberries on a train ride to a Mets game. My hope was that if at least Erin was in a good mood I could somehow pull myself out of this funk that I've been in and try to enjoy what was left of my weekend off. Yet, I would have probably resented her slightly, if she were in one of her rare, overly excited and uncharacteristically optimistic moods. There was no way of my reaching that kind of an octave of happiness from the key I was currently in. It would have just made me feel worse than I already felt to be alone in my misery. I had been looking forward to seeing a game all season and just a week ago I was feeling excited to have something to do on Monday. Then a long week of work later and too much time to consider all of the things I want out of life while time felt as though it were slipping through my fingers, I found myself knee deep in despair with my options.

            Erin and I hadn't gotten together since our outing at the Rachael Ray show, so we spent the entire train ride to Citi Field talking about what woman talk about best—our feelings. We were so immersed in the psychology behind our thoughts that we didn't even realize we were at the game until we were about to sit in our nosebleed seats and realized we forgot to grab a bite to eat at concessions. Two orders of wavy fries drenched in ketchup later we sat ourselves four rows from falling off the edge of the stadium. I wasn't sure if I was seeing smoke from the concessions stand below us or if it was a stretch of low clouds wafting over our heads. When I actually took the time to focus on my surroundings instead of the thoughts roaming in my head, I saw the stadium was beautiful and the night had that perfect chilly feel of Fall that I love so much. I felt good to be wrapped in a sweater and sitting outdoors under a clear night sky. We were both looking at the game but we weren't really watching it though. Every now and then we would notice the bottom of an inning and R. A. Dickey come out to pitch a few knuckleballs at a Phillies player. I would clap and cheer for Dickey, not because I'm particularly a big fan of his, I just really liked yelling "Dickey!" as loud as I could (my meaning entirely esoteric from its true essence) without looking like a complete loon. I fit right in with the crowd there. Outside of the field I'd have just been yelling profanities in a cutsie way and to no one in particular and looked like—a loon.

            At least two-thirds of the seats in the stadium were empty of fans. Had they not given away tickets for this game, to my fellow blood donors, their guests, and myself I doubt there would have been more than five people watching last night's game. If this were Monday night at Fenway Park, the stands would have been packed. What gives New York? Where's your patronage? Sheesh, where's Wally when you need him? I think the Mets need your help buddy, Mr. Met is not keeping it together here. However, while Erin and I were still going strong with our laments on life at the top of the seventh inning, about five rows below us was a very loud and overly excited fan that was making Mr. Met look like a chump. She was on her feet yelling and cheering loud enough to not only embarrass her teenage daughter hiding in shame beside her, but had every head in a fifty foot radius watching her cheer instead of game half the time. I was ready to throw a fastball of honey mustard at her head by the third inning and by the seventh Erin and I were reaching for our shoes, deciding they would be worth losing if it meant getting her to shut up for five minutes. Our dual instinct to throw our shoes at her had us rolling in laughter though. If anything, I suppose we should have thanked the crazy fan for making us laugh—even if it was at her expense.

            We kept our shoes on but we left by the bottom of the eighth, seeing as the Mets were down by two and we were not in the mood for witnessing another disappointment. I'm glad I went to the game nonetheless. It got me out of the apartment; I saw the inside of the stadium for the first time and finally got to watch a live game this season. It also reminded me that I'm not completely alone in the big apple. There was a reason I was such good friends with Erin and that we've held on to our friendship for over seven years. We were two and the same and there are not many people in the world I can be miserable with and feel like I have to keep entertained in my company. We can just sit somewhere together, wear our frowns any way we want to and not have to say a world to each other. All the while, much more was always said than mere words could ever give justice to in those moments. If for nothing more, the game made me grateful. Thanks Erin.