Mets Baseball: Pepsi Picnic Area
August 6, 2003
by Alexander Washburn

Even though the cost of tonight’s ticket was one empty can of Pepsi (60 cents on 133rd St in Harlem), these are the 2003 New York Mets, so you cannot help but feel a tad ripped off. Then again, 60 cents is not a bad price for any sort of entertainment, and like I said, these are the 2003 Mets so you might just get to pitch the ninth.

The view from the Pepsi Picnic area is better than I expected, offering a clear view of home plate which is perfect for calling balls and strikes from 420 feet away. Contrast this with Yankee stadium bleachers that are horrible seats with bad angles that prevent a clear squint of home plate. Plus, the bans on alcohol sales have sucked the life out of the most vibrant section of the Stadium. The Mets might not win much of anything, but in the bleacher match-up, score one for the Amazin’s.

At 6:37 pm, a mere 30 minutes before first pitch, the Pepsi Picnic area is by far the most crowded section of Shea Stadium. It’s actually pathetic to see a scant 1500 people or so scattered among the paid seats. But like I’ve said before, these are the 2003 Mets, who’ve come into tonight’s game having lost 16 or their last 21. Plus, their opponents tonight the Milwaukee Brewers are not exactly the Kansas City Royals. When Richie Sexson is your biggest draw and Bud Selig owns you, the Milwaukee Brewers are just as pathetic as the Mets, making this a match-up of the two worst teams in performance and ownership in all of baseball.

It’s unfortunate that at this bargain basement price, with these basement dwelling teams that I won’t get a chance to see a Met rookie-starting pitcher get lit up while hopefully learning something in the process. You want to be sitting in home-run ball land when Aaron Heilman is trying to battle through runners on-the-corners with no outs or when Dan Wheeler is hanging breaking balls that Royce Clayton of all people are taking deep. No, tonight I won’t get any of that, for our starting pitcher is non other than the old veteran and soon to be conservative Republican Senator from New Jersey, Al Leiter. I hate Al Leiter and I hate conservative Republicans. I have nothing but love however for New Jersey.

The digital screen flashes that this game is in fact between the Milwaukee Brewers and “Your 2003 Mets” which extinguishes any hope of the 1999 Best Infield of All Time Mets showing up. But than out of the corner of my eye I see a guy wearing a #42 Butch Huskey jersey and I realize that all can’t be lost. Huskey was a member of the last stretch of bad Met teams – one of the rookies that filtered in after the 1992 Mets which until this year held the title to ‘Worst Team that Money Could Buy’ were sold off. Huskey, Kent, the Fonz, Burnitz, Izzy, Pulse, Paul Wilson were among those class of rookies. That is why, even though I lament on how the Mets are these days, I know brighter pastures are not far off in the distance.

Sabitino, the hefty Italian gentleman who took up the park bench real estate directly in front of me, however, does not share this vision. Sabitino is still getting in his Steve Philips and Roberto Alomar licks. I try to tell him it’s time to change the page and focus on the now but this only leads to Roger Cedeno bashing. I must admit, as much as I hate Al Leiter, I hate Roger Cedeno more. I wouldn’t boo Al Leiter at a Met game but I damn sure boo Roger Cedeno at the ballpark. Regardless if he does something good, which seldom happens, I boo him, for he is bound to do something to merit booing later on. Case in point, a few weeks back Cedeno came up with a big two out double that scored two runs and put the Mets in the lead. As Shea forgot for a second their hatred of Cedeno they cheered his big ass. So what happen next inning? Cedeno misjudges not one but two fly balls in right, which surrender the lead his double helped establish.

Outside of Sabitino, who is now talking about this being Bobby Valentine’s fault, I’m surrounded by dozens of children doing everything but watching baseball. Two beautiful Asian ladies ask me to take their picture. If your travel agenda included taking in an American baseball game, I’m sorry but the Mets and Brewers don’t qualify. A father of three boys sits in the front row. The father constantly wipes the mouth of one of his sons who is mentally challenged with a yellow towel. In between wipes, he keeps score and passes along baseball-isms to all his boys. When a hard hit grounder scoots off of 3rd baseman Ty Wigginton’s glove toward shortstop Jose Reyes who fires to first for an out.

“How do you score that?” the father says to one son, no older than 11.

Thinking as he answers, the kid correctly says “5-6-3.”

“Put it down,” the father says motioning to the scorecard, as he turns, yellow towel raised, to care for his other son.

It is a beautiful night for baseball – zero humidity and a nice breeze. Leiter is pitching a shutout gem and Jose Reyes has made his presence felt with a leadoff triple, which led to the game’s only run so far. The triple is one of the most exciting hits in baseball – especially to see live. When Reyes came around first – the entire park saw what he saw and rose to their feet in anticipation. Reyes is lightning and beat the throw but gave the crowd a head first slide just to cap the drama. Reyes is going to be a solid player – his average is steadily climbing and only Florida’s Juan Pierre is better on the base paths. There is no shortstop playing that clearly has better range, glove and arm than Reyes. And most importantly, the kid loves to get dirty. Like the triple he just hit, Reyes loves to slide and does it, whether the play merits one or not. Got to love a kid who comes off the field for a losing team with a dirty uniform.

The perfect baseball evening has bought out a diverse crowd to the Pepsi Picnic area – a healthy mix of families, college and high school kids, the after work crowd, with assorted tourists and vagrants rounding out the mix. The Mets, like the Yankees, have yet to put to rest singing ‘God Bless America’ in the home half of the seventh. Way to stick with tradition guys. Tradition is the only thing I like about the Yankees: tradition, Graig Nettles and Bernie Williams, in that order. Baseball in itself is patriotic. There is no need to inject nationalism into the national pastime. ‘Take Me out...’ is the only song that needs to be sung during the 7th inning stretch, not only for tradition sake but so we can all ponder the eternal question: why would anyone want peanuts and Crackerjack when Crackerjack already have peanuts?

The line on Leiter is a respectable 7 innings, giving up no runs, five hits, and striking out six. As the book gets closed on Leiter, I bid Sabitino adieu and head for the exits to beat the subway rush and catch Bob Murphy call the last two innings on the radio. The exit takes you through the stadium, which I find odd. I begin to wonder if I can nab a seat for the last two innings instead. I choose the Mezzanine, which is high enough up there not to merit anyone’s attention. As I expected, the place is void of Shea Stadium personnel, the same personnel that made me empty the contents of my bag, have fell so asleep at the wheel that people who just wandered in with a Pepsi can, can have free reign of the ballpark. As I settle into my new Mezzanine reserved seat down the third base line, David Weathers pitches two hitless and scoreless innings and the Mets notch themselves a win.

A pitchers duel, youth in action, lively conversation, touching family moments, Asian hotties and a "1" in the win column for the good guys, all for the low, low price of 60 cents. God Bless America, indeed.

(Alexander Washburn is a volunteer staff writer for 2 Walls Webzine)