Cicadas and Crickets

As I was wandering around this morning—a refreshingly pleasant one for a change—I heard their harmonious buzz. Cicadas by day, crickets by night—that can only mean one thing. It’s the waning days of summer—official summer at least. I've only heard the faintest sounds of crickets so far, but I well remember those melancholy insects chirping away on the still-warm evenings leading up to that dreaded first day of school.

With no school starting in a week or so for me—thankfully—I thought I’d tie up some loose summer ends. Recently, my nephew e-mailed me a link to an article, which quoted former ballplayers Rich “Goose” Gossage, a Hall of Famer, and Lou Piniella. They spoke of the contemporary game of baseball in very unflattering terms. To them and countless others—including yours truly—professional baseball has become unwatchable. And there are a host of reasons why. It’s just not the same game that we once knew and loved—not by a long shot.

After completing four books this summer—timely published to coincide with the fiftieth anniversary of the 1969 “Miracle Mets”—I feel grateful that I got to experience baseball when it was the American pastime, a game steeped in tradition and rich in history. I got to be a fan before analytics, home run-derby strategy (for lack of a better word), replay umpiring, five-inning starting pitchers, and four-hour games as the norm. And how do the powers-that-be address the way-too-long games: Make intentional walks—four pitched balls where anything can happen—an automatic free pass. Two minutes saved on that one.

My nephew, who came around to baseball and the Mets decades after my sworn allegiance, admitted that even he is finding today's games almost unwatchable. But as the 2019 Mets have suddenly sprang to life—and are in contention—he’s swallowing hard and hoping for another miracle. I’ve seen some clips of today's Mets’ game-ending antics—the ripping off of uniform shirts—and couldn’t help but wonder: “What would Gil Hodges say?” Once upon a time, third baseman Ron Santo of the 1969 Chicago Cubs, managed by none other than Leo Durocher, performed a bit of theater after every Cubs win. As he exited the field, he leaped high in the air and clicked both his heels. It was considered poor sportsmanship by most everybody in opposition back then—certainly by Gil Hodges and the Mets—and it eventually stopped as the Cubs imploded.

This summer also resurrected my interest in 1970s New York City politics. What an interesting time to be alive, here, and a kid. With the Tappan Zee bridge renaming in the news—as the Mario M. Cuomo Bridge with son Andrew the governor and wind beneath its wings—as the inspiration, I purchased a couple of old books from that bygone era, one chronicling the fiscal crisis when my fair city very nearly declared bankruptcy. New York City was seriously on the ropes back then, but I didn't notice. After all, I was a boy and living through what turned out to be the last of the old urban childhoods, the ones where all kinds of street games were played in the great outdoors and young and old hung out on stoops. Hanging out on the latter, by the way, is when I listened—ever so vigilantly and plaintively—to the crickets and their melodious swan songs to yet another summer.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)