Water to Wine

RIP Tom Seaver 1944-2020. (Originally published 6/26/19).

I just finished the book After the Miracle by Art Shamsky and Erik Sherman. Its subtitle is “The Lasting Brotherhood of the ’69 Mets.” I highly recommend it to—both former and present—baseball fans and Met fans, in particular. Shamsky played first base and the outfield for the “Miracle Mets,” the 1969 World Champions.

After the Miracle was an entertaining page-turner that made me truly appreciate—after all, I hadn’t yet turned seven at the time—the accomplishment. It was impossible not to feel excited while reliving through the principle players that remarkable season from—yes—fifty years ago. It did, in fact, feature a series of miracles—extraordinary on-the-field occurrences and outcomes—that will never be replicated. It’s just not the same game—or world for that matter—anymore. First baseman Ed Kranepool reflected on the moment: “[Y]ou know, back then, baseball was still the workingman’s sport, still cheap enough for people to go. They could relate to guys like me…and all the guys that filled in, like Al Weis. Those fans fought for their team every day. And you know what? That’s why New York is such a great town. The Miracle Mets were a great thing for New York. We’ll never forget it. They’ll never forget it.”

After the Miracle is also a very poignant read as it marries past and present. With the passage of time, key players from that team have passed away, including Tommie Agee, Ed Charles, Donn Clendenon, Tug McGraw, and Don Cardwell. Manager Gil Hodges and the coaching staff—with the sole exception of tomato king, Joe Pignatano—are all gone. But the emotional roller-coaster ride is in the recounting of the reunion of a small group of 1969 Mets—Shamsky, Ron Swoboda, Jerry Koosman, and Bud Harrelson. Knowing that it would very likely never happen again, they visit Hall of Famer Tom Seaver at his home and vineyard. The get-together occurred in 2017. It was known then that Seaver was suffering from Lyme disease-related memory loss—and had good days and bad days—and, too, that Harrelson was in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

Reading about individuals whom I watched play, rooted for, and idolized when I was a very young boy—when baseball was baseball—who are now in their mid- and late-seventies is kind of unsettling, particularly when some of them are suffering from debilitating illnesses. That’s life, I guess, and it’s a short bumpy ride.

I’ve written often about growing up in the Bronx—a rare Met fan in a neighborhood of predominantly Yankee fans, most notably my father, who faithfully supported his team from the “Joltin’ Joe” DiMaggio days until the day he died some seventy years later. My introduction to the game of baseball found me—alongside my dad—at the original Yankee Stadium, “The House That Ruth Built,” with those annoying concrete posts that obstructed views.

I can’t recall the precise moment I swore allegiance to the Mets, but it definitely happened in the afterglow of the miracle season. I remember that my father brought home for me—purchased at Yankee Stadium of all places—a 1970 Mets’ yearbook, which celebrated the Amazin’ Mets and their storied season. So, the breakaway from tradition was at-hand. The fact that the Mets televised 120 games on free TV back then—versus only 40 Yankee games on the tube—I suspect was the fuel that took my imagination to faraway places like Shea Stadium with the loud airplanes incessantly taking off and landing nearby. Granted, it was only about a thirty-minute ride from my Bronx home, but it might as well have been in another time zone. That’s how my Yankee fan father saw it. At any rate, loyalty to my team was cemented at an early age. As a seven-year-old kid, I could have loved the Mets and liked the Yankees, too. But it soon became apparent that wasn’t possible in the rough-and-tumble of a cross-town rivalry.

Baseball and allegiance to our teams were so much a part of growing up. Tom Seaver was my childhood idol. I received the nickname “Mr. Met,” later shortened to just “Met,” from a Yankee fan neighbor. Being a devoted fan then was akin to being in a marriage—in good times and bad. And both good and bad happened in the wake of the miracle. After the Miracle is, though, compelling testament that miracles do happen on occasion—or used to anyway.

(Photos from the personal collection of Nicholas Nigro)