I am a fan of the New York Mets. Even now, with respectability the only goal remaining for the year, I continue to root. I received the requisite training for this during my formative years of fandom. Playing in the street all those summers ago, I modeled my windup after Craig Swan, my right handed stance after Steve Henderson, from the left after Rusty Staub.
As it says somewhere on this page, I also root for the Yankees. You don't need to believe this, but it's the truth. It was much easier to hold this position before interleague play, but even nowadays, I support the pinstripes 156 games a year. When the chips are down, though, such as during the 2000 World Series, or back when I traded my Reggie for a Nino and a Mike and future considerations, the Metsies are my men.
That doesn't mean that I disrespect the Yankees even when I'm turning them off to watch the orange and blue. It would be ignorant of a baseball fan not to recognize the gifts the players on the Yankees have. I learned this attitude from my father.
Not the trading away of the Hall of Famer for two cards and a stick of stale gum. That he'd have though was ridiculous. And not just because of the legacy of the Seaver trade.
Anyway, here at the end of the season, I still want to know how the Metropolitans did, and I'm interested in seeing the young kids get their ABs because I'll be back next year to watch them again, because my father came back every year for them, too.
What does this have to do with poetry? Not a lot, I suppose, except for those poems where the Mets and baseball feature prominently. Or maybe in more places than that. Being a fan, coming back when you think there's more to see or to learn or to accomplish, the wanting others to succeed, these are attitudes that tend to pervade one's approach to life and writing.
I learned that from my father, too.
Back to poetry after the end of the season.