Shea Goodbye

Shea Stadium, the home of the New York Mets since 1964, met its demise last week.

While I was sad, I was ever so glad that this summer Sue and I were able to fulfill a promise to our son Ethan that we would get him there--and Yankee Stadium too--before both landmarks were torn down.

The promise was an extension of my maternal grandfather taking me to see the infant Mets at the Polo Grounds in 1962. Within two years, both he and that historic stadium would be gone.

I have many great memories of Shea, starting with my mom taking my sister and me on the Port Washington branch of the Long Island Rail Road to Flushing to games. My mom was never a sports fan, but she knew how important it was for a boy to experience pro baseball first-hand. I recall her taking us to Shea in its opening year, 1964, as part of going to the adjoining World’s Fair. There’s a program and yearbook from that game somewhere at her house along with a Mr. Met and bat-shaped pen.

It was at Shea that I first saw Willie Mays. Granted, he was way past his prime (and he played several seasons too many), but I can tell Ethan (and anyone else who will listen) that I saw the Say Hey Kid make his patented basket catch (even if I did see him strike out in situations he never would have in his prime).

Then once we got past the era of Galen Cisco and Marv Throneberry, there was Tom Seaver, Jerry Koosman and a pre-prime Nolan Ryan. The 1969 “Miracles Mets” truly were amazing. And who can forget Ed Kranepool or Ron Swoboda?

So it was fitting to see current Mets superstars David Wright and Jose Reyes on the diamond in the last game we saw. It was also perfect that we took my sister Sarah with us.

It’s sad to see these aged but storied baseball palaces come down. But today’s world of professional sports demands dozens of luxury boxes, annoying and cacophonic scoreboards a-blazing and fancy-dancy clubhouses for players who routinely make millions of dollars a year.

I’ll avoid the argument over how ridiculous it is that the Mets new stadium is named after a bank that is currently so screwed up that it requires a taxpayer bailout but somehow has the $400 million to spend on the naming rights.

In a final farewell to Shea, I’ll always recall the line from the classic movie “The Rutles,” which proclaimed the stadium indeed was named after Che Guevara. Still makes me laugh.