Season Debut

Some years ago, I improved my baseball life considerably by swearing off April games.

Yes, I know April baseball can be lovely — Greg and I once spent a snoozy but idyllic March 31 at Shea in 80 degree weather, watching the Mets and Phillies do nothing in particular until Alberto Castillo, of all people, won the game in the 14th. But mostly April games have followed a predictable path: accepting someone’s kind suggestion to go (seemed like such a good idea after so long without baseball), shivering and regretting the whole thing, hunting in desperation for bad stadium hot chocolate, and vowing not fall for this again.

But there’s sound policy and there’s being too rigid. Tuesday was a lovely day with temperatures borrowed from June, with the hourly forecast promising it would still be in the high 60s as midnight approached. After a brief, mildly paranoid check of weather variables Emily and I were in: This would be our season debut.

The year’s first trip to the ballpark is always special, even if fate directs you to the Bad Hot Chocolate line. There’s seeing all the new wrinkles to the ballpark experience and there’s also relearning beloved or at least familiar routines: which spot on the platform puts you in the ideal 7 line car, when to make a break for the bathroom with an eye on minimizing the wait, a reminder that a gray beard isn’t a substitute for an ID if you want a beer at Citi Field.

One thing I’m still working on committing to memory is that the center-field seats often aren’t the best choice. Shea had so few outfield seats that years later I’m still drawn to them; somehow getting to sit there strikes me as getting away with something, when in fact those seats are mostly far from the action and force you to deal with odd angles, foreshortened views and other issues. I picked up two seats on StubHub in the section bordering the bullpens on the right-field side, next to the Cadillac Club and just above it. I was pleased to see we were in the second row, but less pleased when I saw the view from my seat: It was fine if you leaned forward and rested an elbow on that wall, but sit back, as a person tends to want to do while seated, and half the field disappeared.

It had also been six months since I’d watched baseball as part of a crowd. In the early innings the tone of our section was set by a performatively trolling chatterbox of a Phillies fan; he was a lot to deal with in close proximity but sweet-natured beneath his bluster, and he actually paid attention to the game; I much preferred him to the amiable but dunderheaded Mets fans surrounding us, for whom the game was a vague event happening over there somewhere.

One thing I hadn’t forgotten was that watching baseball live is utterly different than watching it on TV. Griffin Canning was a little figure a couple of hundred feet away, far enough that I could only characterize his pitches as fast/not fast and near the plate/not at all near the plate. Cristopher Sanchez was a different such little figure, one wearing the uniform of the guys I wanted to lose.

Occasionally batted balls came near our section, to be dealt with by Nick Castellanos or Juan Soto. The bullpen catchers were regular visitors too, tossing balls back and forth with the outfielders and cheerfully granting or ignoring fans’ entreaties for balls. By the way, Soto’s love of sunflower seeds is quite something: There was almost no break in the action too short for him to get snacks from the bullpen. He also arrives at his position at pretty much the last possible moment, which I’m sure will upset people whose grift is maximizing upset but doesn’t bother me: I don’t know what the secret sauce of good outfield defense is, but I doubt it’s playing catch with the bullpen catcher.

The game ground along at a slow pace, with Canning getting in and mostly out of trouble and Sanchez’s pitch count climbing at an unsustainable pace. (He was gone after three innings and reports are he has forearm tightness — uh-oh.) The Mets kept threatening but stubbornly refused to break through until the seventh against Orion Kerkering. With two out, Pete Alonso doubled in Francisco Lindor to make a one-run lead into a two-run lead; a walk, a wild pitch and an intentional walk set up Kerkering against Luis Torrens, who smacked an 0-2 sweeper over the infield for two more runs, celebrated with an emphatic bat spike and fist pump that even registered out in the hinterlands.

That seemed to take the starch out of the Phillies; Kyle Schwarber somehow got doubled off first on a fly ball to Tyrone Taylor, prompting the outfield sections to serenade Taylor until he acknowledged us, probably to get us to knock it off. Ryne Stanek looked a little adrift control-wise, but Jose Butto had an encouraging 1-2-3 ninth and the Mets had won.

They’d won, we made our season debut, and I got to eat Mister Softee out of a helmet. That’s a pretty good night, wouldn’t you say?