Matt Harvey
By Larry Gordon
How can we ignore the distracting late-into-the-night sports spectacle that has been taking place here in New York and dominating lives over the last few weeks? Even the yeshivaleit with whom I come into contact on a daily basis and who are not sports-obsessed inevitably ask the question in the course of the day: What happed to the Mets last night?
For the few who do not know, the Mets came apart at the seams the other night—mercifully not putting us through another half-week of nail-biting, anxiety-ridden concern that incorrigible sports fans simply cannot put out of our collective minds.
For sports aficionados, this was an unusual period, particularly for those in New York where about half of American Jews reside. The seasons of all the professional teams in the major sports all converged due to the fact that the Mets—our Mets—were in the World Series.
The problem apparently was that the team that played the Dodgers and the Cubs was not the same one that played the Kansas City Royals last week. The Mets seemed deflated and helpless against the Royals. The miracle that was Daniel Murphy during the playoff game checked out early and became a hitless and shoddy fielder at the precise wrong time.
As a baseball fan from as far back as I can remember, it was a letdown for a multiplicity of reasons. In the aftermath of all these decades and after consuming so much baseball, I still have to make an effort—albeit a slight one—not to let the loss of the Mets impact my emotions or affect me in any way.
I have to admit that I structured my schedule around that silly World Series for over a week. I went as far as telling one of the gentlemen I have the pleasure of learning with during the week that instead of learning at 8:30 p.m. and daveningMa’ariv at 9:30, that we should meet at 7:00 p.m. and we would daven Ma’ariv at 8:00 p.m. First pitch was about 8:15. I did not explain or say why; I just suggested a change in the schedule.
I’ve been to CitiField where the Mets play in the spring and summer. If you have a predisposition to attend baseball games, that is the natural time of year to go. It is a fundamental contradiction that defies the very definition of what baseball is about to be sitting in those stands in a heavy down coat with a ski mask on. That is no summer classic.
I have not yet confirmed if it is true, but I heard from some folks who are usually in the know that as many as several dozen shomer Shabbos Mets fans attended the Friday-night World Series game. This, I understand from my source who requested anonymity, was all done within the confines of scrupulously observing Shabbos while still not missing our precious Mets.
And that, by the way, was the only game they won, and they did so handily by a 9–3 score. Most of us had to wait until the next morning when the newspapers were delivered or until after Shabbos to learn the outcome of the game. Some people not receive newspaper deliveries on Shabbos, or receive the paper but do not take it into their homes until after Shabbos is over; but somehow the Mets fans got their information.
I have a few thoughts about attending the game on a Friday night. While you may have been able to keep Shabbos despite attending the game, such a thing is certainly not within the parameters of the spirit of observing Shabbos. But then again, if you are such a disturbed Mets fan that it would impinge in a dramatic fashion on your oneg Shabbos, then I guess you probably consulted a halachic authority for a ruling.
I wasn’t there, but my guess is that the glatt kosher food stands do not function at Friday-night and Shabbos-day games. It’s a pretty simple equation—if they do, then they are not glatt kosher. In one way, I have to admire the determination of a baseball fan crazy enough to check into a motel near Citi Field—which is near LaGuardia Airport—bring along grape juice, challah, and fish, and then spend the next day biding your time, waiting for the day to end so you can either go to the next game or go home. My guess is that whoever did this also carved together a little minyan for themselves so as to hold on to some of that Shabbos spirit.
The few times I have been to CitiField, I have been struck by the late-innings minyanim for Ma’ariv which seem to always take place around the kosher concession stands. That seems the natural place for it; first Ma’ariv, then another corned beef on rye.
Apparently, our prayers for the Mets—if that’s what they were—were not responded to with satisfaction to most fans. But then again, maybe we are all better off with a Mets loss in the World Series. Frankly—just between us—this was not a World Series-caliber team. Murphy’s homerun streak in the playoffs was a fluke that surprised even him. His World Series performance was more in character and more along the lines of expectations.
Duda was a dud. Wright perfected the ability to strike out on a bad pitch. Cespedes was banged up and tired. He was no Kirk Gibson, if you recall and know what I mean. Granderson did well, but he could not do it by himself.
And there was the pitching—Harvey, deGrom, Syndergaard, and Matz. Young strong arms that will assure the Mets’ future unless one or two of them gets traded for a marquee player who does not consistently swing at pitches low and away.
My baseball-fan persona has been allowed to develop unchecked after all these years. Back in yeshiva, the rebbeim were not that wild about our interest in the game, but I think they viewed it as the best of the worst things that a young kid can be interested in and distracted by. For some reason, though, when it came to collecting baseball cards in elementary school, that is where they cracked down.
Still, we felt attached to those ballplayers and especially their cards. We loved analyzing the statistics on the back of the cards and discussing the subject. Even though it was forbidden, we brought some of our cards to school in order to trade with one another. I once hatched a plan to conceal two valuable cards so that if I was asked if I had any cards on me I would not have to be deceptive.
There was this big, usually overstuffed, garbage can that was used to keep one of the main doors of the yeshiva wide open. I observed that this container was almost never moved—at least not during the school day. Upon arrival before Shacharis when I was in seventh grade, I slid those two cards under that can with the plan to retrieve them later in the day after the daily baseball card crackdown. I thought it was the perfect plan—hiding garbage in the garbage.
Later that afternoon, the baseball-card crusaders had left and I went back to pick up my baseball cards. I was stunned by what I found. Both cards were still lying there, both torn perfectly in half. How did that happen? Who would do that? I never solved that mystery.
Baseball is one of those kosher good distractions in the larger realm of distractive things in this modern world. We want our team to win, but how and why we identify with them so personally and intimately—as if they were a part of us—will have to be left to the psychologists and sociologists to explain.
Let’s face the facts: the World Series is over and the Mets lost. It was a good try, but just not good enough. In the meantime, as the seasons march on, there are thankfully other sports distractions to assuage the pain. I mean, was that Carmelo Anthony of the Knicks missing all those easy shots against the Spurs the other night? Was Geno Smith as quarterback for the Jets throwing an interception with such ease and grace? Say it ain’t so . . .
Comments for Larry Gordon are welcome at editor@5tjt.com.