The Hopefool's Return To Shea Part I

The last time I went to a Mets game before Wednesday night was one of the 5 most embarrassing moments of my life.
It was last summer after coming back from my trip out west, and being utterly devastated to find that my life would not be going in the direction I had planned. Not only was I not passing go, but I had to move back three spaces as well. My heart was completely shattered. I spent a week or so covered in tears, starving myself in my basement, accumulating scary amounts of belly-button lint. One day I finally decided to get out and go to a Mets game. Big Mistake #1. I also decided I’d rather go alone. Big Mistake #2. Early in the game I was hit with a line-drive of depression. I had forgotten how many fun times I had had with “Her” (happy S----?), and was quickly reminded that those days were over, and that the life I had not only dreamed of, but psyched myself for, was just a silly daydream (my thoughts at the time at least).
I decided to go to the right field loge seats that were utterly deserted (as was most of Shea at the end of the 2004 season). The portly, poofy-haired, mustached, middle-aged usher promptly came over and asked to see my ticket. I had one for a much better seat in field box, but he said I had to go because he’d get in trouble as the ticket manager knew no seats were sold for that section. I tried to convince him to let me stay and when he said no once more I just lost it. Just a mabul of tears. Mario (as his name tag alleged) was totally taken back- as any usher might be after witnessing a grown man cry over his seat at a Mets game (with the team 20 games out of first no less!). He asked what was wrong and I told him. He then shocked me by sitting next to me and giving me a hug.
“C’mon now buddy, there’s other feesh in de sea”, he said, “ Ju just have to get out dere man. Jou’re a good looking guy, jou’ll be ok.” I was touched, humiliated and a little nervous. For whatever reason I went into poetic detail of how much I loved “her”. I think he was even a bit moved.
He then told me “Hey, if joo love her dat much, itz her loss man, ju know? I tell you one day she gonna realize it and wanna you back, but ju gonna be wit someone else.”
I explained to him that a lot of it was my fault, and that I don’t think she’d be too quick to run back. He then called over Tony the beer-vender. I should have been peeved that he was gathering an audience, but I honestly didn’t care if all of Shea saw me at that point. What difference did it make? He said something to Tony in Spanish. Tony shook his head, poured me a beer, and gave me a look that said “I know man. I know. Stay strong.” I couldn’t believe this was happening. Mario gave me another hug, offered a few final words of encouragement, and said he had to go back to work. He left me with my beer, which I drank every last drop of (I generally don’t like beer, but boy did I need a drink then). The tears subsided and with the Mets losing 8-0 in the 8th I decided it was time to go. I waved to Mario, who returned a clenched-fist that said “Joo gonna be ok”. I then ran back to my car, drove home as fast as I could, and found solace in some Tylenol PM and my bed.

That was my last game at Shea in 2004. Going back this year would be tough. How would I handle it? Stay tuned constant reader.