Torn Between Two Teams

When night baseball first lit up Wrigleyville, we had already moved too far south of the stadium to be affected by the crowds or the glare. I could still remember hearing the distant roar of a cheer when the Cubs scored, still remember the packs of fans straggling through our neighborhood hours later, savoring the day's win, their faces ruddy from too much sun and alcohol. 

It's funny, sometimes, what we remember. Last night, perched, as I never dreamed would be, on a suburban bar stool watching the Cubs get one step closer to the World Series, I thought about those days in Wrigleyville. The days before the lights. The days before Harry Caray was just the name of a restaurant. The days before yesterday, when it occurred to me I would actually route for the Cubs if they play the Mets for the League Championship. 

That's all I was thinking, really, until I saw my brother's nostalgic Facebook post. It's difficult for anybody who was a Mets fan in 1969 to let go entirely, no matter where we end up. It was a magical year for the perennial losers (the Mets and I were about the same age, so it had literally been a lifetime); we rolled our eyes at the start of their winning streak in late spring, never imagining it would last more than one game. The wait was over. Back in 1969, I had no idea there was a team somewhere in the Midwest that had gone several lifetimes without winning, a team more beloved to generations of fans than the newcomers in New York could ever have been. 

Back to my brother's post, another in a string of recent posts, I assumed, about his own lifetime of Mets memories and about this year's amazing Mets. A team that didn't even have to fight for back door admission into post season play. Show's what I know. It started with a note of congratulations to his nieces and nephew, his favorite people in the world, born and raised in Chicago to love the Cubs.    

There was a picture of the commemorative program he had received at the first night game at Wrigley Field, twenty-seven years ago. The first night game only because the real first night game had been rained out the previous day. It is one of his fondest memories. My husband had gotten tickets for the three of us, and my brother was thrilled to join. It was the Cubs versus the Mets. It was a piece of history, much appreciated by a guy who has, I think, visited every baseball stadium in the country and still has not forgiven our mother for tossing out his baseball card collection. 

Like I said, it's funny, sometimes, what we remember. When I saw his post, I realized I had no recollection of the Mets playing under the lights that night. In fact, I had little recollection of the game at all. What I remember is calling my parents from a payphone in the stadium, struggling to hear them over the din, telling them they were going to be grandparents. I remember telling my brother he was going to be an uncle. I remember craving even more hot dogs than I usually do at a baseball game. I couldn't tell you what the score was, much less, who won. 

I am thinking about all of those memories now, the ones I've carried with me, and the ones my brother brought back to my attention. Those memories from before I had spent more of my life in Chicago than in New York, before I found out my parents would be grandparents and my brother would be an uncle and I would be a mom. Before I raised three children who love the Cubs. 

If the Cubs meet the Mets in the League Championship series -- and I hope they do -- I will be slightly torn, but my adopted home town team will have the edge. Yes, I will surreptitiously wear my Mets tee shirt under my sweater, as I did last night, but, as my brother said to me this morning, 109 years is long enough!