Miles’ first summer wouldn’t have been complete without a trip to the ballpark, but as July turned into August and the weekend plans started to pile up, I began to wonder exactly when I’d get to take the little dude to his first baseball game. Then, Auntie Missy suggested we see the Mets play during her late-August visit. In a separate conversation a few days later, Auntie Lindsay mentioned that she was planning to go to a Mets game the same weekend. Perfect! Two of my favorite sports fan friends converging on CitiField on the same random Sunday in August? This had to be it.
Waiting on the subway
Sure, the Mets are all but out of playoff contention, and, yes, they were playing the lowly Houston Astros. But those factors have little to do with me wanting to take Miles to baseball games and other sporting events. My childhood was spent watching the Atlanta Braves of the 1980s, an era through which inept may be the most appropriate adjective to describe the ballclub. But Dale Murphy played centerfield, and my dad took us to a couple of games each year — spending more time driving us to and from the stadium than many of the games lasted themselves. Bob Horner (Goldilocks), Glenn Hubbard (like me on our little league team, he played second base), Bruce Benedict (for whom fans chanted “Bruuuuuuuuce” and made me think they were booing him) — this was the cast of characters I rooted for.
Watching with Missy
Admittedly, mine is a sports-crazed family. Both my parents were coaches, and we all played sports (still try to on occasion). But the fun of going to a baseball game is one even my non-sports-playing wife shares. When we moved to New York, she put her foot down: She wanted a home team to root for, and she wasn’t going to let my allegiances get in the way. After years of attending mostly National League games (when the Braves come to town) and being taught that the Yankees are the evil empire, she settled on the Mets. And so began my existential crisis. I could not adopt either team as my second favorite, as I had done with the SF Giants in college. The Yankees: 1996 World Series, enough said. The Mets: a division rival of my beloved Braves. Mathematically, every Mets win is bad for the Braves. But I want to take Miles to games and let him develop a love for his team’s cast of characters. The debate has raged among my friends: “teach him to be a Braves fan,” “let him cheer for the Mets,” “when he’s old enough he’ll decide, and he’ll probably like the Yankees just to spite you.” Bottom line, we’ll take the kid to games. And my affinity for the National League, combined with Mommy’s status as a burgeoning Mets fan, means we’ll probably take him to Mets games. Let the family rivalry begin.
A Mets fan?
Either way, as we enter the final month of the season, Miles’ first game is in the books, and he did remarkably well. He enjoyed the sounds and looking out on the field, and he managed a three-inning nap that even “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” did not disrupt. The Mets won the game, and they hit a homer, giving Miles his first view of the Big Apple that rises in centerfield to celebrate the feat (which is admittedly a thousand times more politically correct than the home run celebration of my 1980s Braves: Chief Knockahoma dancing around his teepee in the stands).
Getting into the game
Nap time
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Miles & Hugo & Moms 