The Road To Pigtown

By Mike McGann
Posted Sunday, April 27, 2008

PHILADELPHIA, PA — They still hate us, make no mistake. The brawl during the final inning of April 19th's afternoon’s game, and the lusty cheering Friday night when Jose Reyes appeared to have been knocked silly after crashing into Chase Utley’s knee head-first, are as good a reminder as any.

But as one fan remarked to me on that Saturday, a perfect day at Citizens Bank Park, "you guys (Mets fans) seem different,” he said, working hard to avoid getting mustard from his pretzel on his Mike Schmidt jersey. “You used to come down here, all arrogant, into our place like you owned it, like it was your right to win. Now, not so much. You seem quieter. Last night, I was hearing Met fans kill their own players here — you never used to hear that. They sounded a bit like Philly fans. Last year changed a lot.”

Yeah, just a bit. Living in Philadelphia’s suburbs and being a close chronicler of Mets Suburb (c’mon, Mets’ Nation? As if) in recent months, I’ve seen a lot of the things that are institutionalized here in the City of Brotherly Spite: anger, frustration and a total lack of faith in players, team, ownership and even other fans. That’s the norm here in Philly, with one exception: the beloved Eagles, who dominate local talk radio 12 months a year and somehow, despite having not won a title since 1960, still manage to appeal to the sons and daughters of William Penn and seem to get a free pass from the locals. Meanwhile, the Phillies suck, no matter their record — and no one seems to pay attention to the silly things ex-closer Mitch Williams says on Comcast Sports Net (he claimed the Phillies starters and pen were better than even the Mets or Braves), seemingly attributing them to SES (stupidity enhancing substances) in the local water.

But Mets’ fans identification with their brethren in Philly seems to be a temporary thing. A couple of key points during that series in Philly reminds you of the gulf between Pigtown and Flushing: every time the Fighins’ slow-handed first baseman Ryan Howard came to bat with runners on, the guy behind me, a veteran of the 1964 collapse, would tap me on the shoulder and say, “you got nothin’ to worry about. You’re going to get out of this, Howard couldn’t hit a pitch from his mother in on the hands. Everyone in the league is wise to that, now.”

I shrugged a little, not wanting to curse the situation, or start a brawl myself and murmured something about Howard still being dangerous and wind blowing out. “Nah,” the guy said. “Howard looks like he ate Prince Fielder. I’d rather have the Fanatic up right now.”

Sure, people here and in the MetsBurb grumble about Carlos Delgado, he also of the slow hands club, but it seems unlikely that Met fans would admit such a thing to rival fans — and certainly not at key points of the game.

And so it went, with virtually every Phillie player not named Chase Utley getting hammered by the locals — this freshly off a stunning division title in 2007. The Met fans around me, for the most part, kept a low profile, clapping politely for their team, not as in-your-face as previous seasons — except for a group of orange-shirted crazies in the upper deck, who seemed, as a group, to be overly enjoying The Spank’s excellent collection of adult beverages.

But for the second straight game, it seemed the Mets were starting to come out of their fog. Jose Reyes was once again a force of nature. David Wright looks set to have the kind of season Mets have previously only dreamed of, and despite the injuries, the Mets seem to have a lot of starting pitching — Johan Santana isn’t going to be the second coming of Frank Viola — and maybe, just maybe, Mike Pelfrey is growing up. Of course, it only took a few days for the fog to roll right back in, thicker than ever and the "Fire Willie Randolph" whispers to start up again.

So while Phillies fans were killing their guys — yeah, even Jimmy Rollins got bashed for taking time off to attend a family funeral — Mets fans now seem to be watchfully waiting. They want to believe again and some of the anger and frustration of 2007 is starting to dissipate with this latest hot streak and run to first place. Like the daffodils peeking through the spring grass, hope is starting to pop up again. But it's a thin hope — and this week's ragged play could stretching it to it's limit.

And it could be worse. Run down to D.C. and spend some time at Nationals Park. It's all new and shiny and happy and staff is almost Disney-like in their friendliness. Except for one staff guy who said to me "Mets suck. Have a nice time at the game" there was almost no life, no spirit in the nations' capital — it was almost as lifeless as a Bush Cabinet meeting. Half of the fans at the game were Mets' fans — and the constant roar that filled RFK Stadium during the team's first year in D.C. has been replaced by, well, ennui. The fans, deprived of Major League ball for 33 years, find themselves reminded of most of the 70-plus years that the Senators/Nationals/Statesmen barely resembled Major League teams.

Maybe it is just 90 miles down the Jersey Turnpike, but Philly still remains a long way away in terms of baseball culture. There, baseball disaster is not just feared, but expected and the scar tissue runs so thick that it starts to get hard to tell the difference between pain and pleasure. And in D.C., the wounds so old, deeply scarred over, fans there find themselves as little more than uncomfortably numb to another season. But for Mets’ fans, the wounds have finally closed over, the pink flesh still tender, but getting stronger with each day. But that same new flesh is fragile. It won't take much to open it and cause, new raw sores.

A redemption in 2008 will allow the scars to finally heal and become nothing more than an exercise in building character. Another failure, another collapse, though, could leave us all one step closer to Pigtown.

Related info:
Discuss In Our Forums

 E-mail this page
 Printer-friendly page