The Mets recent loss of the 2015 World Series against the Kansas City Royals proved to be a more difficult loss to me personally than I had initially anticipated. I had been hopeful before — 2000 Subway Series, anyone? — but never had I been as emotionally invested as this year’s postseason.
It started with the rumors: this year’s pitching team was unparalleled in the franchise’s history. And then there was manager Terry Collins who was guiding the talented group — filled with eager, fresh, young talent — to victory.
Incredibly, the rumors proved true. Victorious against the L.A. Dodgers, the Mets moved onto the National League Division Series (NLDS). The anticipation continued with the sweep — a word used when a team wins all of the games in a given series — over the Chicago Cubs, giving the Mets the National League Pennant while also providing the hope of the Mets becoming the ‘top’ underdog.
As the games progressed, I would marvel at the dedication of the fans. Constantly checking the score when we couldn’t get to a TV or radio, every conversation with friends and family peppered with statistics, theories, predictions. When the Mets finally made it into the playoffs, I expressed my excitement and pride by hanging my Mets hat proudly from my backpack — I had made the mistake of wearing it on my head and was quickly faced with the multiple side glances in the elevator to which I responded: “No! I’m not married! My team is just in the playoffs!”
My team. This possessiveness has always fascinated me as a kid. I have distinct memories of going to baseball games with my family. Sitting in the “nosebleed” seats we would scream ourselves hoarse. “We’re the ones in blue” was the explanation five-year-old me got when I expressed frustration at not being able to discern which team was at bat; “We’re winning!” was the response when I saw my family jumping up and down wildly, high-fiving the neighboring section members. The language shifted however when we lost: “Oh man, they were so close!” and “They’ll get’em next time, that’s for sure…” The not-so-subtle shift in pronoun packed our collective heartbreak into one syllable.
This past Series loss feels different though; they didn’t lose, we did. We lost the community that was filled with hopeful New Yorkers whose loyalty and pride was seen on everything from caps, to jerseys, to flags outside sports bars. In a way, the end of the season represents the loss of possibility. The optimism that turned into the moxie to dream, slowly built into a passionate confidence that was only fueled by blazing pitches and fast swings — but they have all faded.
Though nothing replaces the electric environment of thousands of screaming fans in Citi Field, this postseason I found myself feeling that same energy in dorm lobbies as students cheered on their respective teams; hesitantly daring to hope that maybe this was the year. I was delightfully surprised at the steady stream of students who, on a study break, would drop by, squinting at the TV asking, “What’s the score?” “What inning are we in?” a security guard would ask every hour or so. These moments brought my love for the Mets, and baseball in general, to a new level of appreciation and a new level of belonging to this amazingly passionate and loyal community. A community brought together by a fist-sized ball, worn leather mitts and wooden bats that were worn from tight, anxious grips.
Baseball in New York is akin to a semi-religion; filled with rituals, beliefs and superstitions. Celebrating the Mets’ successes in New York is a Mets fan’s dream come true. I loved being a part of a not-so-secret club with fellow commuters in Penn Station, enjoying the camaraderie created with a slight nod of our matching baseball hats. I yelled with glee when I saw the Empire State Building flashing with blue and orange lights to celebrate the Mets making it to the playoffs and to the World Series; the city was proud and so was I.
Walking along 35th Street, I found myself standing next to a group of men waiting for the light to change. Me, in my garish orange Mets cap, them- in their blue ones and a few jerseys. “They changed it for us!” One shouted gleefully. “I know!” I shouted back, quickly taking a video to send to my family. The plurality of the exclamation reiterates that this was more than a game: it was a community that refused to be tossed out with every disappointing loss and in that same stubborn respect, they were going to celebrate every achievement accomplished.
Looking back, I understand that my sadness and disappointment stems not merely from the lost World Series title. Rather, it’s from a realization that I have lost a sense of community that was created via the buzz, anticipation and participation of a hopeful city full of fans looking for validation of their unwavering support. I miss the palpable camaraderie that could be felt in the conversations overheard on 34th Street; in the sea of orange and blue on the subway. I miss knowing that no matter how predictably frustrating my day was going, there was a game to watch later that would be suspenseful enough for me to forget my worries. Instead, it transported me to a reality where I felt connected to thousands of screaming fans around the city who were hoping that their team would let them remain in their frenzied allegiance one more day. Because the feeling of your team winning is nothing short of incredible.
Knowing that the Mets’ chance at glory won’t be until next season is saddening but this past postseason reminded me of the power of communities; they are subcultures where our passion and excitement are both welcomed and encouraged. These communities take form in fandoms, campus clubs and hobbies. Within these communities, there are the set times during a year when it’s ‘your’ time and this past post-season was when the Mets fan base came out and found that, amazingly, they were not alone. Appreciate your communities for when they are vibrant and seen. Appreciate them even more when their ‘season’ is over. And when the stretches of time between your ‘season’ seem too long to bear, just remember, “Ya Gotta Believe!”