GAME FOUR // KATELYN MYHRE

The man in section 126, row 24, seat 17 was frantic no, he was apoplectic. Arms flying, he was yelling, "No, no, no! You never get ice cream in the paper cup. You have to get the helmet! It's bad luck-go back and get the helmet. It's only a dollar more! Here, here, take my money! You have to go back and get the helmet!" It was Game Four of the World Series at Citi Field in Queens, New York, and the New York Mets were leading the Kansas City Royals 3-1. In between innings, two young men in row 24 had decided to get ice cream and made the unforgivable mistake of getting their soft-serve in paper cups. Everyone, myself included, roared with laughter at the man in seat 17. We were all in a great mood, wearing our orange and blue, so sure of another victory at home. However, the fan in seat 17 knew better than the rest of us. The Royals scored another run in the sixth, and then three more in the eighth. Hope was diminishing fast, all because of those damn paper cups.

Disappointment is no stranger to Mets fans. Hell, it's no stranger to any fan. Well, except for those Yankees fans. Those Bronx Bomber devotees, although it might seem otherwise, are at the root of it all no different from any other baseball fans in America. That includes us Mets fans. All true baseball fans are passionate, but all true Mets fans take that passion to the next level. We're our own breed of fans. We are masochists and pessimists; optimism is relatively new to us. We are very strong. We wear our hearts on our sleeves, and we are taught the real meaning of perseverance from an early age. We put ourselves through the same pain year after year knowing that we're rooting for the Mets, and when it comes to the Mets, we almost always have to expect the worst. Kirk Semple in his article, "An Unfamiliar Feeling for Mets Fans: Optimism" from the New York Times, claims Mets fans to be realists, a group who tries its hardest to be optimistic, but is always brought down by the caution embedded in them from years of heartbreak. Mr. Semple is right: we are realists. We know when we can win, and we definitely know when we're beat. We just refuse to accept it until it actually happens.

As the ninth inning began, the loudest noise came not from the thousands of Mets fans that still filled Citi's seats, but from the large group of Royals fans in the section next to ours. Ooh! Those boorish, asinine Royals fans! I so wanted to give them a piece of my mind (and my fist) more than once, but being a classy, respectful Mets fan, I restrained myself. Throughout the game, every time they started to get loud, we would get even louder to block them out. Citi is our home, and no one is allowed to be louder than us in our home. I rose again from my seat as Mets relief pitcher, Hansel Robles, took to the field. I cheered as he came through for us with a 1-2-3 top of the inning. There was hope. The tension grew as the Royals took to the field again. I knew we had a good chance as we had our best bats coming to the plate.

David Wright stepped up to the plate, and the stadium let out a loud roar of support. I smiled. We had Daniel Murphy on deck and Yoenis Cespedes in the hole. If our beloved captain could get on base, then we really had a chance. I watched as three balls went right by him, three strikes. Now it was Murphy at the plate, Cespedes on deck, and Lucas Duda in the hole. I watched as Murphy put up a fight, determined not to go down. Finally, he connected with the ball--a base hit! We had a man on first with two of our best hitters coming to the plate, one after the other, and the stadium became alive once more. Next came Cespedes, a ball…a strike…and then a hit! The Mets had two men on, one man out, Duda at the plate, and Travis d'Arnaud on deck. For a fraction of a second I could taste the miracle, but before I realized it, the game ended. Duda had lined out, and Cespedes had made a stupid mistake, resulting in a heartbreaking double play. I stood in shock for several minutes, not believing what had just happened, not believing that my beloved Mets had lost. The Royals were now within one game of the title and the city of New York was in shock; its dreams had just vanished before its eyes.

We had entered Citi Field so confidently and with such energy, heads high, fists pumping. Nine innings later we left, dejected, demoralized, spirits crushed. As I walked out of the stadium, I realized that this nightmare was like something from one of Frank Messina's poems. Messina, a native of the city, is the unofficial Mets poet. His book, Full Count: The Book of Mets Poetry, is relatable and heartwarming, giving hope to many fans. One such poem is "Mets Fan." One stanza became my definition of that night: "…in the bottom of the ninth/ the miracle RBI that never comes but never goes away,/ always believing, always believing,/ because, /I'm a Mets fan!"

The Royals won the World Series, but it could be said that the Mets were also winners; New York no longer belongs to the Yankees and their fans. In fact, our post-season triumphs have converted a number of New Yorkers from the other side of town. As we, the Flushing Faithful, tend to our wounds, there are two things we have to remember: there's always next year, and always, always get your soft-serve in the plastic Mets helmet.



Katelyn Myhre is a senior English and History major. She's a Disney-obsessed PGA golf fanatic who loves Broadway musicals, Harry Potter, anime, and getting a great deal at the mall.