Being a Met Fan....

As many readers know I am a Big Baseball fan and an even bigger New York Met Fan. Being a Met fan in New York is not always easy. We are surrounded by Yankee Fans who over the years have had far greater success then we have.

Discussing this with a long time friend recently he relayed the following story. It always amazes me what people remember. I bring this back to Trading. I can remember the PPI number on March 17 1989 (+1.0% the second consecutive unexpected rise of 1.0%)because of what it did to the markets, and my P/L (it was good believe me!). Today I always look for higher PPI numbers hoping and praying for the same magic. I cannot tell you what I had for dinner on Sunday, but I can tell you about the time I shorted the Euro and Trichet announced that Inflation was a big issue in Europe (Ugh). Here is the Story......

This morning I read a blurb in one of those “newspapers” that they give out for free as your getting on the subway here in New York. It was about the closing of Shea Stadium, and what it was like to be a Mets fan as opposed to a Yankee fan. In New York you are either one or the other. The article described how real life reflected more on the life of a Mets fan as opposed to a Yankee fan, here’s how. The Mets seem to have steady success or rather levels of success. The high notes are far and few between, but when they come we celebrate them. Whether it be a ground ball through the legs of Buckner or the birth of your first son, They take your breathe away and you never forget them. It is the mediocrity of normal lives that make success all the more sweet. Who cares about winning if you’ve never lost? Anyway, I reflected on my experience growing up in Brooklyn and Queens and the fact that the Mets were always on the television on Saturday afternoons in my house. I can still see the picture covered with snow and the rabbit ear antenna covered with enough aluminum foil to make some nice shut in a new helmet. It was Saturday, it was summer and the window fans were on full tilt blowing that 88 degree heat in on us and we were happy.


I must have been 8 or 9 when the summer camp we went to offered us a Yankee game or the zoo. Summer camp was at St. Brigids Catholic school in Brooklyn in the parking lot. Anyway, myself and two of my older brothers went to the game. It was my first major league baseball game. I cant remember who they were playing or who was there with me, but what happened to me while I was there stays with me to this day. I think my mother gave us a 20 dollar bill to buy lunch and peanuts with. There were 3 of us. Where a 20 came from I have no idea, my father must have won big at the track! No, he didn’t pony up the money for us to have a good time at the game. My mother robbed his double secret hiding spot, then probably helped him search the house for the missing money. We took the subway out to Yankee Stadium, it was so big I couldn’t see the corners of the building. We had seats somewhere between right field and the sun, who cares where. This was the place that they show on television, and I was there. I heard the call of the hot dog vendors and I was ready. I did the ass dance down the row of spectators to the aisle where the hot dog guy was standing. I bought my first hot dog at a major league game. I can remember that I was excited. I took the hot dog in my small hands trying to get a grip on the mustard pack covered with vendor sweat when I reached up to take my change. He handed me something equivalent to a buck and a half. I said “No, this is wrong. I gave you a 20” he said “No Kid, you gave me a 5, here look” he pulled a 5 from his filthy mustard and grease covered apron for viewing. I panicked almost breathless and speechless and ran for my brother Mickey, I’ve seen him in fist fights, he will know what to do, He’s 12. By the time I reached him and told him of the theft, the hot dog man was gone in a sea of sun glared fanatics. I vaguely remember a small beating by my two brothers since their lunch money was probably now being spent on watered down Reingold beer. To most people reading this its really not a big deal. Its really not that big of a deal to me either, I have had more beatings by the brothers than you can shake a stick at. I still cant grow hair on the outsides of my lower calves due to all the electrical tape draggings (my father worked at the phone company). But I was TAKEN by a hot dog vendor!

It is this story that seems to come to mind whenever I think of taking in a Yankee game. It is some sort of Classic Conditioning Pavlovian Dog bull, but it happened, it happened to me. For this reason I have never been a Yankee fan, never donned a Yankee hat or jersey, never called “YANKEES” when we were picking team names for stickball. Thirty some odd years later, I still wouldn’t.


Wanna hear about Shea?



The Northern Yankee