If I’ve learned anything so far this quarter it’s that I can’t trust the wireless internet in the Music Administration Building.
Not that this would normally come into play for me when taking notes on Sonata Form and Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5, but it’s baseball season.
When my beloved New York Mets took the field for the first time this year against the Washington Nationals, I was sitting in Intro to Music trying furiously to get an internet connection good enough to watch the opener.
The NU Wireless Zone was uncooperative. This was particularly upsetting to a certain Daily Sports editor who isn’t even registered for the class, but was willing to learn the difference between allegro and adagio if it meant watching some baseball.
Baseball brightens up everything.
Even though it may not feel like spring around here for a good month or so after the rest of the country gets it, as soon as the first pitch is thrown out at Wrigley Field it is spring in Chicago.
Perhaps I’m more excited than most because my Amazins have a legitimate shot of playing October baseball at Shea Stadium for the first time since losing the World Series to that other New York team (I still think if Armando Benitez struck out Paul O’Neill in game one the Mets would have their third ring). But the anticipation is universal. What thing other than baseball could inspire so much joy as to make those adorable Cubs fans think they actually can win a championship year after year?
My first game was in 1991 when I saw the Mets play the Cincinnati Reds and my father bought me a t-shirt with a giant Mr. Met pitching over those hallowed grounds in Flushing, N.Y.
Fifteen years later I still have the shirt and I can’t contain my excitement each February when I see the words, “Pitchers and catchers report today.”
It’s hard not to be excited when you get to watch the speedy Jose Reyes, the arrogantly hilarious Pedro Martinez and, as the Daily staff will attest, the very sexy David Wright.
But this type of enthusiasm is rife with baseball fans everywhere as if suddenly new life has been sparked in those fortunate enough to survive the doldrums of the off season.
It’s not just excitement, but pride and vigilance that fills the fans of the national pastime. If you try to split an MLB.TV account with a Red Sox fan, don’t make the password “Buckner” lest you fail to get your money back from her.
Of course buying MLB.TV is well worth the $80 they charge per season whether or not you split it. At the very least you can pass it off as a present to your girlfriend when she logs into your account for the 512th time.
At this point I’d like to remind her that the Mets are in first while that pinstriped crew in the Bronx is mired in the AL East cellar. Sure Detroit first baseman Chris Shelton is also on pace for 116 home runs and Baltimore catcher Ramon Hernandez is hitting .565, but it’s not too early to enjoy having the best record in New York. Besides, if Shelton ascribes to the same regimen of cattle hormones as certain other big leaguers, he just might do it.
I have fond memories of watching the Mets instead of editing reporters like I should at the Daily office and watching Randy Johnson’s perfect game while on the phone with my dad and hearing him scream, “He got it!” 30 seconds before NUTV shows me the last pitch.
An effusive love for this bit of Americana makes me and millions of others unable to control their anticipation every time April rolls around.
Sometimes the love carries risks, like last week when I let out a fist pump in Cultural American History after Paul Lo Duca “tagged out” Alfonso Soriano at the plate. But Prof. Sherry, I assure you I and the students behind me who watched the game on my laptop were still taking copious notes all the while.
And those crossword puzzles help me keep my focus, I swear.
Still, whether or not I’m in my room or testing out the apparently strong wireless connection in Annenberg Hall, for the next six months I will be watching the Mets, and baseball in general, as much as humanly possible.
If you got to stare at someone as sexy as David Wright for three hours every night, wouldn’t you?
Deputy Sports Editor David Kalan is a Weinberg junior. He can be reached at [email protected].