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ABOUT US

Jason Fry and Greg Prince
Faith and Fear in Flushing made its debut on Feb. 16, 2005, the brainchild of two longtime friends and lifelong Met fans.

Greg Prince discovered the Mets when he was 6, during the magical summer of 1969. He is a Long Island-based writer, editor and communications consultant. Contact him here.

Jason Fry is a Brooklyn writer whose first memories include his mom leaping up and down cheering for Rusty Staub. Check out his other writing here.

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Day Is Done

Well, you know you're beloved when the fans stay to cheer you in an 11-3 game when the only question left to be settled is whether or not third place is yours alone. (Florida rallied and we have to share.) The tributes were nice — the ones involving hands together in the stands, I mean, as the ones on the Diamondvision were banal when they weren't embarrassing. The look on Mike Piazza's face was nicer. But the moment that got me the most, oddly, was Anderson Hernandez receiving a near standing ovation for his first big-league hit. That was the best side of Met fans on a day that also showed some less-than-best sides. Met fans read the papers, listen to the radio and generally know what's going on, enough to cheer a young player who'll go into the winter smiling because he's 1 for 18 instead of 0 for 18. But by that same token, they're informed enough to know that Carlos Beltran has been hurt multiple times, pressing all year and still working his behind off — the booing of Beltran has long since corroded into sour, pointless hazing. Kind of like the way Mike Piazza's every failing was once booed, come to think of it.

(And I still want to hear why Mike DiFelice came to the plate.)

The sunshine and farewells for Mike also couldn't let me brush away the fact that as Emily and I were leaving, we ran into a line of Met security drones intent on keeping fans away from the entrance to the Met offices and the skyboxes. “THIS WAY! HEY! YOU! THIS WAY!” they barked, mouths inches from the faces of fans understandably confused at being asked to squeeze their way through the bomb barriers into the parking lot. In Flushing that means “Thanks for coming and spending money to support the team.” You started the season finding the escalators weren't working; we ended the season being bellowed at by semi-cops. No matter how hard the Mets try, the surliness and decrepitude of Shea and those who work there elbow their way into the picture, like a garden party with something dead under the porch.

But oh well. It was a .500 day for what was basically a .500 team.

And now it's winter. I'd reach down deep and try to wax lyrical about what it means, but somebody already did it better. Take it away, Mr. Giamatti:

It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in the spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings. And then, as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone. You count on it, rely on it, to buffer the passage of time, to keep the memory of sunshine and high skies alive, and then, just when the days are all twilight, when you need it the most, it stops. Today, October 2nd … it stopped, and summer was gone.

8 comments to Day Is Done

  • Anonymous

    Jason and Greg, I enjoy your blog immensely.

  • Anonymous

    I'm already doing the zombie walk around the house tonight….
    Keep this site going for all of our sanity until spring is in the air….
    For the time being we can think about how good Vlad and the rest of them can be ..

  • Anonymous

    Thank you, good sir. Good luck in the postseason — and good job sending those Yankees west.

  • Anonymous

    New to your site (which is great, BTW), so, like, Hi.
    I was at the game, behind the plate with a big orange BRING MIKE BACK sign, which during breaks I waved at Omar like Mo Vaughn flagging down a waitress. You gotta wonder if this extreme outpouring of love might convince him and Fred that maybe $5 mil for a .250/20 HR part-time C isn't such a bad investment.
    Anyways, I was bummed Mike took himself out (which he HAD to, no way does Willie pull him). Rockies were ahead by eight runs, and were classy enough to join in the ovation during the stretch, so I was fully expecting a Rockie pitcher to groove one for Mike in the 8th. Which, whether he is really leaving or not, would have catapulted into one of my all-time Met moments.
    When I went to tuck my ten-year-old daughter in last night she was sobbing softly into her pillow.
    “What's the matter?”
    “I can't believe we're never gonna see Mike play for us again.”
    I've done my job as a parent.

  • Anonymous

    KingmanFan,
    You did your job when you didn't name your daughter Kong.
    I'm assuming.
    Welcome..aboard.

  • Anonymous

    She prefers to be called “Sky King”.
    Actually, the deal was I'd pick if we had boys, the Missus picked the girls' names. Had it all planned out: David Thomas (followed by Jimmy Robert after Messrs Page and Plant, my other obsession). In retrospect, perhaps it's all for the best we stopped procreating after the one girl.

  • Anonymous

    I do too. I tried to get some of the guys to check it out. It would be so cool if we had literate fan blogs like this or the SOSH. Oh well. Most of the guys liked it, but Chipper thinks you use too many big words and was a little confused because there were no pictures of naked women (he's never seen anything on the web that doesn't involve naked, or partially clothed, women).
    Javy can't read, so that was a wasted email.