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Greg Prince and Jason Fry
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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Hey Nineteen, That's Jerry Koosman

The year was 2007. I was old.

I didn’t think I required confirmation of that biological fact, 44 residing securely as it does in what is commonly described as middle age, but I seemed to have received a reminder last night. Nothing creaked, at least not more than usual. And nobody said anything, but as sure as Joe Foy flopped at third base 37 years ago, I sure could tell.

Joe Foy? He was the Met acquired for Amos Otis in 1970.

Amos Otis? That’s the unproven outfielder we sent to Kansas City to get Foy. He became the Royals’ first big star, emerging ahead of George Brett.

George Brett? Oh come on. Surely you remember George Brett. He only retired…what is it now?…my goodness, that was 1993, 14 years ago.

In 1970, 14 years ago was 1956. Thirty-seven years ago was 1933. And almost every year I’ve ever lived in, save for maybe the last five, is likely the Mesozoic Era if you’re the type who haunts trendy/ironic nightspots in relatively obscure locales on frigid Wednesday nights in late winter and thinks nothing of it.

Let me not let observation get ahead of good manners. I want to thank Carl Bialik of Gelf Magazine for inviting Jason and me to be part of an excellent program of Varsity Letters last night. I want to thank the several to many patrons who came up to us before and after we spoke for telling us such nice things about Faith and Fear. I want to thank the other sports bloggers who manned the podium for excellent and entertaining presentations for which it was my pleasure to be an audience member. Mostly, I want to thank the throngs of Dugout acolytes for patiently waiting through our words to get to their main event of the evening (Dugout is amusing online, but an absolute revelation when the three guys explain it and act it out right in front of you).

Yes, I enjoyed it immensely, even if the charms of the Happy Ending Lounge — VL’s venue of record and a swell place to get your drink and interpersonal transaction on if you’re of a hookup mindset — escape me and my 44-year-old sense of hanging out. I’m a couch guy. I like TV. About the time Carl brought Jason and me to the microphone, I imagine I would have been sunken comfortably into my couch in front of my TV watching M*A*S*H.

M*A*S*H? You know, the all-time great sitcom that ran from 1972 to…now cut that out! You know what M*A*S*H is. Don’t you? Its overblown finale had the highest ratings ever. Why, it just aired at the end of February.

February 1983. I remember it like it was last week. Twenty-four years ago last week.

Carl instructed each blog/site to take 10 minutes to read or talk or whatever we wanted. That meant Jason and I each had five minutes of our own. If you’ve read Faith and Fear, you know five minutes is what I call the preamble, at least for anything that I’d go to the trouble of printing out and packing on the 6:11 to Penn Station in order to make it to Happy Ending by 8:00. After reviewing the last two years of posts, I decided to smush together a compendium of salient anecdotes from Flashback Friday, the original version from our rookie season, all of which are available under “A Year to Remember” toward the bottom of our sidebar. I wouldn’t have time to take the audience through my 35 years of personal and baseball revelations in full (Carl would need to book the joint until its closing time of 4 AM), but I figured a nice sample would do the trick. We could all relate to growing up as fans of a team and remaining fans of that team; we could all smile about childhood and adulthood being linked by the experience of sport; we could all endure me, then Jason to make room for Dugout ten minutes hence.

Here were the first words I read aloud, just as I posted them on August 19, 2005:

The year was 1970. I was 7 years old.

No sooner had those two sentences escaped my lips when it dawned on me that there were probably close to a hundred souls crammed into Happy Ending and not one of them besides me could have had a clear and tangible memory of 1970. They couldn’t have. Look at them — they’re so young!

I think they were. How the hell would I know? As much as I like to track my own chronology, I’m terrible at judging the rings around other people’s trees. These are the ages of man (and woman) as far as I can tell:

• Really old: I mean really old
• My contemporaries: Everybody who’s not really old
• Kids: Everybody who’s not really old but I can’t carry on any kind of conversation with them

All those 40ish Mets do seem older than me, but they’re not (save for one notable exception who could presumably kick my ass without spilling a single egg white). So I’ve got a handful of years on Tom Glavine and Moises Alou and Sandy Alomar, Jr. I must. I was already past the prospect stage when they were just coming up. They couldn’t have passed me, right? But they’re not old. They’re ballplayers. Ballplayers have dates of birth on the backs of their baseball cards but for the most part, they’re ballplayer age. When I was a kid, they looked really old. Now, from Fernando Martinez to Julio Franco, they’re my contemporaries. More talented, more agile, more valuable on the open market, but we’re all adults here.

It’s just that some of us were entering adulthood while others were just getting themselves born.

I went on about the wonders of being 7 in 1970, about how somewhere in the back of my mind I’m experiencing every aspect of being a baseball fan for the first time all over again when I watch the Mets today. I believe that sort of almost unconscious manner of thinking is a universal sensation if you love watching sports, but at Happy Ending, I kept thinking, even as I continued to read aloud, that there was another universal sensation: that everybody listening to me, all of whom looked more comfortable in this setting than I felt, heard I was 7 in 1970, did the math as it applies to 2007 and concluded “wow, that guy is old.”

I wouldn’t argue. When I was in the early throes of my legal drinking eligibility and spending time as a matter of course in the Happy Endings of my youth (there weren’t a lot, but there were a few), if some dude started reminiscing about what it was like 37 years ago, I would have made the same calculations. Me invoking 1970 for these mostly, I’m guessing, twentysomethings would have been the mathematical equivalent of me in 1987 being subject to ramblings regarding the Whiz Kids of 1950 (they do predate me, but I have read about them).

My payoff story for the 1970 Flashback is the June night my sister challenged me to pull a wishbone from her fried chicken. I made my wish, I pulled, I won and less than 24 hours later I received what I asked for. My wish — the “first time I can remember subjugating all other concerns to concentrate on the Mets’ well-being” — was that we would sweep the Cubs the next afternoon. It came true. The score was 8-3. Jerry Koosman, I noted, defeated Ken Holtzman.

Jerry Koosman? Jerry Koosman the slick southpaw from Appleton, Minnesota? Jerry Koosman who has that neat Sporting News card in the 1970 Topps set? Jerry Koosman, No. 36? Jerry Koosman, rushed by Jerry Grote to his south and Ed Charles to his west the previous October? Jerry Koosman who I can still see going out there after Seaver and before Gentry if he’s not on the DL?

That’s my Jerry Koosman, the only one there’s ever been. For just about everybody else in the room, though — if they were Mets-savvy to begin with — Jerry Koosman wasn’t any of that. He was a dusty relic from the history books. He was to them what Robin Roberts or Lefty Grove or George Washington would have been to me. He was some ancient name thrown out by somebody obviously much older than I was.

And Ken Holtzman? Who’s that? A dermatologist from Cedarhurst?

1970’s Flashback morphed into 1980’s, then 1990’s, then 2000’s (I opted to skip the “5” years lest the audience age any more than five minutes). I peppered in a few more ballplayer names, almost all of them Van Lingle Mungo to the Happy Ending generation. Then I morphed into my own happy ending, the autobiographical point that I suppose informs my blogging. It seemed like the appropriate grace note:

All I ever wanted to do was be was a Mets fan. And that I got good at.

It was fun, but I felt old when it was over. What was a middle-aged man like me doing in a hip place like this?

I left for the D train uptown. As I walked down the platform, a guy who was apparently at Varsity Letters stopped me. “Hey, you’re from Faith and Fear in Flushing, right?” Yes, I said. He said he was new to reading blogs and such, but he liked what he’d seen and heard from us. I thanked him very much. Then he asked me what I thought of our chances this year.

For the next maybe 15 minutes, we talked Mets baseball. We talked about the Phillies posing a threat. We talked about the rotation and who might be in it. We talked about our great start last year and whether we could get another one. We talked about how bad Shawn Green has looked so far. We talked about what he or Moises Alou might be in for if they come home with a low batting average on April 9. We talked about Billy Wagner undermining our confidence far too often. We talked about Game Seven. We talked about John Franco and Armando Benitez and Brian Jordan. We jumped back and forth among Mets past, Mets present and Mets immediate future until this fellow got off at Fourth Street.

“Thanks for letting me chew your ear off,” I said as he left.

Seriously, that was great. It reminded what I was doing at place like Happy Ending on a frigid Wednesday night at the tail end of my 45th winter not four weeks from my 39th baseball season. I love to talk about the Mets. I’d go to Chinatown to talk about the Mets with another Mets fan. I might go to China if that were my only option. Fortunately this medium here makes such a trip unnecessary, but I think I kind of mean it.

The year was 1970. The year is 2007. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter if I saw what you didn’t or you see what I don’t. We’re all in this together and I love that. And I love, regardless of dueling birth certificates, that baseball is so utterly timeless. It’s the biggest cliché in a game chock full of them, but it’s so true. Yeah, 1970 did just happen in my mind. It’s still happening. The last game I lived, Game Seven, is still happening. Steve Henderson’s walkoff home run off Allen Ripley in 1980 is still happening. It’s all always going on. I have a gift of sorts for separating out the details of what occurred when they occurred, but for big-picture purposes, there are no discrete seasons when it comes to me and the Mets. It’s a big, beautiful never-ending continuum for me. It’s somewhere I’d gladly abandon my couch and my TV and my M*A*S*H reruns for and take the LIRR and the D to in order to rediscover that feeling any 18-degree night of the week.

29 comments to Hey Nineteen, That’s Jerry Koosman

  • Anonymous

    I'm sorry I missed it, but I dig the shirt Greg's wearing.

  • Anonymous

    Hands off, Bub. It's mine.

  • Anonymous

    Greg, ol' buddy and near-contemporary, you'll never be old as long as there is somebody on the 40-man roster who was born before you were.
    That's why the Mets are still an expansion team, and will be until the D.O.B. column no longer features a year before 1962.
    Thank heaven for Methuselahs like El Duque and Jesse Orosco and the various J. Francos for staving off the day so long.

  • Anonymous

    Admit it, old man — it was a pterodactyl wishbone.

  • Anonymous

    Him eat good. Mmm!

  • Anonymous

    Sounds good as long as we don't have to thaw out Richie Hebner to keep it going.

  • Anonymous

    And Ken Holtzman? Who's that? A dermatologist from Cedarhurst?
    You owe me for a new monitor after my spit-take upon reading this… ;-)
    PS — Soooooooooooooo sorry I missed this!

  • Anonymous

    Can't help you with the monitor, but we'll try to have the next reading at Marron's or Wing Loo or the Texas Ranger. It would help if you could bring a time machine as none of those Long Beach/Barnum Island eateries of our halcyon South Shore days any longer exist.
    Still, a nice nosh wouldn't be out of line.

  • Anonymous

    Do it sometime between June & September and we can have it at Peter's (my grandmother's all time favorite restaurant, btw).

  • Anonymous

    You mean Peter's Clam Bar? Other than buying a soda once about 30 years ago and cursing the traffic caused by the creatively parked cars, I've never been there. It's locale, hard by the Town of Hempsted landfill, always frightened me. But if it's got GrandmaH's seal of approval…

  • Anonymous

    Hi Greg,
    You trying to make me feel bad with the age bit since I go back to 1962 and sat in the old Polo Grounds four times?
    My fondest memory of Kooz was when I was a few months short of being a 17year old and 1) took the #6 train down to the Mets Grand Central Terminal ticket office in early March and getting my first opening day ticket, and 2) then sitting in the mezzanine level, section 9 (forgot the row number) watching Kooz shutout the Giants 3-0 for our first opening day win of any kind (it was the home opener) . But my greatest memory was watching him on TV as he struck Ron Santo on the wrists after Tommie Agee was decked by Bill Hands in the black cat game a year later.
    I think those were the games; when one gets a little past 44, the memory starts to play tricks on you…, something to look forward to!

  • Anonymous

    i remember being alarmed when i first could say things like “of course, that was 20 years ago…”
    hah! would that my life markers only be 20 years old. i have way more memories in the “35 and counting” zone. ulp.

  • Anonymous

    Peter's isn't a restaurant. It's a right of passage.

  • Anonymous

    The very one. Right next to Garbage Mountain…
    Or — if you want to venture into the West End — try it at the Whale's Tail.

  • Anonymous

    As long as a) the markers pile up and don't suddenly come to a halt if you know what I mean and b) we keep gathering new ones in the other direction, I think it'll be OK.

  • Anonymous

    If the only trick I have to look forward to is misplacing a row number from 39 years earlier, I'll take it.

  • Anonymous

    You trying to make me feel bad with the age bit since I go back to 1962 and sat in the old Polo Grounds four times?
    You kidding? I'm dark green with envy over those four trips.

  • Anonymous

    Hi Greg,
    I probably remember it that well because when was the last time one could go to the downtown ticket office, not wait in line, and get a good mezzanine seat to the right of home plate for an opening day?
    Feel bad because I saved many of the rain checks from those years but not for the home opener.

  • Anonymous

    and since one was a doubleheader, it was a total of five games!

  • Anonymous

    The concern about Pete's was that the seafood you were eating might have come out of the moat that encircled Mt. Garbage. I think I saw Blinky swimming by more than once. But I could go for some fried clams and steamers right now…if I wasn't 3000 miles away.
    Of course, if I was jumping in Greg's time machine (watch out for all those cans of TaB), in addition to the wonderful places mentioned we'd have to bring back Chauncey's if only for the food and not the drunken evenings I no longer remember.

  • Anonymous

    We're not getting old. We're just aging.
    Still, as you say, it beats the alternative.

  • Anonymous

    Of course you feel old, Greg! The Intertoobs are for young people! Just like rock and roll was for young people when we were young. We alterjoecockers can't show up at a Death Cab for Cutie show and sing along like we know all the words even if we do, and we can't blog. It's the law! Just don't tell, y'know, Barbara Ehrenreich. Or, for that matter, all those teenagers — yes, today's teenagers — buying Beatles CDs and digging the Clash and the Ramones and suchlike. If they get to poke around in “our” popular culture, we get to riffle through “theirs.” Fair is fair. Now, if I could only screw up my courage to go see Death Cab…

  • Anonymous

    Greg, may God grant me enough years to read what you'll write when you turn 50. The big Five-Ohhh!! It will be a pisher. You'll look at the wrinkles on your hands and go: “Where the hell did they come from?” Forget about sleeping eight hours straight. Other than that, you'll still be able to do just about everything you did at 40, but there'll be some things you won't care about as much, and others you'll pay some other schlep to do.
    Oh, and you'll still love our Mets, but with a deeper and richer appreciation that comes with increased perspective. You'll still yell and curse when at the stadium, or in front of the TV or radio, but your voice will take on a deeper tone–hell, you're now one of “those guys” we knew in our youth! Y'know, the older baseball nuts our Dads/older brothers/uncles/whatever for whom baseball was a true passion.
    In other words, be grateful you've made it this far, and look forward to how far you still have to go. You've taken the torch from a long, proud line of hard-workin', hard-livin' Met and baseball lovers. From what I've read here so far, the future seems in good hands, Bro.
    Oh, and thank you too much for making us remember Jerry Koosman again. I love(d) that guy more than Seaver, and was so happy to hear him on the FAN last year.

  • Anonymous

    oh you gotta. took my kids to a death cab concert at the theater at msg in november. a great time. the band is a throwback — they stand there and, yknow, play their songs. and we all sang along.
    and yeah, it's all beatles and ramones at my house too. the clash, i'm keeping for myself. for now.

  • Anonymous

    kooz has always been my fave met. and if you're talking about that interview he gave to joe benigno on the mets rally day, i'm with you. it was one of the year's radio highlights.

  • Anonymous

    I loved that you could amble right off the beach and be at the bar, then stumble back out again when you'd had your fill…

  • Anonymous

    PS — Last summer, my aunt (lives in LB) and my cousin, her daughter (grew up in LB, now lives in Wayne, NJ), went out for dinner. My cousin asked, “Why is this place called 'Minnesota's' (used to be Lenny's) when we're on Tennesee?” May aunt replied, “Because we at the Inn!”
    PPS — The Inn was once upon a time owned by godfather, Willie.

  • Anonymous

    ” The big Five-Ohhh!! It will be a pisher. You'll look at the wrinkles on your hands and go: “Where the hell did they come from?” Forget about sleeping eight hours straight. Other than that, you'll still be able to do just about everything you did at 40, but there'll be some things you won't care about as much, and others you'll pay some other schlep to do.”
    So that's what was happening to me…

  • Anonymous

    Lenny's! Lenny's Steak House! The only place that I know of that my father held a grudge against that still hasn't expired even though the name and probably Lenny have.
    It was the only place I liked more than Nathan's circa 1970. Cream of chicken soup…an all-time great.