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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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Me and Julio

It’s not the Flashback Friday I was envisioning, but real-time events have caused me to adjust my rearview mirror.

“You know, there comes a day in every man’s life, and it’s a hard day, but there comes a day when he realizes he’s never going to play professional baseball.”

“You’re just having that day today?”

“Yes I am.”

—Josh and Donna, “Red Mass,” The West Wing

The continuing Major League Baseball careers of Roger Clemens (b. 8/4/1962) and Jamie Moyer (b. 11/18/1962) are all that stand between me (b. 12/31/1962) and certifiable, uncontested middle age. If they retire — or, in Clemens’ case, retire again — while Julio Franco (b. 8/23/1958) goes wanting on the Designated For Assignment market, then that’s it.

I’ll be older than every player in baseball.

How is that possible? I root for a team that, even deprived of the once-touted leadership skills of Julio Franco, is lousy with elder statesmen and senior citizens. Glavine’s old. Alomar’s old. Alou’s so old that they don’t let him out of the home. El Duque’s so old that nobody can accurately measure the rings around his trunk.

Almost all of the Mets are old. And I’m older than all of them. Everybody on the team I root for is younger than me. More than half of everybody on my team is no kid. So what the hell does that make me?

It’s not the first time, technically, that this has occurred. After John Franco (b. 9/17/1960) was at last denied further sinecure in Flushing, the 2005 Mets became the first such edition of my team to feature not a single player who started kindergarten before me. I didn’t notice then. I never noticed my age relevant to players’ ages until recently because how could they all be younger than me? When Julio Franco eased in for John Franco in 2006, signed for two years no less, I felt safe that I wouldn’t have to ask that.

But with Julio’s listless bat and tired blood presumably sent to Walgreen’s (you don’t have to go the pharmacy counter but you can’t stay here), I do.

We don’t have Moyer. We don’t have Clemens (which I by no means mind). Rickey Henderson, one hopes, won’t pull a Minnie Minoso and finagle a stunt callup. And Franco won’t be regaining his stroke in New Orleans. So that’s it where the Mets are concerned. The chances are excellent that I will never again root for a player whom I have any business asking for an autograph; wearing his replica jersey; collecting his baseball card; or generally idolizing.

I’m going to do all that stuff anyway. I’ve been doing it since I was 6. I’ve never stopped. It’s hard to imagine I would now just because it’s unseemly. Grown men don’t dwell on the actions of boys who are increasingly half their age. There are words for that sort of behavior.

Like fan.

I’m a fan. I’m a fan of a team and by extension each of its players. One departs, one arrives, I root for the one who arrives. This goes on a few decades and I age. I find myself, at 44 years, 6 months and 2 weeks rooting for 25 who arrived on the planet after I did. A few could be said to be my demographic (if not financial) peers. But those few will soon disappear, too. Those who will succeed them as the sages of the Mets will be those who are currently 22, 24, not much older. Their spaces will be taken by those who are now 17 or 12 or 7. And if all goes according to a long-established pattern, I will be asking those men of tomorrow for their autographs; wearing their replica jerseys; collecting their baseball cards; and generally idolizing them.

I get older. They stay the same age.

Furthermore, I will not be joining them in their pursuit of hits and outs. Oh, I never seriously entertained the slightest, not even the most fantastical notion I would ever be a baseball player. I was unathletic when I was a lad and I didn’t get any less so with the passing years. But I do probably a half-dozen times a week go into a batting stance. I stop once or twice a night to work out kinks in my windup. I tag up at the corner if I’m preparing to cross against the light. I can feel myself bunting a runner over. And I see myself in the outfield.

I was a terrible outfielder. Of all the positions I couldn’t play, outfield was the one at which I was supremely horrendous. Thirty-five years ago this month, I was stuck in centerfield by the misguided coach of a rec center team called — I kid you not — the Clowns. The other 9-year-old Clowns were blowing a huge lead in the last inning. I was just standing in center wishing the carnage stop lest my skills be called into action. Finally the third out approached our second baseman. I broke in to back him up. The ball broke over my head. The winning run scored. I can still hear one particular comment echoing over and over again because the Clown who said it said it over and over: Prince, you botched it up. And that was the nicest thing I heard.

So add to my scouting report of “terrible outfielder” the addendum “not popular outfielder”.

But I can see myself in left field at Shea. The me I see is 18. I’ve got my unruly hair sprouting every which way from under my blue cap. I’m wearing gold-rimmed glasses, my first pair only recently prescribed in my senior year of high school. My uniform is the Joe Torre era model with the blue and orange collar and cuffs, no buttons. I haven’t reinvented myself as taller or swifter or at all muscular. I’m just me, 18, standing in left. That and trotting home from third. It’s a day game. It’s cloudy. Lee Mazzilli and Doug Flynn are greeting me with high-fives. There’s a sparse crowd.

Yeah, it’s definitely 1981. I’m 18. Everybody in baseball is older than me for, I guess, the last time.

I won’t say that’s how I wish it was. But it’s pretty much how I always thought it would be.

Next Friday: The first card I remember and how the guy on it remains around.

6 comments to Me and Julio

  • Anonymous

    For what it's worth, Julio actually played in the first MLB game that I ever went to in 1986. I'm still in the MLB age range, but I hear ya… as long as Julio was around, I didn't feel so old.

  • Anonymous

    I was a “decent” ballplayer as a kid. I could always hit; it was running and fielding where I got into trouble.
    Aaah but there was 1 game, though. This would be the flip-side to your story, Greg…
    1975. I was 10. Playing for Rotary International in the Cliffside Park (NJ) Little League. I usually played right, natch.
    The coach started me in CF.
    Me? In center? Where Willie Mays played? Where DEL UNSER plays? Are you sure?????
    Anyway, hitting 5th, I double home a run in the 1st, and walk & score in the 3rd & 6th (of the 6-inning contest).
    Going to the bottom half, Rotary is nursing a 1-run lead in this (non-)pitcher's duel — I think the score was like 15-14 or some such nonsense.
    The opposition (I believe it was Grant Cliff Glass) puts 2 runners on with 1 out. The batter hits a bloop not unlike the one that eluded Ryan Freel last night.
    The 10-year-old, overweight, myopic centerfielder initially breaks back, then comes in…comes in…comes in…lurches and…makes the catch!
    In my joy, I totally forgot about the runners on base. I could have ended the game right then and there had I had the presence of mind to make a strong through to the second base bag — the runner was caught so far off, he wouldn't have gotten back in time if his Mom was driving him. But he did. Fortunately, our pitcher bailed me out by striking out the last man (or girl: I can't remember).
    Galloping off the field, I heard one of the Grant Cliffers moan, “We woulda won that game if it wasn't for that damn Hangley…”
    That's the beginning and the end of my athletic feats — aside from the odd touch football game in college…

  • Anonymous

    I was pretty quick and could catch okay, and had a strong if erratic arm. But I was a guaranteed groundout at the plate when I made contact at all — I just couldn't seem to get any lift on the ball.
    Except for one glorious evening of beer-league softball in Central Park in the mid-1980's, when some wayward spirit with a good eye magically inhabited me for two hours, and I blasted five beautiful line-drive hits into the outfield in six at-bats; three of them went for doubles.
    I reverted to form the next game and didn't hit another extra-bagger the whole rest of the summer. But that one night, I was Howard Johnson incarnate, and at the bar afterward, my money was no good. It was enough.

  • Anonymous

    I was a natural athlete, good at every sport I ever tried except tennis (where a baseball swing results in a lot of lost balls and cross glances from other players). I could hit OK, I could absolutely fly, and I had a cannon for an arm. But I wasn't much for organized sports as a kid. I played one season of Babe Ruth baseball and my idiot manager brought in two overage ringers to pitch, and let his sissy son throw the games the two geezers didn't. I was stuck in the OF. He relented at the end of the season and I threw a shutout.
    On then to high school where I decided to try out for football, even though I didn't like it much, because in an all-boy's school that was your ticket to girls, parties and popularity. I figured I'd go for WR but at the first workout they called for WRs and 70 kids walked that way, then they called for QBs and one guy went that way so I joined him, liking the odds a lot more. Made the team, but couldn't grasp the option offense so I was the second-string dope.
    In the spring we had baseball tryouts. I hadn't thrown in a year so my arm wasn't ready, and my father was always too busy to catch me. So, I got cut. I suppose I could have tried again the following year but by then I had too much going on and thus, my dream of being the next Tom Seaver ended. To this day whenever some pitcher signs a huge contract I like to dig Dad: “That could have been me!”
    Now I'm younger than Glavine, Alou, Alomar and maybe El Duque, and I haven't even played softball in years. Time marches on.

  • Anonymous

    “football… your ticket to girls, parties and popularity. “
    As it turned out, I was popular, as much as that matters in an all-boys school. The girls, however, were overwhelmingly and unanimously apathetic. I sure was good at partying, though, which derailed not only my my high school baseball dreams, but my seemingly bright academic future as well.

  • Anonymous

    Cry me a river.
    For us girls, that day comes much, much earlier.