Guarantee of the Time of Your Life

“Hey Mabel!”
“What is it, Harry?”
“Let’s go to the ballgame!”
“What ballgame? You haven’t been to a ballgame since 1957.”
“I know, but I have the strangest yen to go to one.”
“Since when?”
“Since I got this invitation.”
“Invitation, Harry?”

“Yeah, Mabel. Says we should meet the Mets.”
“We, Harry?”
“It’s very specific. Says I gotta bring ya. And the kids.”
“Freddie and Frieda don’t care about baseball, Harry.”
“That’s just because they’ve never had the chance to do this before.”
“To do what, Harry?”
“To meet the Mets!”
“Meet the Mets?”
“Meet the Mets!”
“The invitation give ya any more details than that, Harry?”
“Uh…somethin’ about steppin’ up to greet the Mets. Guess maybe they’re tellin’ us we’re all gonna be in the nosebleeds.”
“Doesn’t sound that great, Harry.”
“Nah, Mabel, it’ll be swell. Says right here we’re guaranteed to have the time of our life!”
“I find that hard to believe, Harry.”

“I don’t think they’d lie about that, Mabel. They have laws against that sort of thing.”
“Harry, do you believe everything an invitation tells you?”
“Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Mabel. The Mets are really sockin’ the ball!”
“They tell ya that, too, Harry?”
“Knockin’ those home runs over the wall — that’s what it says!”
“I don’t know, Harry.”

“Aw, Mabel, c’mon! Everybody’s comin’ down!”
“Everybody, Harry?”
“East Side…West Side…yeah, everybody.”
“And what’s this for again?”
“Mabel, do I gotta spell it out for ya? It’s to meet the M-E-T-S of New York town!”
“Harry, go without me. I have things to do.”

“What things?”
“I hafta stop by the meat market.”
“They’re closed, Mabel.”
“Closed, Harry?”
“Butcher’s goin’ to meet the Mets.”
“Well, I hafta buy some bread.”
“Forget it, Mabel.”
“Forget it, Harry? You want your liverwurst sandwiches without bread all of a sudden?”
“Baker’s goin’ to meet the Mets, too.”
“Harry, you make it sound like everybody’s just decided to drop what they’re doin’ and…”
“And meet the Mets? You got it, Mabel!”
“Harry, yer exaggeratin’.”

“Nah, Mabel, I swear! Take a look out the window. Look at the people on the streets. Where do you suppose they’re goin’?”
“To meet the Mets, Harry?”
“To meet the Mets, Mabel! Look at ’em, why don’tcha?”
“Hmm…they are all kinda goin’ in one direction. What yer sayin’ certainly seems true, Harry.”
“Orange and blue-true, Mabel!”
“Fine, Harry. I could use a little peace and quiet, anyway.”

“No dice, Mabel.”
“What’s that, Harry?”
“Yer not gonna be able to relax when we meet the Mets.”
“You wanna tell me why not?”
“There’s nothin’ in the invitation about peace and quiet. There’s gonna be hollerin’ and cheerin’!”
“We hafta do that, too, Harry?”
“We’re gonna be jumpin’ in our seats, Mabel!”
“You wanna tell me why, Harry?”

“’Cause we’ve got ourselves a ball club, Mabel!”
“The Mets, Harry?”
“The Mets of New York town!”
“I suppose I can see why that would be worth shoutin’ about. Fine, Harry, I’m in. KIDS! GET DOWN HERE! YER FATHER’S TAKIN’ US TO MEET THE METS!”

“Oh, ya won’t be sorry, Mabel! We’ll give ’em a yell!”
“Right, Harry.”
“We’ll give ’em a hand!”
“Of course, Harry.”
“We’ll let ’em know we’re rootin’ in the stand!”
“‘Stand,’ Harry? Not ‘stands’?”
“That’s how it goes in the invitation. Very specific.”
“I don’t know if I’m really gonna remember that part very long, Harry. Meet the Mets, greet the Mets…there’s a lot there.”

“Mabel, ya gotta get in this spirit of this thing!”
“Fine, Harry. We’ll let ’em know we’re rootin’ in the ‘stand’. FREDDIE! FRIEDA! LET’S GO! YER FATHER’S WAITIN’ FOR US TO MEET THE METS! ALL OF US!”
“Mabel, ya won’t be sorry. Neither will the kids.”
“Sure, Harry. Where do we meet the Mets again?”
“Uptown.”
“I thought everybody was comin’ down to the meet the Mets.”
“I dunno, Mabel. Maybe the invitation got rerouted through the Bronx or somethin’.”
“And when do we start meetin’ the Mets?”
“Right away, though if we don’t get a move on, we’re gonna have to schlep out to Queens.”
“Queens? How long is it gonna take for us to meet the Mets, Harry?”
“The way I understand it, Mabel, is once you meet ’em, you never wanna stop gettin’ to know ’em.”
“Uh-huh. Say, Harry…”

“Yeah, Mabel?”
“Who sent the invitation, anyway?”
“Uh…coupla songwriters. Ruth Roberts and Bill Katz.”
“Songwriters? Since when do you know songwriters?”
“I don’t. But they invited us just the same.”
“Well that sure was nice of ’em.”
“Yeah, it was, wasn’t it?”
“KIDS! WE’VE GOT OURSELVES A BALL CLUB! LET’S GO!”