Long-Distance Conversation

Baseball’s pretty fun under any circumstances. Buried in the standings and auditioning kids whom everyone knows aren’t ready? A September game’s still not a bad use of an evening. Grinding along in a summer you know won’t require keeping your fall calendar clear? Ditto.

But baseball’s even more fun when it matters.

Starting 11-1 doesn’t ensure a September or even an August of baseball that matters, but it sure doesn’t hurt. And it’s a great teaser for what could be. Which was a pretty apt description for a gorgeous Friday in New York, the kind of sparkling spring day that promises gentle weather and ample sunshine to come, with a crisp, clear night as a chaser.

It would have been a perfect night for baseball even if our team hadn’t run off eight straight victories, six of them on the road. Given that added bonus, what better plan as there than to roll up to Citi Field and cheer on the pinch-me Mets?

That’s not what I did, though.

I wasn’t there. I didn’t see the big crowd of 34,000-odd at all. But that wasn’t my fault, because I was driving from Stamford, Conn., up to Massachusetts. And I could certainly hear that big crowd. They were a constant counterpoint to Howie and Josh, a Greek chorus of emotions undergirding long drives hit by Todd Frazier and Jay Bruce, enemy bats put in futile motion by a pitchers’ parade that began with Steven Matz and ended with Jeurys Familia, and the unlikely progress of Jose Lobaton, the Plan C catcher, from home to third in a single trip.

I could hear them on every play of moderate note, and I kept catching myself smiling. Smiling and thinking, That sound makes me happy. I didn’t realize how much I missed it.

That’s another thing about baseball that makes me happy, whatever the condition of the roster, standings and apparent future: the sport is a faithful companion, loyally filling whatever time you have to offer it under any circumstances that allow you to find the game.

Our drive was three and a half hours or so, which is a chunk of time perfectly sized for a baseball game. The long-distance conversation started out the old-fashioned way, with me trying to figure out how the heck to tune the radio in the rental car and trying to remember what frequency WOR was. That approach worked just fine until around Old Saybrook, when wow and flutter began competing for the right to be heard.

Bruce’s misadventure with a fly ball marked the end of the traditional route: Howie noted that Jay was barking at himself with displeasure, but I mostly heard a female pop singer. I was pretty sure that wasn’t Bruce’s mode of self-laceration, which meant WOR was no longer able to defend its atmospheric footprint and it was time to switch to At Bat. The newfangled way can be a bit dicey away from Wi-Fi, but it was flawless this time, with nary a dreaded AUTHORIZATION ERROR or BUFFERING. It brought us to the end of the game a mere 20 minutes short of our destination, a chunk of time just right for one’s own personal happy recap.

Some thrills and spills were had along the way, sure, but when you win that’s part of the fun. Frazier cracked a pair of home runs, an excellent addition to his portfolio of enthusiasm and can-do spirit. The Mets continued their early-season habit of getting knocked down but hopping up and punching back harder. Mickey Callaway navigated lefties and righties and young guys in new roles flawlessly to escape a tense eighth inning. Lobaton emerged from a day behind the plate without (presumably) needing an X-ray or an MRI.

It was a beautiful night, we got where we needed to go with minimal bother, the fans were out in cheerful profusion, we got to listen in, and the Mets won. That’s a whole lot of win columns at once.