I had it all planned out. To the second. Out of bed at 7:15. To the metro by 8:00. Library of Congress at 8:30, just in time for them to open the doors and me to retrieve my apartment key which I had left at their security checkpoint the day before. Back on the metro by 8:45. Dupont Circle by 9:15 just in time to board the bus for a 5-hour ride to NYC. Off the bus at Penn Station and onto the subway by 3:00. Take the 7 train to Queens' Mets/Willets Point stop in plenty of time for Johan Santana's 4:10 Opening Pitch to my beloved Giants at the brand-new Citi Field.
It was 851 when I found myself in the Library of Congress' Basement Room 40: Office of Police Affairs, home of the library's one Lost and Found (if the building suffered from a kidney stone, this is where it would be lodged) that I could see that First Pitch fade away out of my reach.
"A key?" the officer working the desk said from behind a dixie cup coffee. "If it's anywhere, it's not here. They might have it back up at the front door though."
So it was. From there to my seat in Section 516, Row 11 of New York's National League baseball stadium, 238 miles away, I was a navigating machine; a sweaty, anxious mess of maps and schedules overcoming long-gone busses, aimless tourist masses, and 90-degree temperatures, just in time for... the start of the Fourth Inning.
I had brought the excitement with me though. Matt Cain, the Giants' All-Star starter and Cy Young candidate was working on a shutout when - just as I arrived - he beamed Mets' All-Star third-baseman David Wright in the helmet with a misplaced fastball. You can bet the Newyawkas went crazy over that one. In a season where it seems every one of the Mets' overpaid "stars" (and there are lots) has gone down to injury, this was just another nail in the team's gaudy blue and orange coffin (I'm NOT kidding).
Aside from the rather hairy, sweaty man seated in front of me, the new stadium is quite nice. It helped that I saw it on such a nice summer evening with a slight, cool breeze taking the edge off the humidity. One thing that struck me was how much the Mets were trying to play off the Brooklyn Dodgers' history (aka not their own). Citi Field's main fan entrance behind home plate is called Jackie Robinson Rotunda, which includes a giant blue number 42 and other images paying homage to the long-time Met- I mean Dodger. Also, the exterior of the stadium is a spitting image of the Dodgers' own Ebbets Field torn down in 1960.
Speaking of stadium destruction. Take a look at this crazy video of people walking around in Shea Stadium in the midst of its four-month long demolition. In the parking lot for the new stadium, there is a spot on the ground marking the old position for each of the bases and home plate from Shea's now-invisible infield.
The rest of the game did not disappoint. With the help of an extra inning and a pair of left field bombs by the Giants' Pablo Sandoval and Bengie Molina (each followed by a sitting ovation of complete silence from the crowd), the G-men overcame some sour relief-pitching to take home the hard-fought victory. Much like my own day's trying adventures, the rewards tasted even sweeter after working so hard for them.
The blazing hot day had completely vanished by the time I got into Manhattan, leaving only the blazing hot night to take its place. Standing in Times Square with only my little blue backpack, I walked to a mid-town hotel to meet some friends from my DC program. The Ave' was cooking, as my Dad would say. There were all kinds out there, middling about at the base of the gargantuan buildings. Families of four from Kentucky with necks craning upward, eyes each the size of a bucket of the Colonel's Finest; strung-out homeless guys the shape of puddles leaning up against the steel mountains; teenage city girls overflowing out of their shirts and shorts, talking loudly to slow-moving, flat-brimmed-baseball-cap-wearing boys in gigantic t-shirts. It was 10 at night and there could not have been more people on the street. Even a hardened city slicker such as myself is still shocked by the pure hyperbole that is the billboard/video-screen extravaganza that takes place in Times Square. I cannot imagine what someone must think if they're from Small Town, USA.
I spent the night at my relative's place on 190th. After the most delicious breakfast I've had since I got to this Coast, I puttered around in nearby Fort Tryon Park. A little oasis of flowers on a hillside overlooking a surprisingly green New Jersey across the river on one side and the steaming mass of concrete called the Bronx on the other.
In the afternoon, I worked my way down to Central Park for a free concert of one of my favorite bands, Dinosaur Jr. The city had been putting on free shows in the park all summer and this was the last one. After standing in the direct sunlight for two hours listening to two other, much less talented bands, Dinosaur front man J. Mascis appeared at the side of the stage. There was no grand entrance with booms and whistles and with him running on stage ("Hello, New Yorrrrk!!!!"). Instead, he looked lost almost, like he didn't know where he was or what he was doing there. His long strands of gray hair hiding most of his face, he wandered up to the microphone. "Hey," he said in a deep voice that puts the word "nonchalance" to shame. "How you guys doin?" Cheers erupted from the sun-drenched fan base. There was no doubting his effort once they started rolling though. Hair flying all over the place, he shredded each note on his guitar with abandon. His voice somehow managing to pour the purest emotion into a veil of total apathy. They played a brilliant set of classic songs and new tracks with equal passion.
"Thanks," he said and he was gone. I raced back to Penn Station, and this time I made the bus just as it was pulling out and made my way back to DC.
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