The difference between Yankees fans and Mets fans
is bigger than the South Bronx or Flushing
the big bat or the home run apple, the B/D/4 or the 7 train
or the color orange or beards or long hair or sideburns
corporate boxes or lunch pails
the world diaspora or the bridge and tunnel crowd
the passing of clanking trains or sky arcs of deafening jets
designated hitters and the ghost of Freddie Sez and his cowbell
or the inevitable futility of a pitcher’s at bat
the difference comes down to how terminal or how chronic the illness of the fans is
If you are a Yankees fan, you have a fatal illness, a critical condition
the doctor has a grave face, and sounds like Bob Sheppard
as he intones the Latin name of your incurable malady
as it steps into the box to kick at the coffin dirt
see the keening mother with a handkerchief to her eyes
see the tears on the cheeks of the patriotic bleacher slobs who hold up an American flag
as caterwauling Kate Smith G-d blesses America night after night
Yankees fan root for the make-a-wish team, the every-day’s-a-gift team
the team of the mortal, and as such, doomed fan
Even the Yankee Stadium where Joe DiMaggio once glided across the grass
was dragged to its death, demolished and replaced by a food court because everything dies
Stricken Gehrig speaking the word luck with his last breath
Mickey Mantle in his ’50s crew cut
his head surrounded by an angel’s share whiskey halo glow
done in by a rotted eggplant of a liver
Thurman Munson’s plane crash and Billy Martin dead on Christmas day
If you are a Yankees fan, you had Casey Stengel when he was a genius
and Babe Ruth himself will come to your hospital bedside
in a dress suit with mustard on the lapel, smoking a cigar, saying hiya kid
all dimples and apple cheeks and a palooka nose
The Bambino will promise he will hit a home run for you
just before you die, for you must die, kid
as you fade away bravely in your bed in a cap just a little too large for your head
If you are a Yankees fan, you’ll forever be, even in inevitable death
bathed in the glowing light of so many burnished trophies
the most championship trophies ever
they will teach you to count your blessings to 27 again and again
all your life as a Yankees fan
If you root for the Mets you will waste away, and linger on suffering arthritically
hands aching before a rain out, walking barefoot due to gout
bum knees and shin splints and existential oblique strains
the heartbreak of Hall of Fame plaque psoriasis
slouching towards October with sciatica screeching like Crazy Eddie
pulling for a foster team of cast offs inherited by a fan base of bereft souls
those losers who were abandoned by the Stonehams and O’Malleys
orphaned by the Giants and Dodgers
the lost tribal fans left singing “There Used to Be a Ballpark”
If you root for the Mets, you get Midnight Massacred and lose Tom Terrific
you yell at the banner back pages of the Post and the News
in all the languages of the earth
when you meet the Mets, greet the Mets, you go all the way
but your biggest win will forever be a Buckner fuck up
and it’s Bobby Bonilla Day again every year, but not for you
you’re that transistor radio fan, that snapback giveaway day cap fan
bagging grocery bags at C Town or Pathmark
sweeping up ripped tickets at OTB or Aqueduct
talking about Benny Agbayani, talking about Mookie and Big Sexy
Talking about Chico Escuela talking bad stuff bout the Mets and berra berra bad Yogi
you’re the Mets fan addicted to talking stats stats stats from off the top of your head
which is as outsized as Mr. Met’s red stitched head
wondering aloud to everyone: why the hell did Beltrán take that last strike in Game 7?
You’re shaped like the question mark that was Casey Stengel’s bent back
after he made the mistake of turning 70, and became a former genius asking:
Can’t anybody here play this game?
The hanging yellow hammer curve of your cross-laced spine
troubles you as you bag the grocery bags all day
until you settle into your chair at 7 behind your TV tray
and you yell out to your roommate Ma Maaa Maaaaaaaa the Mets are on,
it’s Gooden on the bump tonight
He’s been taking bumps with Strawberry and Lenny Dykstra all day
and you call in to the radio show after, in the static darkness, to talk to the Mad Dog
I’m calling in tonight, Dog—first time caller, long time listener
The Mets are slowly killing me, not even a billionaire owner can save us
I can’t take it, my life is long as a baseball season with a Book of Job schedule
life is a chronic condition—and look, my head’s the size of a giant baseball
If you’re a Yankees fan, you’ll win and win, but start spreading the news
Not even angelic Jeter on his pinstriped wings
flying into the stands headfirst for your daily bread can save you
win or lose, kid, you’re born to die buried in the earth of all our Octobers
If you’re a Mets fan, you’re a candle in the window, a ripped ticket stub
a midrash on suffering, a mass card for the seasons and the winters that are long
you win 50 games, you lose 50 games, and it’s how you stand the last 62 that counts
1969 was a long time ago, 1986 was a long time ago
Life is rain delay, reminding you to limp, and you know that if ever you win again
it’ll be a miracle
***
Mike Veve is a poet and fiction writer entering his 25th year as a special education teacher in the New York City public schools. He’s been a recipient of the Blackboard Award for Excellence in Education. His writing has appeared in The Massachusetts Review, Jabberwocky, A Gathering of the Tribes, El Coro: A Chorus of Latino and Latina Poetry edited by Martín Espada, New Square, the crime anthology Down to the River edited by Tim O’Mara, and Ben Arthur’s SongWriter podcast. Mike has read his work at the 2022 Whitney Museum Biennial, the New York Poetry Festival, Columbia University, and the Brooklyn Public Library.
