Karma Is A Bitch, Eh Mets Fans?

The word aren't coming easy right now. I'm still recovering from last night's Phillies Mets game, another epic Phillies comeback that conjured up the magic from the 2007 pennant run. I managed to smuggle in my camera in the hopes of documenting Mets nerds in their natural habitat, the unforgivingly awful Shea Stadium. A friend of mine, who has Mutts season tickets, offered me his seats in the first row of the upper dish, first base side. The pitching matchup was Los Mets ace Johan Santana vs. the Phillies newly acquired hotdog eating champ, Fat Joe Blantana. With the teams tied for first in the National League East, entering the 100th game of the 2008 baseball season, it was a game I could not pass up.

The evening started out in typical Mutts fashion, with a slow 7 train ride through dreary Queens. For Benny Bubbles, it was his first Shit Stadium experience, and for me, perhaps my last.

As expected, we encountered no heckling whatsoever on the train ride. We got to the shit hole a little after 7:00, donning our Philly hats. Mets nerds of all shapes and sizes (mostly fat, with crustaches and hair-gel) were crawling everywhere. But still, no heckling. In Philly, Mutts fans are rightfully tormented from the moment they step out of their car. But I guess when your team blows a 7 game division lead with 17 games to play, and then fires their manager 40 some games into the next season, you really can't say much.



After all this went down, Benny Bubbles and I were forcibly removed from the game in the 8th inning. The score was 5-2 Mutts, and I figured it was probably good to get out of there before the guidos untucked their tails from their vaginas. We were threatened with arrest and given no reason as to why we were getting kicked out. It's quite ironic that we were escorted out by "Security", when it was the collective insecurity of the most feeble fan base in America that undoubtedly led to our departure. We were tattled on by somebody, for something, kindergarten style.

But, justice was served. On the 7 train ride back into Manhattan, word was spreading of a Phillies comeback. One guy had the game on his V-csat phone. The Phillies scored. And scored again. And soon, the score was 8-6, and the game was over. The good guys won, and that fact alone blunted the agony of missing the comeback in person.

My only regret is not doing something worth getting kicked out for. Like defecating over the railing onto the moussed up hair of the legions of guidos below. Next time, that's exactly what I'll do.

Farewell, Shit Stadium.