Flushing a Day Down the Toilet
A Rare Doubleheader in Queens
9/6/03
There I sat at the US Open on Wednesday, days and days of torrential rain having somehow magically stopped just in time for my arrival. The much-anticipated Kim Clijsters-Amelie Mauresmo match was just underway; a match-up of the number 1 versus the number 5 seed. It appeared that a wonderful afternoon of tennis was ahead.
And then the mists came.
The match was halted, and Clijsters and Mauresmo
waited on the sidelines under umbrellas, a truly silly
spectacle to behold, as the rain in its present state
was not even strong enough to soil tissue. As Clisters
and Mauresmo waited, a restless crowd alternated
between jeering and clapping in an effort to cajole
them into re-starting the match.
After 15 minutes or so of silence only interrupted by the occasional bursts from the crowd, Clijsters and Mauresmo got up out of their seats and reached for their racquet bags as a bureaucratic voice came on over the loudspeakers, spelling certain doom:
"Ladies and gentlemen, play is suspended."
As Clijsters and Mauresmo walked off the court to a chorus of boos, the song "Can't Get You out of My Head" came on over the speakers.
I wondered if it was a coincidence that they played
this song right at the peak of the crowd's frustration,
being that this was the song Roberto Alomar played
before every one of his at-bats in Shea Stadium
when he was with the Mets. After all, nothing sucked
much worse than Alomar did during his days at Shea,
except perhaps the notion of making the epic trip from
Manhattan to Flushing only to have a premier tennis
match delayed indefinitely by a barely recognizable mist.
In the wake of this debacle, I was really left with two options: wait it out and hope that they started playing again, or return to Manhattan and admit defeat.
As I walked out to the concession stand to consider the pros and cons of purchasing a seven-dollar cheeseburger, something caught my eye through the low-flying clouds, a familiar giant blue eyesore extending into the sky: Shea Stadium.
*
**
Minutes later, I found myself walking towards the exit of the USTA Tennis Center with a renewed sense of excitement. If there would be no tennis today, then there would be baseball. The Mets and my hometown Braves had started playing at 1:00, and I was determined to get there before the finish to redeem myself and somehow make this trip to Flushing worth it.
(As a side note, in another eerie twist to the Roberto Alomar saga, as I was leaving the tennis center, I walked directly past a woman who I am pretty sure was Mary Pierce, who once was romantically involved with Roberto. Coincidence? I'm not so sure.)
Now, if there is a definitive perk to arriving in the sixth inning of a weekday afternoon game in the rain when the home team is having a miserably bad year, I suppose it is that the ushers are paying no attention to what's going on. This indifference allowed me to turn my five-dollar ticket into a prime seat near the field. A quick glance at the scoreboard showed that the Braves were down 6-1 and it was now the top of the 7th. MVP Candidate Javy Lopez was at the plate, Andruw Jones on second. I figured I was just in time to witness the dramatic comeback win.
Unfortunately, this was not to be the case. One inning after my arrival, with rosters having recently expanded to 40 players and Braves' manager Bobby Cox not wanting to risk injury in a meaningless September game, the normally star-studded Braves' outfield appeared as though it had been overrun by a German youth orchestra: Mike Hessman in left, Ryan Langerhans in center, and Darren Bragg in right. No Chipper Jones, no Andruw Jones, no Gary Sheffield. Ouch. Even the beloved Marcus Giles was nowhere to be seen.
Furthermore, in a bizarre scene, the few fans who
were at Shea on this day were taking out all of
their frustrations on the presently feeble Braves
as the last-place Mets geared up for a sweep.
It was open season on the Braves for the suddenly
empowered Mets and the bizarre cross-section of
society that attends Wednesday afternoon day games
to see a last-place club in the rain (note: I get an
exemption from being included in this cross-section of
society because I was originally going to see the US
Open in the rain, which is entirely different).
The only consolation in this bitter saga was a titanic Javy Lopez 2-run homer with 2 outs in the top of the ninth, momentarily quieting the crowd until the belligerent guy on my right danced into the aisle and said to the Braves for the 25th time, "You're still gonna get swept!"
One out later, his prophecy came true. As the Mets' players and fans relished their domination of the Braves, I got up out of my seat and headed for the exit. I briefly considered heading back over to the Tennis Center to see if there would be any matches played that afternoon, but then thought better of it. I was kind of burned out on sports for one day, and I really needed to be getting home anyways.
My fantasy football draft was only 3 hours away.
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