Goodbye Pizza Pizza.

A week after September 11th, 2001, I was still in shock, of course. All of us were; it was hard to talk in general, and hard to talk about what happened. But there was a feeling that the world had to go on—people had to work, eat, breathe, try to watch something on television that had nothing to do with burning buildings and death outside your very own window.

I was gainfully unemployed, had recently moved back home, and wasn’t moving from my house. My phone was busy with reports about ash coming down over Eben’s house in Brooklyn, how Silver had to show ID to get into his neighborhood. There was a party still scheduled for the 22nd or so of the month, and I wanted to go support my friend Gurney and to just see people. I didn’t think I could do it; the pop it takes to get on a bus to a train just wasn’t there. But I wanted to see my friends, sit in silence, something, anything, that felt more normal.

Friends would ask why Major League Baseball would even play these games, as if they would leave money on the table. And I thought it would be cathartic and helpful to remind ourselves that there is a world beyond CNN and the ludicrous images of steel smoking and crumpling and rubble.

The first Met games were against the Pirates in Pitt, with moments for the dead in New York and in the field outside of Pittsburgh; the games were disturbingly low energy. One could almost a player to start crying, they all were so distracted. I couldn’t tell you what happened in the games, except it was gray and the waters outside of PNC Park looked dead like the stands and the atmosphere.
The Mets returned for a series against the Atlanta Braves. Baseball was becoming painful to watch, all waving flags and mediocre play, a reminder that the little joys might always be hard to come by. The Mets did their usual, falling behind by a run in a close game against the Braves, which is the natural order of the past 15 or so years. There was nothing to cheer for in Shea Stadium; like the rest of New York, there was a mausoleum feeling everywhere, taking momentary breaks for naked grief and anger.

In the 8th inning, the Mets got a man on base. I forget who. It wasn’t a pretty season; but Mike Piazza always did his best to keep the Mets in the game. The Braves’ closer would be up in the next inning; and that would soon be the first game. This was the best chance the Mets had, and with the hitters they had behind Piazza, well… this was their best chance.

I won’t play like I remember the pitcher. According to this blog, it was Steve Karsay who threw the pitch. The night was clear and the stars were out; Mike Piazza was the kind of hitter who could hit home runs on command. The pitch came down the pipe and was removed from the field of play with a ferocity even the television captured.

My God, that ball flew. Upwards. Upwards. There was no doubt. The cameras had it tracked, a white streak in a midnight blue sky, a gorgeous arc headed to the left field parking lot. My God.

The crowd erupted. They couldn’t stop. I was watching with my mother, and maybe a brother; I was speechless. Even now, tears come to my eyes, watching fans hugging each other for more than a moon shot home run. It was a sick, mammoth blast, the one pitchers think of when deciding whether to pitch another year or just go home. It was a come from behind victory against the hated Braves. It was the sound that wakes even the deepest sleeper from somnolence. It was a reminder that we can still cheer. We can still live our lives. We can still find joy. We can still harbor hope.


Post-script: I also remember Mike Piazza for:

• being a stand-up guy,
• never falling back on a lot of bull to explain his play;
• for hitting some balls that were almost a foot out of the strike zone out of the park, and the stupefied look of the pitcher watching the ball go;
• being a better catcher than people realize—he calls games well, blocks the plate effectively, even if he can’t throw out your grandmother.
• For carrying the Met squad for years.

I hope he latches on with the Twins and carries them to the post-season. Thank you Mike, come back and party anytime. New York will buy you lots of drinks.