The Chicago Road Trip that Wasn't

My friend, the Big Bad Baseball Voodooman, Tim Bungeroth, recently moved back to his Sweet Home Chicago with his wife after an absence of over 15 years. His entire family, who have been all over the map, including Philadelphia and San Francisco over the years, are now all located in the Windy City, including his brother Billy, who basically never left, and has built up a solid career directing at Second City and, you know, just bein' a rockstar and stuff in his band, J.C. Brooks and the Uptown Sound.

As April got underway, I located these Mets Cubs games on the schedule and thought to myself, "That's a good excuse for a road trip to Chicago." My plan had been to take Sunday, May 10, off from work at Two Boots, rent a car, load it up with the Bungeroth's stuff from the storage unit we rent together, and drive on out there on a solo shot. See my friends, help 'em out, and see some Wrigley baseball with the Metsies in town.

The whole thing, however, was wildly impractical. There are a lot of things I need to get done, catch up on, and what not, here in New York City, and if I were currently in Chicago, or gearing up to come back after watching Thor tonight make his Major League Debut, I would have been throwing money into the wind, as well as caution, and right now, after an "adult" life of throwing caution into the wind, I have to decide differently.

Since the rivalry has suffered after realignment severely depleted the amount of games the Mets and Cubs play each other, I will not have another opportunity to make the road trip to Chicago, something I've never done, while the Mets are in town till 2016. I will have most likely already taken my inaugural drive to the Midwestern Metropolis by then, but no doubt it will be epic on the next go 'round nonetheless.


By the way, if you're into comics, Star Wars, Indiana Jones, and/or Nintendo, follow Tim Bungeroth on twitter, and check out his comic book, Minor League Comics.

LOCK. IT. DOWN. THOR.

LET'S. GO. METS.

A Mr. Met in Philly

On Saturday, April 14, I woke up with the sun shining into my window, extremely excited for our road trip to Philadelphia, PA. It had been a long week, and the trip, planned for a while, could not have come at a better time. It had been planned before knowledge of the Mets presence in Philly entered my cranium, and unfortunately we didn’t have the ability to visit Citizens Bank Park to take in a road game. That did not mean there would be no representing. Just as I had done the last time I was in Philly, I decked myself out in Mets paraphernalia, this time in my Blue RA Dickey Throwback and my blue Cooperstown Collection Mets cap (with a blue button top and no MLB logo in the back.) We hopped in the car, picked up the Baseball Voodoo Gypsy and his wife, and jetted to the Brooklyn Queens Expressway to get our journey underway. The Voodoo Gypsy made sure to point out (as he always does) that when I wear Mets gear, I never fail to wear at least two items (he keeps asking me when I’m going to throw on the baseball pants.)

We got to Philly around 2, dropped our stuff off at our friend Ted’s place, and headed out to brunch. I have walked a little bit through Center City, near Independence Hall and the Bell, I hadn’t felt like I truly explored the Iladelph town that much, and really not at all during the day. That afternoon, however, we all took a 15-minute walk to a place called Silk City, a solid spot at Spring Garden and N. 5^th Street in Northern Liberties for good eats (Before I forget, Ted made sure to point out to me that the area I referred to in my Mitchell and Ness jacket post as North Philly is actually referred to as Northern Liberties. It is North of Center City, but what they refer to as North Philly is actually even northier than Northern Liberties.)

In the moment, I didn’t feel like bringing my bulky camera with us, but I was able to snap some shots of our walk with my phone, including that graffiti lot you see on the left, and the Greek Orthodox Church you see on the right (click on both to enlarge.)

Silk City is a very sleekly-designed diner, bar and lounge with a very nice outside area. Luckily, there were some seats available. We walked out, some heads turning as they saw my Metsieness. I guess it’s in my nature as an actor to be loud and crave attention. Although not appreciating that stereotype I have tried to calm it down, and done so, I believe, with some success, as I have entered my late-20’s and adulthood. My love of the Mets, and being in a town where my Mets are taking on the city’s baseball team that day, truly brings the loudness to the foreground. 

The outside, which has a very Tim Burton-esque design, was filled with sports paraphernalia, including a Yankees hat, a Victorino Phillie shirt and an Indians cap. Megan, the Voodoo Gypsy’s wife, is a great reporter for Our Town and West Side Spirit (her personal website is here, and you can follow her on twitter here) and felt inclined to report to people in the tweet world via Instagram that she was at lunch with Mr. Met (‘cause she thinks I and my Metsieness are absolutely ridiculous.)

Which brings me to this point: everyone reading this is either a Mr. Met or knows a Mr. Met. You might be a casual Mets fan, not inclined to constantly deck yourself out in the Orange and Blue, but you probably know someone like me who does constantly deck themselves out in the Orange and Blue. The world needs us Mr. Mets, an always-optimistic giant baseball head that won’t let the outside world bring us down, no matter how bleak things look.

 

Anyway, if you’re ever down in Philly, do yourself a favor and go to Silk City. I had the Creamed Chopped Beef with two eggs poured on top of white toast, and it was delicious. I took a picture of it, but that was after I had begun to devour it and thought to myself I should have taken a picture of it before I dove into it. So, I’ll spare all of you and not put the photo up of a half-eaten meal.

 

By the end, I was getting a little antsy ‘cause the game was gonna start soon, and I knew we still had the whole walk back to the apartment. “Whoa there, horsie!” Everybody collectively said to me, and they were absolutely right. It was a lovely day, we were outside and, of course, enjoying each other’s company. I didn’t need to see every pitch as it goes down. So, I took it easy and stopped being a neurotic baseball fan, if only for a moment.

 

While we were waiting outside the joint for one of us to finish up in the bathroom, a waiter leaned out of a side door and booed me, albeit a friendly boo, and immediately went back inside. That wasn’t the only boo I got that weekend, and I have to say, none of them were frowning while they did so. They all had smiles on their faces, and besides the waiter who was quick to lean out and go back in, they all were ready for a baseball conversation thereafter. Philly fans get a bad rap, or at least some of the classless ones bring the friendlier ones down. That really can be said about any sports fan-base (and the human race, for that matter.)

 

We began to walk back and I pulled my phone out to cue the gameday up. The first two batters went down quickly to Vance Worley, and up walked David Wright. Ted and I were extremely surprised to hear earlier that Wright was going to be in the line-up since we both had heard he was, in all likelihood, headed to the disabled list. As his name came up on the screen, I said to myself, “Watch him hit a home run on the first pitch he sees back from being injured.” And sure enough, the next update was “David Wright Homers to center field on a fastball.” I updated Ted, and couldn’t believe I “predicted” what was going to happen.

 

It was extremely enjoyable to watch the Mets play so well and take the series that Saturday while I myself was in Philadelphia. Ted was extremely pissed at the ineptness of the Phillie offense, as every Phillie fan is right now, but I had a huge smile on my face watching Jon Niese do his thing, sitting down batter after batter on his way to a solid W. Tim was ready to root against the Mets and put another hex on them, but discovered he wasn’t just rooting against the Orange and Blue but rooting as well for the Red and White (that day they were cream-colored, though. Great day-game throwbacks.) He kept reminiscing throughout of the players he remembers from his Philly years, and you could tell he still has a special place for the team in his heart.  I told him I endorse the Baseball Gypsy embracing the Phillies as his team, and of course Ted wholeheartedly agrees.

 

On Sunday morning, while everyone got a little extra sleep, my girlfriend and I decided to take a walk through the neighborhood again, maybe grab a brunch as well. This time, however, I didn’t want to be so loud and I took off the Blue jersey, the Mets hat the only Orange and Blue paraphernalia being worn. That didn’t stop the comments, which goes to show you how much of a conversation piece any type of Met paraphernalia can be. “The Mets! Nah!” “Yeah, man, you know it!” (Although my girlfriend was wearing my non-Mets sweatshirt with a Mets patch I put on the left sleeve, so that might have been what roused up everything.) We talked baseball for a couple blocks after that before realizing we had missed out turn.

Later, after having brunch at this nice place called N. 3^rd at (you guessed it) N. 3^rd Street and Brown Street, a man passed us and in a very quiet tone said, “Let’s Go Mets.” We turned around, and not as quietly said, “Really?!” He opened up his button-down shirt Superman style to reveal a black shirt with “Mets” across his chest.

 

LET’S. GO. METS.

 

We began watching the Sunday game at Ted’s but had to leave in the middle of it. Unfortunately, the Mets bullpen couldn’t hold a surprising Mike Pelfrey 2-1 lead and I heard them implode in the car on the radio. Oh, well. You can’t win ‘em all.

 

That weekend reaffirmed what I said in the Beer Garden post: Met fans, don’t be afraid to go into another city showing off how much of a Mr. Met you are. I fully expected much more animosity than I have received in Philly so far this season, and I cannot fathom it being any worse in any other city, given New York and Philly’s general rivalry.

We’ll see what it’s like when I hit the streets of Denver decked out in my Mr. Met best.

Thanks for reading! Converted Mets Fan is now on Twitter. Follow me here. And for Rising Apple twitter updates, click here.

Big Bad Baseball Voodoo

Earlier this week, I was delighted to hear the Mets had turned back time and offered $2.50 ticket deals, not just on Wednesday afternoon for their 50th birthday, but Tuesday night as well. My awesome girlfriend took the N train from Astoria to the 7 and hopped off the Willets Point stop during Monday's thrilling win over the Nationals. She walked up to the ticket booth and before we knew it, we had just spent $10 on 4 baseball tickets in 2012.

I called my friend Adam Spiegel up, a fellow Tranquillity Camper and writer of music and musicals galore (check out his "Evil Barber Shop Quartet" Music Video here.) From Plainsboro, NJ (a suburb of Princeton) Adam has been a die-hard Mets fan for years, and naturally he is one of my first go-to's when I have extra tickets. Happy to hear he would be joining us, I then called another friend up, whose baseball fandom is hard to put a finger on.

That's a lightsaber, by the way

A theatrical gentlemen, Tim Bungeroth is somewhat of a baseball gypsy, with the only sports team he's truly married to being the Chicago Bears. He experienced the 90's Bulls team while on the North Side of the town, along with Kerry Wood and Sammy Sosa of the late '90's Cubs. Then, as he entered his teen years, his family moved to the woods outside Philadelphia and he became somewhat lost when it came to sports (outside of Da Bears.) He wasn't too thrilled with Philly, hated his high school and never latched onto any sports team within city limits, let alone a baseball team. He loves the game, however, and after meeting me in college he explored the sport like never before. He bought a Cubs hat when they were in the playoffs in 2003, screaming at the TV as the 8th inning of game 6 unraveled against the Marlins. He just couldn't seem to latch onto a team, never having truly embraced his new identity as a Philadelphian. In March of 2005, during college, I swear he bought around 5 different baseball caps, including the Red Sox, the White Sox and the Mets. All of a sudden, after a solo road trip in the White Sox cap back to Chicago, he had an epiphany, left his old world behind and finally embraced his Philadelphia home, buying a Phillies hat and enjoying himself some David Bell, Todd Pratt and Jason Michaels.

But die-hard he was not. Three years later, he moved to New York and subsequently to Brooklyn. He was thrilled when the Phillies won in 2008 but could care less when they lost in 2009. So, off he roamed in the valley of baseball, searching for the Major League team that would thrill his heart and soul.

He then came across a little place called Coney Island. Brooklyn, and Park Slope in particular, was the first place in his adult life where he felt at home, and if the Dodgers were still in the borough he would be a full-out Bum fan. He was thrilled, however, to find minor league baseball and the Cyclones in the place that he had taken to his bosom. He loved the theatrics and gimmickry of the minor leagues, and with the Mets in Queens and his heart in Brooklyn, The Brooklyn Cyclones were to be his baseball team.  When I tried to sell him on the fact that the Cyclones were the baby Mets and he should see that as a sign, he didn't take the bait. Tim loves the idea of the lower levels, and has turned that love into a comic book called Minor League Comics, about a farm system of super-villians fronting as an Outlaw Baseball League, of which I am a "baseball consultant."

Color and full issue coming Summer 2012

He has since moved to Sunnyside, Queens, off the 7 train, and looking for baseball inspiration, he decided he would be going to some Mets games this year (but not necessarily become a Mets fan. I tried, showing him some Mets Yearbooks from the 60's, 70's and 80's, which he thoroughly enjoyed even if I overdid the screenings, but it's not like he ran off and started a Converted Mets Fan Blog, if you know what I mean.) I found the $2.50 seat game a perfect opportunity to get Tim out to the Citi for the first time this year. Excited throughout the day to be venturing out for my 4th game in 5 played, my enthusiasm was tempered when I heard from Eddie Coleman on WFAN that David Wright had slightly fractured his right pinky. With Ike Davis getting the night off to collect himself after beginning the year with an O-fer, I rolled my eyes at the concept that Tim's first game of the year would have a less than regular line-up.

The four of us met at the Apple (with Tim wearing this Cyclones hat, without the New Era logo) and ventured inside for the second night game of the year, entering, as many do, through the Rotunda. We had some time to kill so we strolled around, taking in the baseball scenery that is the modern-day baseball park. I kept looking back at Tim, checking to see if this was it; if, regardless of his Chicago and Philadelphia roots, I had finally found a Major League home for the gypsy to settle. As he looked around, however, he uttered the words, "I think I'll root for the Nationals." Ugh.

We made our way to the top level with many empty seats for our choosing. Sitting in the lower upper deck a little to the right of home plate, Adam and I left Tim and my girlfriend to go get some beverages and food. As I was collecting my beer, I heard the crack of the bat and looked up to the big screen in the food area on top of the Rotunda to see Ian Desmond's home run fly over Jason Bay's head. I shook my own head, grabbed my beer and went back to the seats.

"You're bad baseball voodoo, Tim."

"That was hysterical."

"Bad baseball voodoo."

"Hey, I like that. That could be a great character."

On a cold, windy night, pieces of peanut shells from the walkway above flew onto us as if it were part of the weather.

"Tonight will be cold and windy with a chance of peanut shells."

In the bottom of the inning, the Mets got two on with none out, the run producers coming to the plate. Maybe Wright's absence wouldn't be felt so hard after all.

"How many outs are there?" Tim asked.

"None."

"Perfect. The Mets still have plenty of time to blow this one," he said, laughing.

Bad. Baseball. Voodoo.

With our hero from the night before up, we were all sure The Mets would at least tie this game. Daniel Murphy, however, uncharacteristically struck out. Up came the listless Jason Bay.

Could Jason come through, finally breaking out of his 2-year slump?

To the left of us, a Mets fan proclaimed, with no malice involved:

"Let's go, Bay. You suck, Bay."

We all found this "cheer" absolutely hysterical, quoting the fan the rest of the night.

Bay did what he has been doing best, getting under one and popping up to third. Duda then continued his cold start, striking out to leave two runners on.

Tim did a little voodoo dance and muttered some voodoo-verse underneath his breath, with a smile on his face the whole time (he is prone, in general, to mutter a little verse under his breath.) I'm a good sport, though, and I, having coined the "baseball voodoo" phrase, found this quite amusing.

In-between innings, with some pop music playing, Tim made an observation:

"The Mets should embrace their 60's roots."

"They are. They got rid of the shadow across their chest."

"I mean, they should be-"

"What? You mean play only 60's music?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"They can't only play that music. I love that music as much as you, but they're trying to bring in young fans as well. They can't do that only playing music from 1960-1970. Plus, the players are the ones who pick their walk-up music."

"True.....I'd root for the Mets if they always played that song."

"What? 'Meet the Mets?'"

"Yeah."

"Maybe that can be arranged."

Dillon Gee settled down and pitched fairly well, while Ross Detwiler kept setting the Mets down in order.

Feeling cold, Tim recommended we take a trip to Dunkin' Donuts to grab some coffee. We took that suggestion and headed downstairs for a warm beverage. After collecting our tasty, flavorful cups a' joe, we headed to the left field stands where we hoped having our backs towards the wind we would be warmer. We tried to sit on the lower upper deck in an almost completely empty section, but a Met employee in a green jacket stopped us as we walked down through the emptiness:

"-Op, you guys got tickets?"

"Are you serious?"

"Of course I'm serious."

We went back to the corridor, and as we walked away, I ranted to the gentleman, "The place is completely empty. You'd think with how miserable the Mets have been the last few years they'd take care of us on an empty night!"

We found another empty section and with the man in the green jacket staring at us from across the way, we tipped our cups towards him. I understand they have a job to do and they have pressure from their supervisor to follow the rules, but on an empty night like that, kicking us out of a completely empty section is completely irrational, by their supervisors as well.

Ironically after that rant, the section we found was still rather chilly with the wind blowing in from the water, so we decided to venture to the seats we paid for in the first place. As we settled in to the rather warm section on the 3rd base side of the outfield, Dillon Gee lost his form, Daniel Murphy and Lucas Duda couldn't make plays, and Bobby Parnell reverted back to his old self, throwing the ball rather than pitching it. By the time the sixth inning was over, the Nationals had taken a 5-0 lead.

Tim was doing his voodoo dance.

In the bottom of the inning, for fandom purposes and to keep warm, I decided to be as loud as I could for the rest of the game, getting our entire section, though rather miniscule, to join in my "Let's Go Mets!" chant and, as far as I'm concerned, willing the Mets to 2 runs. If you were watching the game in the 7th, 8th and 9th inning, you could hear one man using his mega-phone lungs cheering, "Let's! Go! Mets!" That man was me. My girlfriend has gotten used to my loudness (to an extent), but Adam and Tim stood in the middle of us acting as a buffer between her ears and my volume. In the eighth inning, Adam and I began chanting, "Da-Da-Da-Da-Da-Da Daaaa.... DUDA!!!! DUDA!!!!!!" when he came to the plate, which you could also hear behind Gary and Ron. Fun times during a miserable Mets showing.

"We're staying the whole time, aren't we?" Tim asked.

"Of course we are."

I was yelling "LETS GO METS!!!" up until the last out, sure I could will the Mets to tie the game. The night was dragging on way past 10:00, and by now, Tim is chanting, "Let's. Get. Out."

Much to the chagrin of the Fool, Mike Baxter fouled a bunch of pitches off with Josh Thole on first, but alas, he eventually missed the final strike, throwing a "1" up into the loss column.

I decided to invite Tim to the Mets/Giants game next Friday, and, enjoying the match-up, he is taking me up on the invitation. His dad has always rooted for the team in whatever city he is currently living in, and the Giants are that team after he moved to San Francisco last year. The match-up, for Tim, is a chance to back his dad's squad and continue his gypsy identity as well. You might think I'm crazy for encouraging this voodoo, but Tim came with me to Mets/Phillies last year where we destroyed them 11-2. So, maybe there isn't anything to Tim being "Dr. Facilier."

Otherwise... 

That's so big, bad, baseball voodoo right there.

Thanks for reading! Converted Mets Fan is now on Twitter. Follow me @convertedmetfan. And for Rising Apple twitter updates, click here.