I used to wear a hat all the time.  Never went anywhere without one.  The NY Mets cap was my favorite, always age appropriate.  It’s the real deal, royal blue cloth with a blue button on top, a stitched orange NY emblem sewn in.  Making appearances on the stickball field, aka church parking lot, and softball games, real softball fields – competing with my college roommate’s Yankees hat for top billing on the bunk bed post.

I wore it to every Mets game.  Tom Seaver’s almost perfect game in 1969 against the Cubs, everyone standing, deafeningly quiet when Jimmy Qualls hit a single with one out in the ninth.  Then a standing ovation for Tom Terrific, the hero of our 1^st World Series year.  Going to see Dwight Gooden in 1985 with my parents and my wife Lorie, her first baseball game.  The K Corner was a new thing honoring Doctor K, the crowd standing and cheering every time the opposing team’s batter had two strikes.  The loss to the Cardinals in 1987 when Roger McDowell gave up that crushing ninth inning two out, two run homer to Terry Pendleton, the turning point of the pennant race.  Standing with the rest of the crowd, watching as the ball sailed over the fence, going quiet, sitting down.  A palpable feeling of the pennant slipping away to the Cards, one year after our only other World Series title.

My uncle’s law firm had box seats.  During the lean years of the 70’s, very few people wanted to use them, so my friends and I would get some freebies.  Walking to the downtown Elizabeth train station, taking the NJ Transit to Penn Station, walking to the Times Square subway station, catching the 7 train, lucky if we got the express because the local took forever.   One afternoon game, Burt Hooton is pitching for the Cubs.  It’s the fifth inning.  A foul ball lands nearby, takes a high bounce, rolls across Bob’s feet, and Phil snatches it.  Bob was busy eating ice cream.

My Dad’s Lions Club took bus trips to Shea, leaving from Elizabeth Avenue, the bus always parked across the street from his store, Krasner’s Gifts.  Our family made the sandwiches and put the numbers together for the pool, with most runs in a half inning winning.  Beer cans in garbage cans filled with ice, soda cans for me until I turned 18.  Neighborhood friends, high school friends and then college friends.  My dad’s cheers – the loudest voice in the stadium.

Not so fast forward to 2023. I’m emptying out boxes, having moved after 28 years from our home in Harrisburg to Troy, from the capital city to the Endless Mountains, Lorie’s childhood home.  Lo and behold, the Mets cap is still here.  The brim is bent, the inside lining somewhat shredded, a little flimsy. I haven’t worn a hat in years.

The cap is coming with me to the city for my 67^th birthday weekend.  I wear it proudly throughout the city, in restaurants, at a jazz club, a bookstore, the Knicks game, sometimes holding it when the breeze is too strong.  Feeling a kindred spirit with others whose caps are of similar vintage.

I celebrate my birthday at Citi Field with my son Drew.  I still think of it as Shea.  We take the Path train from Jersey City, walk around the city, and catch the local 7 train from Central Park.  Drew is more familiar with the city, leading the way.  I’ve been away a long time.  A tip of the hat as we walk by the statue of Tom Seaver outside the stadium.  It’s Dwight Gooden bobblehead day, his number being retired at tomorrow’s game.

We have field level seats just beyond first base, a sparse crowd on a cool, windy, drizzly day.  Lucky to be under cover from the level above.  A guy comes down in the second inning and sits in the row in front of us.  Says he’s going to be loud.  Nothing until Pete Alonso comes to bat.  Then the guy rips off his sweatshirt sporting his Alonso Gator jersey, starts with the arm chomp cheer, takes his stance, swings at the pitch.  Polar Bear hits a homer!  And hits another on his next at bat!  This time he runs down toward the dugout, waving at Alonso, who’s looking for security.