Growing up with the 1962 New York Mets

Pittsburgh Pirates v New York Mets
Pittsburgh Pirates v New York Mets / Herb Scharfman/Sports Imagery/GettyImages

I grew up in Rahway, New Jersey. Life in my hometown was about as average as you could find in 1962. Rahway basically reflected the national average for race, religion, income and ethnicity for a community in small town America. It was a working-class city. Mothers were homemakers and fathers usually worked in one of the local factories. No group dominated and all groups were accepted, or at least tolerated. This American melting pot was reflected by my neighborhood and even more so by the young fellows who I called my friends.

Billy lived next-door. He was easily the best athlete in the group. This meant that whenever we played sports, he had first dibs on calling which player he would pretend to be. Anytime we played baseball, he had a permanent claim on being Mickey Mantle.

Fitzy lived across the street. He was in and out of our activities because he had juvenile diabetes. Sometimes he would be right in the thick of things playing tag or hide-and-go-seek. Then there would be times when we might not see him around for days.

Hank and his brother Jimmy lived down the street. Hank was the cool guy of the group. While our transistor radios were playing the latest hits from Ricky Nelson or Pat Boone, his somehow always seemed to be playing Elvis. Hank carried a comb in his back pocket and rumor had it that he even kissed a girl. Jimmy was the opposite of his brother. He was a couple years older but had been deemed not cool enough to hang with the older boys. I heard one of those boys say that Jimmy was” A little light in the loafers’, but that wasn’t true. I knew for a fact that he wore Keds just like all of us.

Joey lived around the corner. His family was some variety of Latino, but nobody ever cared enough to ask. His name was really Jose, but we called him Joey. He spoke with an accent that made him a little hard to understand at times, but somehow we got the job done.

David lived next to Joey. He didn’t go to St. Mary’s School like the rest of us. His family was Jewish, so he went to public school. We loved to go over to his house because his mother always had cookies for us. Even at ten years old, we had our priorities straight.

It wasn’t like we all had a dedication to peace and brotherhood. It’s just that those things didn’t matter to us. However, there was one subject that would drive a spike through our fraternity of solidarity. There was one thing that became impossible to accept and fragmented our group. It was the one thing of which these guys could not abide. This subject was baseball. They were all Yankees fans. I was a Mets fan. I was the outsider, ostracized from the community, cut off from the herd, left to fend for myself. Eventually my choice became tolerated, particularly any time another person was needed to play a board game, but it became the subject of which we would not speak.

Baseball was an important part of our young lives, but anytime I would bring up the Mets, it was met with the rousing chorus of “The Mets Stink.” The previous year, the baseball world was captivated by Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris and their chase for Babe Ruth’s single season home run record of 60 with Maris breaking it at 61 and Mantle finishing with 54. I wanted to have the same kind of friendly competition this year, only now including the Mets’ Frank Thomas. This was met with the usual reply of “The Mets Stink” from my boys. For the record, in 1962, Mantle would hit 31 home runs, Maris had 33, and Thomas had 34. But, any mention of stats would begin and end with Mets’ loses. The Yankees were great and in the World Series again. The Mets, not so much. 

Heading to the barber shop for some Mets conversation

One hot summer day, we had all assembled in Billy’s back yard for one of our marathon Monopoly games. His family had a picnic table which we would drag into the shade and within proximity of their garden hose for the occasional blasts of warm, rubber flavored water.  His mother came out of the house and said, “Billy, you need a haircut. You guys can tag along if you want, but it’s got to be today. Nanny is coming for a visit tomorrow and I don’t want her to see you looking like a ragamuffin.”  

This was great news. It meant a trip to Angie’s Barber Shop. Everybody from the neighborhood went to Angie’s. My friends didn’t want to talk about the Mets, and I was tired of hearing about the Yankees latest accomplishment, but everyone talked sports at Angie’s and there was always someone who wanted to discuss the Mets. The barber shop was always crowded. It wasn’t until many years later that I heard a rumor there might have been some gambling going on in a back room.

My friends decided to stay behind and finish their game. Hank owned both Boardwalk and Park Place and had visions of victory dancing in his head. I, however, decided to go for a ride. It was going to be time for some Mets talk. Billy, his mom, and I piled into the family Chevrolet Corvair and we were off.

Billy’s mom dropped us off at the barber shop and headed downtown for some pre-Nanny shopping. Our instructions were to wait at Angie’s until she returned. “No problem,” I thought to myself. As we walked into the shop, Angie said, “Hey, Billy Boy. Have a seat. I’ll be done in a few minutes.” He added ‘Boy’ to every kid’s name. “Tommy Boy, what’re you doing here? You were only here last week with your father. Your hair doesn’t grow that fast!” I knew this was his attempt at humor. “No sir, Mr. Angie, I just came along for the ride.” I was trying not to blow my cover. Officially, I was only here with my friend, and maybe to talk baseball with the guys, and maybe the subject of the Mets will come up.

“Hey, Tommy Boy,” a man named Vinnie called from one of the chairs where guys wait for their turn. “You’re a Mets fan, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew who I was. “I was watching the Mets game last night. They’ve got some guy named Marvelous Marv, right?” I knew he was talking about our first baseman Marv Throneberry. Marv was one of my favorite players. What Marvelous Marv lacked in talent, he attempted to make up for with charisma. I hung on Vinnie’s every Mets word.

“So, this Marv guy hits a triple,” Vinnie continued. “While he’s standing on third, the other team puts on an appeal play and Marv is called out for not touching second base. The Mets’ manager, Casey Stengel, comes running out onto the field to argue the call. The first base umpire stopped him in his tracks and said something. Casey turned and walked back to the dugout. Apparently, the umpire told him, “Before you get yourself thrown out of the game, know this: your guy missed first base, too.”

Yo La Tengo

“Did you see that Frank Thomas hit a three-run homer in last night’s game?” I said, attempting to stick to the positive facts and trying to ignore the comedy of the situation. “Hey, Tommy Boy, you’re a Frank Thomas fan, right?” a man named Lou said. He knew that Frank Thomas was my guy and he also didn’t wait for an answer. This was my introduction to rhetorical questions. “Do I have a story for you!”

“Richie Ashburn was playing center field for the Mets and Elio Chacon was the shortstop,” Lou said. “Every time a batter would pop up to short center field, Ashburn would run in for the ball shouting, ‘I Got It! I Got It!’ indicating that would make the catch. Inevitably, Ashburn would crash into shortstop Chacon, who was running for the ball himself. The ball would ultimately land untouched. Ashburn was beside himself. What the heck was wrong with Chacon? Well, Chacon was from Venezuela and didn’t speak a word of English. Ashburn sought the help of bilingual teammate Joe Christopher. He told Ashburn that the Spanish phrase for ‘I got it’ was ‘Yo La Tengo!’ Shout it and Chacon would give way.

It was only a few days later that another ball was popped up to short center field. Ashburn trotted in for the ball and yelled ‘Yo La Tengo!’ Chacon, who had been headed for the ball, pulled up to let Ashburn make the catch. Ashburn relaxed and settled under the ball, only to be crashed into by Mets left fielder Frank Thomas who was from Pittsburgh and didn’t speak a word of Spanish. The ball landed for a double.” I’d heard this story many times before, but that didn’t matter. It was a story about my Mets and as they say, any news is good news.

“Roger Craig won his tenth game the other night,” I said, trying to get the Mets conversation onto the positive side. “We won the game 4-0.” “Hey, Tommy Boy,” Lou said. “When the season’s over, which pitcher do you think will have the bigger stats: Whitey Ford’s wins or Roger Craig’s loses?” I was tempted to answer “Oh yeah? Well, Whitey Ford has cooties!” but I chose to quietly stand my ground.  For the record, Ford would’ve won that competition 24 to 22.

“Hey, Tommy Boy,” Angie said. “Did you hear about the Mets trade for a player named Harry Chiti? They got him for that infamous player to be named later. When the Mets finally had to complete the deal, they sent Harry Chiti himself back as this player to be named later in the trade for Harry Chiti!” The newspapers sarcastically reported the Mets had made a bad deal, claiming they should have gotten more for Harry Chiti than Harry Chiti.

Time flies when you're having fun

“You’ve got to love that old Casey Stengel,” Vinnie stated. “He won all those World Series with the Yankees only to be let go in 1960. He claimed that he was fired for turning seventy and he’d never make that mistake again! He’s such a character.”

I hadn’t realized that Billy’s haircut was finished, and he was sitting next to me with his hair now appropriately Nanny ready. My, how time flies when you’re having fun. Suddenly, Billy’s mom was in front of the barber shop, her Corvair’s horn honking like the ‘Beep, Beep’ sound from the Roadrunner cartoons. We were quickly ushered into the back seat of the car. “Stand by your Mets, Tommy Boy,” Angie said as we passed by his chair on our way to the car. “Don’t listen to those guys. Someday, your Mets will be a good team and you’ll get to come back and have the last laugh. I’ll see you guys soon.”

I felt satisfied, having experienced talking about the Mets. Even if the Mets news wasn’t always good, I was still happy to have had the chance to talk about my team and with such a learned group of sports fans. Although I may have missed out on the world’s championship game of Monopoly, it was OK. I had to answer to a higher calling. Board games would have to wait until tomorrow.

Seven years later, I walked back into the same barber shop and greeted by Angie from the first chair as usual. "Tommy boy, long time no see." "Hello, Mr. Angie," I replied. "Yes, I'm back. My parents wanted me to get a haircut before I go back to school." "I understand," Angie said, "People are wearing their hair longer so they're getting fewer haircuts. This place isn't like it used to be back when you were a kid. Lou retired and moved to Florida. Vinnie's gone, too. He ended up owing too much money to people who wanted to get paid and had to leave town. Even the back room stuff was broken up."

Angie gave me a trim. There wasn't much to say. We talked about the weather and even a little about the New York Jets, who had won the Super Bowl. Things were different now and I had too many things on my mind. On my way out the door, Angie stopped me in my tracks to say, "Hey, how about those Mets? I told you to hang in there. They'd be good someday and you could come back here and brag. I'm pulling for them to go all the way to the World Series. Let's go Mets, Tommy boy."

I remembered our conversation from many years ago and a big, wide smile came across my face. I had dreamed about what this day would be like for seven years. "Let's go Mets, Mr. Angie" I said. I don't think today was quite as satisfying as I had thought it would be. Too many things had changed.

But it was close.

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