As I exited the 7 train and headed down the new steps (does anyone else miss the ramp?), the wind barely even registered on my radar. It seemed the perfect day for baseball. In what has become a mini Mother’s Day tradition in my family (at least in the years the Mets are home), I met my mother, father, and brother at the stadium to take in the game. Believe it or not, this was Mom’s idea. Mom probably watches more pitches per year than I do, and I try to watch every game. She helped toilet paper the Stony Brook campus in October of 1969 (sorry to be hinting at your age here, Mom), she watched the last out with me in 1986, and she even suffered with me through all the horrible teams of the mid-nineties and early 2000s. Mom’s a real fan.

We rounded Shea, passing gates E and D, and Mom wondered if we shouldn’t just enter at the next gate, lest she risk missing out on the pink Mother’s Day Mets hat. I assured her I’d scour the stadium and secure a hat for her if gate A (the gate printed on our tickets) was out. No problem, there were plenty left, and after Mom collected her hat, we headed up the escalator to the Mezz box. Whoops! The escalator stopped at the Loge level and we had to walk up the rest of the way. “They just don’t care about Shea anymore,” my brother said.

I found my seat and, still convinced of the warmth of the day, removed my jacket. I checked the lineups and said to my brother, “I don’t think Junior Griffey is playing, he’s not number three, is he?” A woman in the row in front of me interrupted: “He’s three. He’s playing.” I love Mets fans.

Twenty minutes later I put my jacket back on. The wind swirled around the stadium something fierce and it turned out to be lousy baseball weather after all. An older woman next to me said, “I came prepared.” When I say “older,” I’m wildly underselling it. This nice lady had to be eighty, at least, and she had on a fairly light jacket herself. If she could brave the elements, I would’ve had to be the biggest wuss on the planet to complain about them myself. So I didn’t complain.

“What’s the score?” the elderly woman asked. I told her the Mets were winning 3-0.

“Who’s pitching?” she asked. I told her Oliver Perez.

“We always see Oliver Perez,” she said.

Later in the game, she told me she had “been a Met since 1962.” (Note: she definitely said “Met” and not “Met fan,” which I found endearing.) By the end of the game, she was saying, “Jose always pitches when we come.” Hey, she held it together for quite a while, and she has been a Met since 1962, so I think we’ll all cut her a little slack.

Mom enjoyed the win, and the lack of the boos that went with it. Seriously, I don’t think I heard a single boo of a Mets player. Even Scott Schoeneweis got applauded. See Scott? All you have to do is pitch well!

As for the rest of the baseball, Ollie threw a nice game, but still walked too many guys (four, which was one more than the line I’d set when my brother asked me, “what’s the over/under for walks by Oliver Perez?”). Carlos Beltran looked completely locked in even on the pitches he lined foul. I don’t think he’ll keep up his pace of 4 RBIs per day, but I think he’s going to have an excellent season. I was happy to see Joe Smith come on and get a strikeout. I still hold out the faint hope that the Mets won’t send him to New Orleans, and will instead part with the largely useless Jorge Sosa (11 strikeouts, 9 walks, and a 5.66 ERA—who cares if he’s out of options?). Mets.com, however, is trying to quash all optimism by printing sentences like: “The move, now not likely until Wednesday, appears to be what it was initially — Wise activated, Joe Smith optioned.” Come on Front Office, that’s the move of a poorly run franchise.

After Smith closed out the eighth, our offense staged a mini-rally before faltering, and the Reds were due up for one last time. Then we transported to another baseball universe. I could’ve sworn I saw David Ross get up, make an out, and then, after the umpires had a long discussion with the managers, come to the plate again. For those who haven’t heard, Ross wasn’t supposed to lead off the inning, Corey Patterson was. But they got up in the wrong order. My eyes hadn’t deceived me; it turned out that after Ross got up, they realized that he had batted out of order and declared him out (even though he had already made an out), but then he was up again, in his correct spot in the batting order. After Ross’s second at-bat—a hit, no less—an even longer discussion ensued among the umpires. I started yelling out things like, “You’re the best, Dusty!” and “Thanks a lot Dusty, none of us wanted to go home anyway.” In looking over the rules, it seems the umpires got this one right—if Ross had got the first time, he still would’ve been declared out and then come up again. I can’t believe there is a scenario where the same guy is allowed to get in the batter’s box two straight times. Baseball, you learn new things about it every day. Maybe that’s why Mom and I come back year after year.

Happy Mother’s Day to all Hot Foot Moms. And of course, Let’s Go Mets.