A Healing Win After a Terrible Loss

My mother was only 15 years old and living in Puerto Rico when her mom passed away.  Soon after, she met a man while she was finishing up high school and married him at age 18.  That marriage lasted for nearly a decade, but when she and her husband couldn't conceive a child, the relationship fizzled and led to divorce.  The year was 1967.  And once again, my mother was alone.  Her aunt, a rabid Yankees fan who lived in New York at the time, asked her to come visit for a few weeks to get away from the heartbreak and disappointment.  My mother accepted the offer and her visit ended up lasting for decades.

You see, soon after my mother arrived in New York, she met a man who just happened to be from Cabo Rojo - the same town in Puerto Rico where she was born and raised.  He had also been involved in a relationship that had recently ended and they found comfort in sharing those stories with each other.  Eventually they shared more stories with each other, sometimes over ice cream on City Island or under the stars by the Hudson River.  Less than nine months after they met for the first time, they were married.  And five years later, I came along.

It.  Had.  Happened.

I was one awkward looking kid.  But I was the only one my mother had, and she loved me for it.

After 15 years of trying, the long-desired title of "mother" had finally been earned.  You can imagine how much Mamita (that's what I called her) loved me and spoiled me, especially after thinking that she would never have a child of her own.

When I was eight years old, I became a Mets fan.  And when Mamita saw how much joy the team gave me - even if it was 1981 and the team rarely won - she became a Mets fan as well.  Her aunt wasn't very pleased with Mamita's decision, but the 22 rings won by her team probably made it a lot easier for her to accept.

Since my father was not a big sports fan, it was Mamita who took me to my Little League games.  She even worked at the field's hot dog stand just so she could be closer to me when I was playing.  When I pitched my first and only Little League shutout, she was the one who served me and my teammates the celebratory frankfurters.  They were probably the best dogs I ever had.

Once my Little League career had ended, my mother would take me to Mets games so we could continue to bond over our mutual love of baseball.  I'd talk to her about Mookie Wilson and she'd tell me about seeing Linguine Lasorda (that's what Puerto Ricans playfully called the legend we know as Tommy) playing and managing in Puerto Rico.  It made those pre-1986 losses much more tolerable to watch in person.

Ah, 1986.  The year the Mets finally won the World Series.  Mamita and I watched every postseason game together that October.   And in the tenth inning of Game Six, she passed down an old Puerto Rican tradition to me, although it was completely by accident.

As you surely know, the Mets needed to win Game Six to force a seventh and deciding game.  My mother had been holding a ceramic elephant for luck during the entire contest.  Not only did she have to hold the elephant, but it had to be facing away from the TV and she could only grab the elephant by its tusk.  It's only weird if it doesn't work, right?

Well, once Wally Backman and Keith Hernandez made the first two outs of the tenth with the Mets trailing by two runs, she tossed the elephant aside in disgust.  Ya gotta believe that I picked up the elephant and held it backwards by its tusk once she let it go.  This long-suffering Mets fan (of five whole years) was not about to give up on the team just yet even if things looked somewhat bleak.

With the elephant correctly positioned in my hand, my mother and I watched nervously as Gary Carter, Kevin Mitchell and Ray Knight singled.  We were on the edge of our seats as Mookie Wilson tap-danced away from Bob Stanley's wayward pitch.  And once Mookie's little roller up along first found its way behind the bag, I knew that I'd be holding elephants by their tusks for the rest of my life whenever I needed a little good fortune.

The Mets didn't make a return trip to the World Series until 2000.  By then, my father had been retired for 11 years and my parents had moved back to Cabo Rojo to spend the rest of their lives in their hometown.  Even though Mamita was now 1,576 miles away (according to what the frequent flyer miles said), she always made it back to New York for important Mets games.

Shea Stadium will always be in my heart.  As will my mother.

She was with me at Shea Stadium when Mike Piazza played his final game as a Met in 2005.  She was there when we saw the Mets clinch the N.L. East division title on September 18, 2006.  (I don't think I apologized enough to her for injuring her shoulder when Cliff Floyd caught the final out of the game.  I was a little excited and started jumping up and down while pressing down on her right shoulder repeatedly.  Oops.)  She even attended the last game played at Shea Stadium in 2008 and the first regular season game played at Citi Field in 2009.

The baseball-loving-woman-in-my-life torch was passed from my mother to my wife when we were married in 2010, but my mother always asked me about the Mets whenever we spoke on the phone during baseball season.  Even when we couldn't find something else to talk about, there was always baseball.  And it would be like that until her final days.

My mother passed away yesterday, exactly 13 years to the day after I got a little too excited after seeing the team clinch their first division title since 1988.  And even in passing, she gave me one more happy Mets memory.

As my father informed me of her passing, the Mets were playing a day game in Colorado.  Eighteen years ago, when I was told the news that my grandmother had passed away, the Mets were also playing a day game.  On that day (May 20, 2001), the Mets were trailing the Dodgers by two runs as they came to bat in the eighth inning.  New York scored in the eighth, then pushed across the winning run in the ninth inning.  It was a happy moment on an otherwise awful day.  So what do you think happened after I learned of my mother's passing?  Yup, you guessed it.

Mets down by two as they bat in the eighth.

Mets score in the eighth.

They score again in the ninth, turning a potential defeat into a healing victory.

The funny thing is, once the game against the Rockies entered the eighth inning with the Mets trailing by a couple of runs, repeating the scenario from when my grandmother passed, there was no doubt in my mind that the team would come back to win.  When it came to baseball, my mother had never let me down before and she wasn't about to begin now.

The Mets might not make the playoffs this season, but as far as I'm concerned, they already had their biggest win of the year yesterday.  And in a way, Mamita got to experience that win with me.

As a child and young adult, baseball helped my mother escape from the difficulties that life presented her, whether it be losing a parent, a marriage, or even the place she called home.  Now baseball will help heal me as I face my own challenge.  And I will heal, just like my mother once did.

We believe in comebacks.  And just like the Mets did yesterday, I'll come back from this loss.

My mother wouldn't have it any other way.

Dedicated to Juanny Leyro (Dec. 27, 1938 - Sept. 18, 2019)

Mamita, you'll always be in my heart.