how sports matter, they really matter

mike piazza will be playing his last game as a new york met on sunday.

or, simply, the best new york met ever will be playing his final game in that uniform.

for the past seven years, i have had the distinct pleasure of watching the best hitting catcher in the history of baseball play for my team. he'll wind up as best slugging met ever, second on the mets all-time RBI list, second in home runs, third in total bases, ninth in games played and, most importantly, as the guy who led us to within three games of a world championship in 2000.

and that's not counting the chills that iced my spine every time when there were runners on base and the PA announcer would say, with pride, "stepping up to the plate, number thirty-one, catcher, mike piazza!" and know that the other team is shitting a brick.

yeah, i'm gonna miss those feelings.

but, as much as i'll miss them, i'll always have this: my most memorable sports moment ever.

i don't care to give a description of the emotions we all went through after 9/11. it was tough on all of us, obviously, and for us new yorkers, it was indeed the end of the world and a phoenix of a new one.

baseball took a hiatus for about a week, and when it came back, it was sorely needed.

the mets played the hated atlanta braves in the first game back, the first break we had since 9/11, the first chance we had to do something else but mourn. the mets wore NYPD and FDNY hats in honor and with the utmost respect. we all weeped during the national anthem and "god bless america" during the 7th inning - even as i watched this game in my living room, in san francisco, 3000 miles away.

but i was there. nobody can tell me otherwise..

the mets were down one run with two outs in the bottom of the eighth. john smoltz was dominant. he's always dominant, but on this night, he was special. but someone was on base for the mets - i don't remember who it was, but it didn't matter once we heard it, we all heard it:

"stepping up to the plate, number thirty-one, catcher, mike piazza!"

chills. ice. fear.

but smoltz was amazing. he wasn't backing down from anything.

smoltz got ahead in the count. piazza had two strikes on him. smoltz threw a fastball that i swore - and probably everyone else - hit the black on the inside corner. smoltz started walking off the mound, a definite third strike, end of inning, but the umpire disagreed.

a new life.

again, apropro.

and then, it happened.

i'll never forget that swing, and how the ball jumped off the bat as if injected with kerosene, and i never saw it clear the fence because i was jumping up and down, up and down, up and down, and i called my dad, 3000 miles away but so close to ground zero, and piazza did it, dad, he did it, and i was crying, goddamn i was crying and laughing because it was right, it was just so right, it was everything we needed.

new york needed it and piazza delivered.

thank you, mike, for everything, truly everything.

good luck.