I (Evander) went wild first visiting the then-new home of the New York Mets (short for Metropolitans), something like 55 years ago.
It was McLuhan-cool.
It had escalators.
It had parking.
It had exterior-aluminum ’60s-colored Go-Go panels suspended by cables that you could shake from the ramps: an incentive to avoid the Everest-peak escalators, especially on the post-game way down and out.
The game—or anything happening on field-level—was a rumor from the nosebleed seats of the upper deck.
A few years into its run, Tom Seaver would qualify as everybody’s nutty older cousin.
It hosted the Beatles two times and was rumored to star a-rockin’ Bob Dylan (to prove that the times they were a-changin’) a year later.
It was set up for the New York Jets, a team that switched its name from “Titans” so that only a consonant need be changed above the concession stands. Joe Namath passed for a stunning championship comeback in the wind, cold, and freeze of December 1968.
A couple spins round the sun and peekaboo-safety panels were retrofitted to permit fans on lower levels a view into the bullpens.
There was almost no day-game shade on ticket lines or in the parking lot; these to-be-pitied urban trees reminded me of the sparsely treed and, frankly, cheesy Freedomland of the northeast Bronx.
It was supposed to be domed, as they did in Houston, with a concrete or steel velarium inspired by ancient Rome.
The planes taking off from nearby LaGuardia Airport were obnoxiously loud.
It was next door to the 1964 New York World’s Fair.
There were no fuddy-duddy bleachers at the beginning. Much later, there were friendly outfield stands, a picnic area, and those Piazza-tent shots.
Not one of the several concrete ashtrays of the era, Shea Stadium, by any objective measure, may yet have been the worst park in which to see a major-league game. It was big, but it was not beautiful…except in the eye of this once-young beholder, even in his ear….