The Mets have the kind of history appropriate for an organization that conducts its business in a town named Flushing. As a loyal Mets fan since 1981, I take no pleasure in pointing this out. However, when things go well for them, it often borders on the mystical. The 1986 Houston Astros and Boston Red Sox can vouch for that.

Highly-rated pitching prospect Steven Matz’s debut was the latest in a series of “holy shit!” moments for the Mets. And that’s exactly what Matz’s grandfather, Bert Moller, exclaimed at one point, as he smacked his head like those old V8 commercials. All his grandson did was become the first player in franchise history, at any position, to knock in four RBIs in his first major league game. This was especially noteworthy, as the Mets offense has been truly offensive, having been held to one run or fewer twenty-two times this season, the most in the majors. His contributions with the bat overshadowed the seven and two-thirds innings on the mound, where he limited the Reds to five hits, while striking out six. To top it off, Matz grew up a Mets fan in Stony Brook, Long Island. He was one of us. Holy shit indeed.

The experience was even more powerful considering this was a long time coming. The Mets drafted Matz in the summer of 2009, back when Twitter was just beginning to make an impact and Conan O’Brien started his short run as host of The Tonight Show. Soon after, Matz missed not one, but two years due to Tommy John surgery. He wouldn’t pitch again until the 2012 season. In the meantime, he would be overshadowed by the other seemingly endless amount of Mets pitching prospects. Even Rafael Montero got more hype than Matz.

Such a long period of inactivity and uncertainty must have weighed on him like a boulder. In situations like that, fortitude has to overcome fear. And it seems that’s exactly what happened. It wasn’t until about a year and a half ago that people remembered the Mets had a local guy in the system. He was highly regarded back in ’09, but now you were hearing the term “Ace” thrown around, and even comparisons to Clayton Kershaw of the Dodgers, perhaps the best pitcher in baseball. Matz didn’t merely just come back. He was even better than before. And now, most importantly, he was proving that on the major league level.

Earlier that day, it was announced that Chris Squire, the legendary Yes (a band well-versed in the mystical) bassist had died, just a month after revealing he was undergoing treatment for Leukemia. Being a longtime fan of the band, the jukebox in my brain played nothing but Yes non-stop. “Leave It” in particular was in constant rotation. The lyric at the end of the first verse, “the dreams we make real” took on a whole new meaning as history unfolded at Citi Field.

Steven Matz, at least for one astonishing Sunday in Flushing, made his dreams and those of his family, friends, Mets fans and fellow Long Islanders real. A chiming sitar, high-pitched voice, dulcet synths and a tumbling bass line began to occupy my mind. Yes were claiming “It Can Happen.”

Matt Leinwohl

The guy had a face made for dartboards. With the self-satisfied grin of a man whose only concern in life was that he was old and comfortable enough to no longer have any concerns, he surveyed the Sunshine Theatre for a place to sit. Spotting an empty seat next to a couple of thirty-something women, he broadcast to the entire auditorium, “Leave that one for me!”

Older men tend to demand things in situations like these, when civil inquiries would suffice. Even when no harm is intended, it comes across as rude. At any restaurant throughout America, you’re likely to see a man of a certain age tell a waiter, “Gimme a … “ Not a big deal, just one of those things you notice after awhile. At least it’s not as annoying as the Millennial men who use “upspeak,” an annoying vocal affectation where everything sounds like a question, and each sentence starts with “so.”

So the guy, who looked like the late actor Sam Wanamaker as Bernie Sanders, stepped out for a few minutes. When he came back, the ladies wisely had someone else take the seat he had claimed. Good for them, not so good for me. Quickly realizing no one was sitting next to me, he headed straight to the seat, without asking if it was taken.

I hoped this guy wouldn’t be as irksome as he appeared. He seemed to know the older women in front of us, kibitzing like a relatively normal person. So far so … uh oh, what was this? He started cupping his hands around his mouth, like he was playing harmonica. Was he … no, couldn’t be. Unfortunately, he wasn’t doing an impression of Corky Siegel. He was flossing.

I turned to my girlfriend and said, “This guy is flossing.” Glancing at the man in action, she had a look of disbelief. After registering this for a minute, she went back to her iPhone and typed away, silently praying I wasn’t going to call him out.

In “(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes,” Elvis Costello sang, “Oh, I used to be disgusted and now I try to be amused.” Easier said than done, but worth a try. I stared at Bernie, watching him get every nook and cranny, bewildered at how repellent and tactless human beings could be. Noticing me staring at him, he stopped, smiled and said, “I gotta get the chicken out.” Instead of wanting to vomit, I actually laughed. He was a Eugene Levy character come to life. How could you not laugh?

However, not wanting to get chicken pieces potentially flying at me, I asked in my best calm but firm Pete Hamill “Hey pal” voice, “You don’t wanna do that in the bathroom?” Pausing for approximately one second, he replied “No!” It was in a bratty manner, like a child. I replied, “You’re a class act, sir” and left it at that. He may have been obnoxious and gross, but you can never tell an old man to go fuck himself. It’s just one of those rules of life you have to follow. Amusement won out over disgust. Elvis would be proud.

After the movie, my girlfriend and I were on Ninth Avenue. Two women walked by, looking like mother and daughter. The older one had a limp, while the younger one was way ahead. Suddenly stopping, she turned impatiently to the older woman and yelled at the top of her lungs, “LET’S GO!! I HAVE TO GO SHITSKI!!!!”

Hopefully, she made it in time.

Matt Leinwohl