That’d be positively NUTS, right?!
They’ve been in first place since MAY!!!!
These are the things we Mets fans keep telling ourselves to reassure ourselves when the doubts start creeping in as we see the time starting to run out here.
Much as I wanted to be a part of the gang and welcome the Mets back to Shea and help give them a much-needed SHOVE to the Finish Line, duty called: I was in my seat in the oboe section in the pit at the Metropolitan Opera House for Opening Night.
The evening’s performance was of the Donizetti opera Lucia di Lammermoor–based upon a novel by Sir Walter Scott–which tells the 17th century tale of a young lassie, caught between the warring factions of the Ravenswood and Ashton clans. The title character is essentially forced unwillingly by her brothers and others into a marriage that would better her family’s position and is tricked into doing so by being shown a forged note seemingly indicating that her lover had forgotten her. Her lover shows up at the wedding and is incredulous and enraged at the turn of events, Lucia is heartbroken at the deception and her loveless betrothal, and upon retiring to the bridal chamber that evening, murders her husband.
What follows is one of the most famous scenes in opera: Lucia’s so-called "Mad Scene". For a good twenty minutes, the soprano is offered a tremendous vocal challenge and the opportunity for great theatrical expression as–at least in most productions–Lucia’s display of complete and utter insanity seeks to somewhat explain her actions.
Joan Sutherland and Maria Callas each made this a staple of their repertoire, and after last night’s performance, I daresay Natalie Dessay may too leave her indelible mark on this illustrious role. While she was totally immersed in and given over to the dramatic portrayal, not a roulade nor trill nor any vocal beauty was lost in the process.
Although this has never been one of my favorite operas, really, I was totally enraptured by her performance: she WAS Lucia…a beautiful, youthful girl, deceived by society and those she trusted, shaken to the core, and–in the process–led to a psychological melt-down of epic proportions.
Speaking of a melt-down of epic proportions…
Sneaking into a backstage lounge at each of the two intermissions, I was able to keep tabs on the Mets game. As frustrating as it was to find out the score at the first intermission at the top of the Sixth Inning, from what I gather, by sitting through the bottom of the Sixth, I saw the only really good part of the game with the bases loaded and the little rally and Moises’ hit to keep up his (now) twenty-eight game hitting streak.
By the time the second intermission came around and I learned the score, I felt like I was going mad. In fact, as Natalie Dessay was laughing maniacally, spinning around in circles, and basically acting in a deranged manner while the Metropolitan Chorus looked on in horror, I thought to myself, "I feel like that’s ME watching the Mets!"
I feel like I’m just helplessly standing by while they flail around, let runs score, send pitchers out who can’t do the job, etc. All I can do is wring my hands in despair.
Or, wait. Perhaps, more accurately, I am Lucia. I am the one going bonkers. I have faithfully gone to all of these games, followed you guys all season, pinned my hopes on you, had all this faith in you (and why not?), and now–when we should be pulling out all stops, playing in post-season mode–you guys can’t beat last-place teams and lousy pitchers?!
I feel like pulling my hair out and singing my own
So, now you know: if you see a middle-aged, blond woman in Mets gear in a Mezzanine box behind Home Plate tonight, tomorrow night, or this weekend (unless we clinch) belting out what sounds like an a Capella Bel canto aria with a middle-aged gentleman and young child with blond pig-tails (also clothed in Mets gear) trying desperately to restrain her, you’ll know my story.
My scena won’t be because I’ve had one beer too many.
I’ve just seen
One walk too many.
One loss too many.
One error too many.
Hopefully, just NOT too many to clinch. That’s all that matters.
For the Division Title.
For my sanity.