Amazin'

"I think we should celebrate this victory," she said.

"Sure," I replied, yelling over the still screaming crowd and postgame music. "Where?"

"My place," she said, and leaned in for another epic kiss. I wrapped my arms around her, savoring the press of her body against mine, and feeling the smooth fabric of Agbayani's number 50 on her back.

I had forgotten that Bill was still there, and he was looking at me with a goofy look on his face, because he knew that picking up strange women was not exactly my strong suit. I high fived him for the win, and you know, and he yelled good night and headed out by himself.

We walked out of the stadium, out through the rotunda and toward the subway. She told me that she lived on the Upper West Side, and we followed the relatively sparse crowd up the stairs onto the platform. It wasn't the circular stairs from the old Shea days, but it was more functional, and we trudged up the hall, through the turnstiles and onto the platform. Carla grabbed my arm and moved me toward the front of the platform, where we waited, with the other fans, most wearing at least one piece of team paraphernalia, except for the people who had come directly from the office, and even then, there were a few guys with suits and caps, which I always thought looked a little silly.

The train lumbered in, and we luckily were right at the door, which opened, expelling a blast of thankfully overchilled air. I grabbed Carla's hand and pulled her in behind me, sliding down the orange seats until my leg pressed against the silver pole. Carla was crushed against me by a fat guy in a weird Mets shirt, the logo off-center and crooked, and there was an old Asian woman, probably coming from Flushing, sitting to my right. The train was partially filled, and I realized that I was still holding Carla's hand, and she was making no attempt to extricate herself.

Her eyes were flashing with excitement, and while I hoped it was because she was with me, I knew deep down it was because of the walk-off bloop. But either way, I was fine. We chatted on the way in to the City, mostly about the game, but a little about ourselves. And kept holding hands. I was aware of the way her right thigh pressed against my left one. And I thought about the games I went to with Anya, and her condescending comments about my team, which, yes, aren't the fucking Yankees with their million championships, but they were mine. She never understood why I wouldn't just root for the Yankees, they win all the time, and have all of that history, and so forth, but it's like your family, I guess, you just can't change.

Before I knew it, we were pulling into Times Square, and still holding fucking hands, we were out into the sweltering station. The contrast between the meatlocker cold of the 7 train and the wet heat of the real world made me briefly dizzy, but I followed Carla to the 2, and after a mercifully short wait, we were back on a cool train, heading north. This whole thing was going way too smoothly. I was with a nice looking girl, with what appeared to be a great body, on my way to her apartment for who knows what. And we were chatting easily, like we had known each other forever. And she was a Mets fan.

I shook my head, because I knew that something would happen to blow it. I had seen the Beltran strikeout and the two collapses. I had seen the injuries, and the errors, and the dumb trades, like Kazmir for Zambrano, and I knew that anything Mets related had to end poorly. But, like I kept going to games, and kept watching them, even after they were eliminated from the playoffs, I was going to see this to the end.

We got off the train at 96^th, back into the furnace, and when we emerged from the station, still holding hands, I noticed we were fooled into thinking that the hot breeze was actually cooling, in contrast to the fetid, thick air of the station. There is a smell in New York during the summer, a mix of rotting garbage, urine, exhaust fumes and grilling meat that is unmistakable, and I let Carla lead me through it, up a couple of blocks and then over a few, before we approached her building. It was one of the newer ones, built during an earlier real estate boom, when this part of the Upper West Side was transforming from a dangerous, drug filled waste to a land of Yuppies pushing strollers. I knew that the building would look nice, but was probably built cheaply, allowing young professionals to pay a rent that, while exorbitant by most standards, was reasonable by New York's.

She nodded at the uniformed guy behind the desk, and led me to the elevator. The silver doors opened, we got in, and she pressed 19. The doors closed, and she looked up at me. At this sign, I bent down and kissed her, gently on the lips. She answered with a passionate kiss, thrusting her tongue into mine, and as the elevator rose, I pushed her against the wall as we made out furiously, rarely coming up for air. I could hear the electronic pings as the elevator passed each floor, until it slowed and the doors wooshed open.

Carla disengaged, and with a smile, led me out of the elevator and down the hall to her apartment. She reached into her purse, pulled out her keys and unlocked first the upper then the lower lock, before leaning into the door with her shoulder. I followed her number 50 into the vestibule, closing the door behind me. The apartment was dark, with only a little glow from the city outside the window. Time seemed to stand still, like when you are watching the potential winning run heading toward the fence, and you see the outfielder lining the ball up against the wall. And you don't know whether you will be celebrating or commiserating.

She stepped forward, put her arms around me, and we started kissing again. Breathless, she turned and I followed her through the small, neat living room, into her bedroom. Carla turned on a small bedside lamp and began to unbutton the jersey. As she removed it, I could see that she was wearing a blue bra, not quite Mets blue, but a bit darker, and that my suspicions about the size of her chest had been borne out. Then, she peeled off her jeans, revealing the full glory of her Mets panties.

I realized that I was just looking, and that action was needed, so I tossed my suit jacket onto a chair in the bedroom and began to unbutton my shirt. As I was undressing, Carla began to take off her bra, and I shook my head, and asked her to let me do it. She nodded, and I stepped toward her, and we began to kiss. I felt her press against me, and as she rubbed my back, I reached around and unclasped her bra, feeling the slight sag of her breasts against by chest as their support was released. She stepped back slightly, removing the bra and tossing it on top of my suit jacket.

Her breasts were magnificent. Big, but not excessively so, firm, and with prominent, hard, dark nipples that displayed her own excitement. Carla reached down and began to fumble with my belt, and I helped her deal with that accessory, allowing her to open my suit pants, which fell to the floor. Everything was moving both fast and slow at the same time, and for a second I flashed on the fact that I had only met Carla a couple of hours ago, and, more remarkably, at CitiField. And even more remarkably, that she was a knowledgeable and intense Mets fan. Who happened to have team panties, beautiful breasts and an apparent desire to have sex with me. My cock was as hard as an aluminum bat, and Carla was grinding against me as we fell onto the bed.

One thing that my father taught me, other than a love for the Mets and all that entails, was that a gentleman doesn't kiss and tell. I mean, yeah, Carla and I spent the night having sex. It wasn't particularly amazing at first, as we both tried stuff that prior partners enjoyed, before we realized what the other liked, and then things really gelled.

Sometime about 5 a.m. I found myself lying in Carla's comfortable if unfamiliar bed. In the dim light filtering in from the street, I could see her curvy form, lying on its side, facing away from me, covered by the sheet. I lay there, thinking that it seemed too good to be true, and I waited, listening to my breath, for Carla to wake up and suggest, politely, that I leave. And that would be that. One really great night, and I'd never see her again. Another disappointment.

I could have gotten up and left of my own accord, taken the initiative, but honestly, I didn't want to. This relationship, such as it was, had potential, I thought, and I didn't want to be the one to send the wrong signal. I tried to distract myself by reliving the game, and thought about how things looked desperate, but they pulled it out, they won, and of course that led me to think about how I ended up in Carla's bed. Which made me consider the chances for more.

Suddenly, I thought of Mookie Wilson. It struck me that not everything ends in failure. Not everything good turns into a humiliating collapse. I've read about how the 1969 Mets put nearly a decade of epic ineptness behind them, came roaring from behind and blew by the Cubs, swept Hank Aaron's Braves and took the series from the Orioles—maybe one of the best teams ever. And how in 1973, rallying behind Tug McGraw's slogan, "You Gotta Believe," they went from last to first, before losing in a World Series that they had no business even playing in.

Of course, there was 1986—winning the league wire to wire before somehow beating the cheating Astros to get to the Series, when Mookie's grounder helped snatch victory from defeat. Or 1999, when Pratt's homer and Ventura's Grand Slam Single got them this close to another series. And there was Baxter's incredible catch to save Santana's no-hitter only a few years ago.

I turned to look at Carla, and realized that she was awake. She was looking at me with a very sexy smile on her face. She reached out and pulled me closer to her. And before my body touched hers, and before my lips met hers, I felt like I was in spring training. When there is nothing but hope, anything is possible and the future was still to be written.