METaphorically Tweeting

The tweet by Greg Prince that was
the overture to subsequent METaphors.

I was there.

I WAS THERE!

But, through the immediacy of social media, there were others not at Citi Field tonight who were there with me nonetheless.

Yes, I was one of the lucky Mets fans to experience live tonight–from the front row of the Excelsior Level, right behind Home Plate–the first no-hitter in the history of the Mets franchise, pitched by Johan Santana.

But, as the number of zeroes on the scoreboard began to climb, so did the anxiety and the trepidation.  The angst was palpable:  I saw it in my daughter’s and my husband’s faces; I saw it six seats down from me in the intense concentration on the face of WFAN’s Evan Roberts as well as in the death grip he held on the railing in front of him.

But I also “heard” it loud and clear in the voices fairly shouting on Twitter and Facebook.

I try to put my phone away during game-time, for the most part.  I find that I miss too much of what’s going on in front of me if I don’t.

But with collective jitters permeating the atmosphere tonight, the distraction of my smart phone proved to be just the bit of short-term electronically-produced Xanax needed –at least while the Mets were at bat from about the sixth inning forward.  (Did anyone else think that the bottom of the eighth inning set yet another franchise record for the LONGEST half-inning EVER?!)

Checking Twitter and Facebook late in the game when Johann was not on the mound, I was surprised to see a thread of comments inspired by a single tweet by fellow Mets blogger Greg Prince, of Faith and Fear in Flushing fame, in which he compared the spectacle we were all witnessing–in the ballpark, home, and elsewhere–to the grand spectacle that is opera.

I couldn’t have agreed more with the analogy.  Truly, this evening’s event–with the pitcher in question having taken well over an entire season off for possibly career-ending surgery–was a story writ large.  A gran scena.

For stellar moments in sports history as well as those in the arena of musical performance, the crowd simply cannot contain itself.  “Jo- han!  Jo- han!” or “Bravi! Bravi!”:  the intensity and the passion are one and the same.  And the thrill of having shared that athlete’s/musician’s professional milestone is something to cherish and to be retold–in the dramatic and theatrical manner appropriate to the occasion.

Bravissimo, Johan!

A King’s Bargain

Photo ©Susan Spector

“I’ve always been interested in professional athletes like yourself who draw inspiration from the arts,” I began haltingly.

Hardly believing that I had been given the opportunity to personally address R. A. Dickey, I nervously continued, telling him that one of the highlights of my own professional career at the Metropolitan Opera was to have played a performance at which former First Baseman John Olerud and his wife were in attendance.  After making note of his obvious respect and reverence for the classics of literature, I asked R.A. if there are other art forms or disciplines that hold his interest.

It was an AP course in Applied Art, with charcoal as his medium, which spurred his continuing interest in the visual arts, he answered.  While on road trips, he said, he is now attuned to local cultural offerings and often frequents art museums around his work schedule.  He also stated that he likes many genres of music.  “Good question,” he said in conclusion.

In a rather unusual promotion, the Mets had organized a “Q & A” with pitcher R.A. Dickey in conjunction with the recent release of his autobiography.

The event, which took place yesterday in the Press Room at Citi Field, offered each participant a chance to pose a question to the famed knuckleballer, an autographed copy of Dickey’s book, an all-you-can-eat buffet in the Champions Club, and a ticket to the game.  (The game, by the way, turned out to be a lot more than one of the incidentals of the package:  my family and I made the acquaintance of distinguished blogger Greg Prince and were the recipients of an autographed copy of his own book, Faith and Fear in Flushing, as well as his delightful companionship for the game itself.)  Although the media were present, the ground rules had been stated at the beginning:  this was an event for the fans; it was our questions that would be addressed.  Dickey even expressed his personal gratitude for us showing an interest in him and his book before even opening up the floor to questions.

Having had that clarified at the outset and knowing that this event was centered around Dickey’s literary prowess, I suppose I should not have been surprised at how many of the questions that were posed from some of the one hundred or so gathered in the small room were, like my own, of a personal nature.  And maybe–having met R.A. previously at a “Meet and Greet” with players in the Caesar’s Club last season and having heard him speak in post-game interviews–I equally should not have been  surprised at how candidly and unswervingly Dickey responded to personal questions.

Regardless, I was surprised, particularly with Dickey’s forthrightness.

The more I heard the man speak, the more incredulous I became.  I wondered:  how could the Mets have managed to acquire such a find?!

What the Mets have in R.A. Dickey is, first and foremost, a first-class gentleman.   He is also a self-effacing, humble man, a stellar scholar and philosopher, published author, dedicated philanthropist…and, oh yeah, a player just named National League Player of the week and the starter currently possessing the best record in the rotation. And yet, with yesterday’s questions and answers pertaining to matters such as Medieval literature, psychological counseling, the psychological effects of severed or strained family relationships, and the profound effect that Ernest Hemingway’s imagery of Mt. Kilmanjaro had upon him as a seventh-grader, it was the direct questions about baseball itself that actually were disconcerting to me.

It was not that questions regarding the mechanics of his specialty pitch or about his personal knuckleball mentors or the size one’s hand needs to be to successfully throw a knuckleball were inappropriate.  Nor was R.A. hesitant in any way to fully address these questions.  It was rather that, with the line of discussion primarily centering around more universal themes, general life experiences, and personal philosophies, I found myself forgetting that the person at the front of the room was someone whom I first came to admire for his athleticism.

I found myself thinking, “Oh. Right.  This guy pitches for us!”

***

One of the last run of performances that I had the pleasure of playing this season at the MET was of the opera Billy Budd, composed by Benjamin Britten, with a libretto by E.M. Forster and Eric Crozier. It is based upon the novella by Herman Melville.  Faithful to the novel, Britten’s Budd is a new recruit whose optimism and naiveté  are a welcome palliative to the dreary life aboard the SS Indomitable experienced by his fellow sailors.  While those same qualities–or his response to them–eventually prove threatening to the Master-at-Arms, John Claggart, his response upon meeting the newest seaman pressed into service shows his discernment of Billy’s unique personal attributes:

A find in a thousand…

A beauty,  A jewel.  

The pearl of great price.

There are no more like him!  I’ve seen many men, many years have I given to the King, sailed many seas.  

He is a king’s bargain.

***

From the world that is professional baseball in America today, a culture where prospects are often scouted before even finishing high school, much less completing a college degree, comes this man of Letters–not just those on the back of his uniform.

An Even Warmer “Welcome Back, Veterans”.

Tired from a day of travel and lost in thoughts of the wonderful vacation in San Francisco from which I was returning, I had a real awakening on Monday afternoon while on the mini-bus from the Jet Blue Terminal at JFK to the off-site parking facility where my family and I had parked our car before our trip.

My family were the only passengers on the mini bus until a family of four–a young couple with two children under eight or so–boarded when the bus made an additional stop.  I don’t remember how the conversation got started…maybe it was the Mets shirt my husband was wearing.  Anyway, they were informed that we had just returned from San Francisco where we had seen the Mets play three game and, I told them, it had been MUCH cooler.  I remarked how hot and humid it was in New York, but how it was supposed to be even hotter for the Home Run Derby in Phoenix that night and the All-Star Game the following evening.

We then learned that the family had just returned from an enjoyable vacation in Barbados–during the husband/father’s two-week leave from Afghanistan.

As we all exited the bus, I thought back on my part of the conversation and felt embarrassed that I had been complaining at all about the heat of Phoenix, much less New York.  As we all stood beside the mini-bus waiting to collect our bags, I asked the gentleman, “Is it really hot in Afghanistan?”  He told me that he had seen temperatures of 130 degrees, but that what made it even worse was that the equipment he has to wear traps body heat and adds to the temperature (not to mention the weight.)

Ashamed of having previously alluded to any discomfort because of the change in climate, I told the young gentleman, “You all are the TRUE All-Stars and real heroes.  Thank you for all you are doing.”

Our family wished theirs a safe trip home, and we added that we hoped that the young soldier might be coming home permanently from Afghanistan very soon.

It was a sobering moment.  The stressors awaiting each of the members of my family upon our return from a leisurely vacation now seemed so trivial, so inconsequential.  Any sadness or regret we had about returning to our regular routines was quickly displaced by the realization of the inevitable sadness and anxiety that that young wife and her children would be experiencing all too soon as they said goodbye–again–to this soldier.

I’ve always been glad that the Mets honor a veteran at every home game as part of the “Welcome Back, Veterans” program.  And I always applaud the day’s soldier as he or she is recognized in the third inning of the game.  But since this chance encounter, I have applauded more loudly and with even more appreciation and gratitude for each soldier’s sacrifices.

Coincidentally, my “warmer welcomes” this past weekend coincided with the appearance at Citi Field of U.S. Army Staff Sergeant Leroy Petry.  On Tuesday, Petry became the second living active-duty service member to receive a Medal of Honor for actions in the Iraq or Afghanistan wars. Petry earned the prestigious award and a lunch date with President Obama for his courageous actions in Afghanistan on May 26, 2008.

The details of Petry’s heroism have been detailed everywhere, including this quote from a story on MLB.com:

Though shot in both legs during a mission, Petry managed to make his way to an enemy hand grenade and throw it away from himself and two fellow Rangers. Though he managed to save his peers, Petry had to have his right hand amputated afterward and now uses a prosthetic.

 

Discussion on Percussion

Have you ever heard a baseball bat make beautiful music?

New York Mets Outfielder Carlos Beltran has.

“Encore, Encore!”

I had the pleasure of hearing an excerpt from my most recent blog post featured on-air on CBC Radio 2 this past weekend.

Apparently, hosts of the weekly program “In Tune” discovered my blog in the Internet universe and found it interesting enough to mention on-air during the hour-long show.

Having worked previously as a classical music announcer for two different NPR affiliates for some years, as I listened to the host’s voice and my own on my computer, I couldn’t help but think that with this most recent recognition, it was almost like I’d come full-circle.

While an undergraduate music major at Wichita State University (Mike Pelfrey’s alma mater as well), I began working at college radio station KMUW-FM as a classical music announcer.  The staff there found it far easier to train music students in the intricacies of running the board and other technical matters than it was to train Radio-TV/Communications majors to pronounce foreign words and names.  Music majors like myself could usually be relied upon not to flinch from the sight of nor massacre composer names like Antonín Dvořák or Dieterich Buxtehude or names of compositions like Verklärte Nacht or Prélude à l’après-midi d’un faune.

Ten years later, I was grateful to win my first orchestral audition–for the position of Principal Oboe with the Spokane Symphony–but needed to augment my orchestra salary through part-time employment.  I sent an air-check, got my radio chops in shape once again, and began work at KPBX Spokane Public Radio an announcer.  Before I left for New York and the Metropolitan Opera, I had gone from a few hours a week to a position as the regular weekday afternoon on-air classical music host.

Now–almost twenty years after moving to New York, marrying and thus becoming a Mets fan, and bidding radio adieu, my voice could be heard–briefly–over the airwaves in Canada and via the Internet everywhere once again.  My blogging about baseball had put me on-air once again.

For me at least, in this digital age, it truly is “all connected”.

(more…)

Agitato et Con Fuoco

What comes to your mind when Jose Reyes…

  • …hits one of his signature triples?
  • …steals yet another base?
  • …flashes that infectious smile?
  • …has yet another multi-hit game?

The first thing you probably think–as I do–is, “We HAVE to SIGN HIM!!

But sometimes, watching Jose in action reminds me of another exciting performer.

In the world of opera.

Tribute to Dana Brand

Stefanie (sister), Dana & Sonia (daughter) Brand at Foley's

He seemed like a mensch.

I wish I could tell you more about him, but I only met him five days ago.

And now he’s gone.

Dana Brand was a professor at Hofstra University, an avid Mets fan and blogger, an author of two books on the Mets, a husband and father.

In the relatively small subset of Mets fans that is the blogging community, he was a collaborator with and supporter of many and a mentor to all.

As much as I loved reading his writing, it was even more of a delight to speak with him face to face on Saturday night.

My family and I, along with dozens of other Mets fans, were at Foley’s Sports Bar in Manhattan Saturday night for a charity event sponsored by the foundation of SNY-TV announcers Gary Cohen, Keith Hernandez, and Ron Darling.

As much fun as it was to see the likes of Cohen and Darling tending bar and having them each pour a drink for me, the true highlight of the evening for me was the fact that I left that intimate gathering of like-minded people feeling that I had made a new friend: having recognized Dana from photos on his blog, I tentatively introduced myself. I needn’t have shown such temerity: he enthusiastically greeted me by name and told me how much he enjoyed reading my blog posts–a real compliment coming from someone with his literary credentials!

After introducing him to my family, the four of us talked about everything from the special relationships that can develop between fathers and daughters, the operas he had seen at the MET, as well as my daughter’s experiences in the MET Children’s Chorus. Clearly, he was interested in getting to know us better personally.

When the subject did turn to the Mets, he excitedly told us of a special event he was planning in celebration of the fiftieth anniversary of the Mets franchise to be held at Hofstra University. Dana seemed just as interested in sharing mutual remembrances of Mets history brought up by my husband Garry–a Mets fan from the team’s beginning and of Dana’s same generation. Garry enjoyed having the opportunity to tell Dana personally how much he had enjoyed reading both of his books.

I sensed Dana was appreciative of the favorable comments about his work. But Dana seemed to take particular delight when Garry turned to our daughter Melanie and, while pointing to Dana, informed Melanie, “This guy was THERE for Agee’s home run. He SAW it!!”

It was with obvious pride that Dana later introduced us to his lively, charming daughter and sister. As much passion and zeal as he obviously had for his team, it was very clear what a devoted and proud father he was as well.

Before we left Foley’s that night, we exchanged contact info with Dana, promising to meet up at Citi Field at a game in the near future.

It truly felt like we had met a real kindred spirit, and all of us agreed that we were so glad that we had made his acquaintance.

Dana passed away suddenly yesterday afternoon. I learned this early this afternoon through a Mets blog. Within a matter of hours, the sad news passed through the Twitter community and has resulted in countless other blog posts in honor of Dana. Word had obviously made its way to the SNY TV booth at Wrigley Field in Chicago as, watching this afternoon’s game on TV, we heard Gary Cohen make a brief tribute, mentioning Dana’s passing and what a devoted fan, blogger, and author he was.

In reading these blog posts, it is clear to me that I missed a real opportunity not having made Dana’s acquaintance sooner. He was obviously a person who had been a positive influence in many, many lives.

My family and I wish to add our condolences to Dana’s family and friends.

Blades of Glory

A recent New York Times sports article inspires the retelling of a story from opera.

The Long Goodbye

_348476_teletubbies.jpgHow to best describe Game 162 at Citi Field yesterday?

Limited to a one-word description, I guess I’d have to pick “surreal”.
In spite of the disappointing season and the very small gathering of fans (that is to say, not a crowd), those there did not seem the least bit dispirited.
The CitiField staff–from security to ushers to elevator attendants–seemed to possess that giddy “last day of school” feeling.  In fact, in talking with many of the staff with whom we’ve made acquaintance over the past two years, my family and I found out that many of them go on to work at Madison Square Garden or other venues.
The temperature at game time was in the low 60s, winds were blowing in briskly from right field, and batters for each of the non-contending teams were swinging at just about anything.  For players and staff catching flights home that night, not to mention Manager Jerry Manuel and General Manager Omar Minaya whose dismissals were likely to happen Monday (and did), the game probably couldn’t have concluded fast enough.
As luck would have it, though, the game went into extra innings.  
I’d like to say that we stayed because we just couldn’t bring ourselves to say goodbye to CitiField until the very last out had been recorded, but I would be lying.
With my daughter–a professional singer–having upper respiratory issues, it seemed downright foolhardy to stay.  
But we had reason to stay.  We had true incentive to stay until the last out was recorded, even–as we teased her–at the expense of our daughter’s health and singing career.  
We had an inducement compelling us to stay and watch the Mets “B Team”–those playing in extra innings after Manuel pulled Wright and Reyes in a gesture to earn them fan recognition:
 
Prior to the game, my family and I–along with twenty-four other random fans–had been approached and asked to participate in the “Shirts Off Our Backs” campaign, presented by the Mets Marketing Department as part of its Fan Appreciation activities.  Moments after walking off the field at the conclusion of the game, each player would be removing his jersey, autographing it, and relinquishing it to be given away to a fan, the Mets marketing spokesperson told us.
The spokesperson did feel it necessary to caution us that it was a random drawing out of a hat.  “You might get David Wright’s jersey,” she said, “but you might get Joaquin Arias.”
We, therefore, could not leave before the end of the game. 
We stayed through the tenth inning.  The eleventh.  The twelfth.  The thirteenth.
It was cold and windy, my daughter’s hacking cough wasn’t going away, we were hungry and the food vendors in the Caesar’s Club had closed for the day.  And still we stayed.
We began to kid ourselves that, just watch, we would stay until the bitter end, attend the drawing for a jersey and be rewarded for our efforts with that very Joaquin Arias jersey.  Or, better yet, that of Luis Castillo.  Or Oliver Perez.
Oh, and our daughter would contract pneumonia and miss enough school that she would have to repeat eighth grade.
When it got to the fourteenth inning, Jerry Manuel found himself out of pitchers.  He chose to bring in Oliver Perez.  That is when the atmosphere at CitiField truly became surreal.
While his entrance into the game during any kind of meaningful game would’ve been greeted with frustration and anxiety, on this day the zeal of the crowd was palpable, the smattering of fans present obviously relishing the opportunity to heckle this pitcher who, by declining to go back down to the minor leagues during the season as he arguably should have done, managed to do no more than occupy a roster spot and collect his hefty paycheck for most of the season.
The gaiety and volume only increased as Perez’s outing very quickly started to unravel.  Accompanied by sarcastic chants of “MVP!  MVP!” Oliver Perez proceeded to hit one batter and walk in three batters, resulting in walking in the go-ahead run.
While razzing Perez felt a little mean-spirited, Howie Rose and Ed Coleman were there to remind anyone listening and having such sympathies that Oliver Perez had brought every bit of this groundswell of un-support upon himself.  (Presumably having to catch a plane himself and not having been promised a game-used, autographed player jersey, Wayne Hagin had already exited the WFAN broadcast booth.)
I sensed that the merriment of the crowd stemmed not only from the opportunity to heckle Perez but also from the fact that, at this point in the proceedings, many fans were just as glad to have the game come to an end, even if that meant Perez having a predictably putrid outing to give the game away.  
It was not lost on many of us the irony of a poor showing by Oliver Perez serving as the 2010 season denouement.
And so came the fourteenth inning stretch and, without the Mets scoring at the bottom of the 14th inning, the game, the season, and–finally–the wait for the jersey lottery came to a close.
After being summoned into the Mets Press Room–the very same room in which Jerry Manuel had just given his final post-game press conference–the marketing staff proceeded to call each invitee up to the stage, one at a time, to draw from a Mets helmet one of the slips of paper upon which a player’s name had been written.  Because my daughter’s entry ticket was stamped with the number one, she was the first to pick.  

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As my husband and I held our breath, she reached in, took a slip of paper, smiled, and read aloud in a clear, excited voice, “Angel Pagan!”
No offense, Joaquin Arias, but Angel Pagan is definitely my favorite player and one of my daughter’s top three favorites.  Following each fantastic diving catch he made this season, along with each of his extra-base hits, she and I were right there in Section 319, waving our arms up and down slowly in our “angel wings” salute.
If he hadn’t been a beloved player of ours before, he would’ve been once we learned what a devoted father he is.  Because of his concern about a serious eye condition for which his two-year-old daughter Briana is being treated, Pagan was not in the lineup on September 17th so that he could–with the Mets’ approval–be part of a doctor’s consultation regarding his daughter’s condi
tion
, along with his wife.  
Ten days or so later, the night before his daughter was to undergo surgery, Angel sat out of the lineup and stayed home to be with Briana.  He was then at the hospital the next morning, bright and early.  After the surgery had taken place and presumably gone well, Angel was back at CitiField later that day and was in the lineup for both games of a double-header! 

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After all twenty-five jerseys (none of which were Castillo’s or Perez’s, by the way), had been claimed, photographs were taken.  Outfielder Chris Carter stopped by to greet and pose for pictures with fans.
It was almost dark when we returned to our car in the practically empty CitiField parking lot.  I asked my husband and daughter if I could take one last  parting shot.  They acquiesced, proudly holding the very jersey Angel Pagan had played in not even an hour before, grass- and dirt-stained, and featuring his signature on his number.
How strange it felt to leave CitiField for the final time of the 2010 season feeling so ebullient. Considering how the team had fared this season, I assumed I would feel sad and empty. 
The reason for my upbeat mood, I rationalized, was the excitement of having received the jersey.  Nothing more, nothing less.  But I couldn’t help but think that there was something more.
Perhaps the game we had just sat through, with Oliver Perez serving as an unintentionally humorous coda to the somber blues anthem that had played over most of the season, had served as a catharsis of sorts.  Could it be that forcing myself to sit through that entire ludicrous game had helped me and perhaps other fans purge some of those latent negative feelings brought on by the season just concluded?

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There’s always next year.  And we’ll have a new Manager and General Manager.  And we’ll see those same young, home-grown players that made a lot of this season exciting.
And we’ve got that angel in the outfield.

Fabricated Fans

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With the Mets having been eliminated two nights ago (not that I had been holding my breath up until that point, mind you), I have been diversifying my baseball watching.
A typical Mets fan, when I can’t get enthusiastic about the Mets, I at least derive a certain schadenfreude in rooting against the Yankees.  This year’s AL East race has provided plenty of excitement and drama toward that end.
Also, with a close family member being a long-time Braves fan, and knowing this is Bobby Cox’s last season at the helm, I would have loved to have seen them topple the Braves.  In lieu of that, I would enjoy seeing them the winner of the Wild Card.  
The latter is decidedly NOT a typical Mets fan’s desired outcome, I know, and I have been admonished by the Mets fans in my home for holding such sympathies for the Braves and their manager.
As I’ve broadened my listening and watching horizons, I’ve been struck by several things:
1.  In SNY-TV, the Mets have by far the finest announcers covering the game today, period.
2.  Michael Kaye, TV announcer for the YES Network and Yankees games, and his cohort have an amazing ability to convey absolutely none of the excitement of the Yankees/Rays series.  The matter-of-fact tone, the lack of informative color, and the sheer amount of dead air would lead the uneducated viewer to believe that these games were meaningless at best and a sheer bore at worst.  
3. It is achingly painful for me to view sold-out Citizens Bank Park, packed with red in all shapes and sizes with frenzied white rally towel waving and screaming, rabid fans.  
Naturally, the latter is difficult to stomach because, as a Mets fan, I wish that were OUR ballpark.  But more than that, the contrast between the Phillies’ sold-out crowd and our dwindling fanbase could not be more stark.
As a season-ticket holder, the shrinking fan base  first struck me several weeks ago as I entered the Caesar’s Club.  Where previously the crowds there had necessitated our family deploying ourselves as  a “team tag” of vultures to secure a table at which to eat before the game, empty tables and a “library atmosphere” (as they encourage on the Amtrak Acela Quiet Cars) greeted us.
“It’s a ghost town!” I said in astonishment.
Considering the team’s season, I find the lack of support for the team and the shriveling number of fans understandable but nevertheless depressing; ownership should see this and be absolutely terrified.
Lest Jeff Wilpon is lying awake nights, wondering how he’s going to fill seats in his lovingly recreated Ebbets Field, I am here to assure him that perhaps a solution has been found.  If real fans are hard to come by, enter the “virtual fan”.

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From the Wall Street Journal comes an intriguing story of a Northern Italian soccer team suffering low turnout.  An answer to low team morale and lost revenue for the team of Trieste has been to install PVC covering over empty rows of seats upon which are screen-printed image of fans.  They do happen to be actual Triestina fans, never mind that they are perpetually depicted huddled against the cold in blankets, heavy coats and scarves regardless of current conditions.
The Wall Street Journal piece goes on to say:
Between the money the team will save by eliminating stewards, attendants, medical staff and insurance for the shuttered seats (about $130,000 per season) and the extra ad revenue it may earn, team owner Stefano Fantinel says the experiment “will pay for itself very soon.”

What I didn’t see mentioned in this article is the fact that screen-printed PVC tarps do not produce general crowd noise nor respond with a collective roar for great plays.  Conversely, the concocted fans presumably do not boo poor plays nor heckle players.


The attendants in my section at Citi Field are dear friends–like family even.  I would sorely miss Stan, Eddie, and Larry…and, yes, even the “Hot doggie-doggie-doggie!” vendor, as well.

But you gotta bet someone from the Mets has taken note of this story.  

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And while we’re at it, what about managers of symphony orchestras and opera companies struggling to fill houses on certain nights?

Could screen-printed images of extravagantly dressed, bejeweled opera fans–perhaps with audio enhancement in the form of a sound clip of a crowd cheering “Bravo, bravo!” to be played through the house speakers at the climactic end of arias–be the future for the Metropolitan Opera House or other performance art venues?

Hmmm…

Photo of original art work by Jaquet Fritz Junior found here.
Triestina photo by Andrea Lasorte
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