Every Ticket Tells A Story # 1 : When Paper Beat Pixels: A Mets Origin Story

On Sunday, August 31, 2025, baseball fans across the country discovered what happens when you put all your faith in technology: the MLB Ballpark app went down harder than Carlos Beltrán against a Adam Wainwright’s curveball.. A system-wide crash left thousands of fans stranded outside ballparks, frantically refreshing their phones, begging Wi-Fi gods for mercy, and discovering that a “QR code” doesn’t mean much when it’s stuck in the digital black hole. Accounts were compromised, lines snaked around the block, and for a few surreal hours, Major League Baseball didn’t feel so “major league.”

And you know what? It made me think.

There was a time when a ticket wasn’t something you prayed your phone battery would reveal before first pitch. It was a stub. A flimsy, rectangular, tear-off piece of cardboard that you shoved in your pocket, spilled mustard on, and somehow saved in a shoebox for 40 years. Those stubs weren’t just proof of entry , they were time machines. You’d look at one and suddenly you were back in Shea, or the Polo Grounds if you go way back, sitting next to your dad or your best buddy, watching your Mets break your heart or make your week. You could hold those tickets, smell the ink, and say: Yeah, I was there.

A QR code on your iPhone can’t do that. A stub can.

Which brings me to this new feature we’re calling Every Ticket Tells a Story. Each month, we’ll pull a battered stub out of the mental shoebox (and sometimes the real one) — sometimes mine, sometimes from our fellow KinersKorner.com staffers, and sometimes from our readers — and share the game, the day, the memories: the laughs, the heartbreak, and the miracle moments that only baseball can deliver.

And where better to start than with the very first one? My very first Mets ticket. The one that turned me from a kid who liked baseball into a kid who loved the Mets — and, against all better judgment, stuck with them for a lifetime. It’s my origin story, one I’ve told countless times on my radio show, and one that’s even recounted in the book Glove Story: Fathers, Sons and the American Pastime, which I co-wrote with my fellow KinersKorner.com staffer AJ Carter. Oddly enough, it happened almost 57 years to the day of the MLB Ballpark app crash.

It was a Friday night August 30th 1968, 8 p.m. start. School would probably be starting the following week, and the air was filled with that peculiar mix of end-of-summer excitement and the sweet smell of Shea Stadium’s Hot Dogs. Our tickets? First row in the mezzanine on the first-base side. I came prepared: binoculars, Kodak Instamatic 104, and my glove, just in case I got a foul ball.

The thrill of walking into Shea for the first time is hard to put into words. We paused at the foot of the escalator while my dad bought a scorecard, complete with the tiny blue pencil stamped with “New York Mets” in what seemed like 14-karat gold to an 8-year-old. Then up the escalator and a stop at the souvenir stand just to the right, where my dad got me an autographed baseball, a Jerry Koosman pin, and a yearbook. Finally, we made our way to the seats. Oddly, they were in the 300s — from that day forward, our seats were always just 10 or 11 rows off the field. But that night, sitting high above the action with my dad, those seats were the best I’d ever experienced.

We arrived early so I could watch the Mets warming up. Somewhere between awe and imagination, I had the bright idea to put the binocular eyepiece to the lens of my Instamatic to snap a photo. For an 8-year-old, that was pretty impressive. Don’t believe me? Here’s the photo. Ironically, the subject was Art Shamsky. Was it premonition? That grand slam in the 5th inning — breaking open a 1-0 game pitched beautifully by Tom Seaver — is the exact moment my lifelong Mets fandom took root.

The scoreboard lit up in a rainbow of colors, simple compared to today’s high-tech displays, but to an 8-year-old me, it was magical. Shea erupted as Shamsky’s grand slam cleared the fence, lifting 34,000 people to their feet. The rest of the game was a masterpiece of Mets baseball: Tom Seaver’s gem, the thrill of each hit, each pitch, each stolen base. By the fifth inning, I was officially hooked.

The box score might just be numbers on a page, but for me, every stat is a memory: Bud Harrelson’s singles, Jerry Grote’s doubles, Art Shamsky’s four-RBI grand slam, Seaver striking out 11. I could tell you what inning Lou Brock stole second in — but what matters more is the sound of the crowd, the smell of peanuts, and the joy of being there, ticket stub in hand, heart wide open.

Looking back now, that night was more than just a game. It was the beginning of a lifetime of Mets memories — each ticket I’ve ever held since carries a little piece of that magic. And to think, it all started almost 57 years ago to the day of the MLB Ballpark app crash. Paper tickets may be relics, but the memories they hold? Timeless.

I’d love to hear from you, too. Do you still have your first Mets ticket — or a stub from a game that changed the way you feel about baseball? Drop a comment below and share your story. Let’s celebrate the magic of those little rectangles of cardboard and the memories that come with them — because every ticket really does tell a story.