As quickly as I wake up from my winter slumber with images of Pedro and Santana and the arms running and stretching in Port Saint Lucie, the bore of Spring Training sets in twice as fast. Stories of batting practice bruises and twenty something pitches from Duaner only make me long for April, May, June, July, August, September, and sometimes, if we’re lucky, October. I firmly believe that spring training records mean as much as the baseball power rankings. I must admit though, the Spring Training Jerseys are pretty sharp.

Living here in Dallas, I get the experience of watching baseball from a distance. With the advent of MLBTV (which I consider to be the eight wonder of the world) I can feel close to my team, watching every game, as opposed to merely a decade ago when displaced Mets fans tracked the Amazins via the three inch recap in the sports page, or the 20 second highlight clip on Sports Center.

Daily access to my team not withstanding, I necessitate live access to my team, at least once a year. Shea’s curtain call will definitely lead to a visit to the Big Apple by Lonestar Mets to say goodbye to the old girl. Eighty one games just seem too short to say goodbye to something that’s been my team’s home my entire life. Why I feel the overly emotional need to travel 1,500 miles to say goodbye to an inanimate object, well that’s another post for another day.

The tradition I have every year to participate at a game live with my team is the Mets annual trip to Houston. Every year Mrs. Lonestar and I travel down to that vile, humid, Aggie filled city for the one thing that justifies entering the city limits of that god-awful town; The New York Mets. In fact, I have been buying tickets via MLB.com for so long that the Astros have given me presale access and even in the fall of 2006 Playoff rights.* This year was no different, two games from field level, one in club level and a 60 percent chance to see Johan. Also a 100% chance I piss off Astro fans.

Seeing that I am not in Florida right now, and am saving my vacation days for above road trips, I felt like writing about what gets me ready for spring, planning trips to see the Mets. If you feel I’ve wronged you in someway, I will gladly refund the money you paid to read this story.

If you must see a Mets game on the road as a visiting fan, Houston isn’t a bad place to do it. Despite the 200% humidity, the retractable roof provides a 75 degree environment. The stadium is intimate enough provided you buy your tickets early, though there are many obscured views no matter what section you sit in, which is kind of ridiculous if you think about it. I mean if you pay top dollar to sit club level and say, I don’t know, a certain centerfielder climbs and unnecessary centerfield hill to make a game saving catch in a game that would ultimately last 17 innings, you kind of want to see it.

Then there is the unneccary train in left, to which I still can’t figure out why. What part of Enron, Minute Maid, The Astros or Colt .45s have to do with locomotives? I mean it’s like a giant apple that comes out of a hat when the home team hits a home run, oh wait. Never mind.

I was kidding there, don’t send me hate email, I have loved the apple since I first saw it when I six.

Nonsensical trains and ill placed outfield decks aside, what makes the Mets Astros series a worthwhile trip is not the facility. Believe it or not, Houston is a baseball town; a baseball town with a hatred of the Mets. From what I can gather, the cause of Houston’s Mets hate is a combination of the 1986 NLCS, Carlos Beltran’s existence, Billy Wagner, no World Series Titles in team history, crappy beaches and the fact that there is 200% humidity always. Anti-Mets sentiment and knowing the difference between a win and a loss (in addition to how great a Mets win is on its own merit) mean the difference between walking out to bitter jeers and taunts from mullet haired guys in Clemens Jerseys and high fiving every patron sporting Mets paraphernalia on the way out of the stadium. It’s like a win-plus.

I was going to write some nice things about the Astros when this happened:

*Editors Note: If you happen to buy tickets for the Mets Astros series, you must do so online via Ticketmaster. Should you buy all three games and select the 14.50 UPS shipping option, do not make the foolish mistake of only adding $14.50 to your bill to calculate the total, that would make too much sense. Add $14.50 per game to your order to calculate the tab. I ordered the tickets around 1:00 AM. When I called to get them to correct it the next morning, I ended up talking to some Aggie Houston Astro Ticket Douche. It went something like this:

Douche: Thank you for calling the Houston Astros, we had Carlos Beltran for like half a season until he realized we have a hill in freaking centerfield and went to play for a real team and we’re still bitter four years later, but at least we have Koby Clemens, how may I help you?

Me: Yes, There was an error in my order. I ordered tickets for three games and I was charged 3 times for shipping.

Douche: What is your order number?

Me: My order number is [whatever]

Douche: Your bill is correct, I see here that you ordered tickets to three games.

Me: Yes, all at the same time.

Douche: It’s still three orders.

Me: So are you trying to tell me that you are sending me three separate packages with two tickets in them apiece.

Douche: Yes

Me: Well send them together and credit by card.

Douche: They already have been sent out.

Me: I ordered them less than eight hours ago, the bill doesn’t even show as pending in my bank account. How could they have gone out?
Douche: Sir, they’ve already left.

Me: That’s ridiculous.

Douche: (Uppity) Sir, you ordered three sets of tickets.

Me: I should have expected this from the organization that traded for Miguel Tejada.

Douche: Pointing out the poor management and lack of organization vision of my team as it relates to my faulty logic isn’t going to get you your money back sir, I went to Texas A&M University.*

Me: I knew it!

(*OK, I made those last two parts up)

Douche: (Snarky) I’m sorry, I can’t help you sir.

Me: This is the reason you’ve never won a world series in over four decades.

Douche: Thank you for ordering from The Astros and Ticketmaster.

Me: Go [expletive] yourself.

Consider yourself warned.