Tom Seaver is in the Hall of Fame. He is one of the best pitchers in the history of baseball. Like, top-5. Maybe top-3 depending on how you look at it. He delivered the Mets their first World Series championship and is unequivocally the most important player in the history of the Mets organization. Not even close.
But there is no statue of him outside of Citi Field. This bothers Mrs. Seaver:
The absence of a Seaver statue at the stadium is “ridiculous,” said Nancy Seaver, she and her husband just celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary. “I’m embarrassed for (the Mets). I really am.”
To be fair, she thinks that Gil Hodges, Mike Piazza and other Mets greats should have them too, so it’s not like this is some special pleading for her husband of 50 years.
I suppose it’s odd that, unlike almost every other team, the Mets don’t have statues. But it’s probably worth noting that a ton of the ballplayer statues at other parks are kinda ugly. In 2011 I linked an article going over them all and there are some questionable choices, aesthetically speaking. I also talked about how I’m personally sort of weirded out by statues. A year later I talked about how dicey a proposition it is to build statues of living people anyway.
What if Tom Seaver gets a bad bottle of wine at his Napa Valley estate one evening and it causes him to turn into some sort of zombie-like creature and devour the brains of the citizens of Calistoga? Then some poor sap in New York is gonna have to pay to take his statue down outside of Citi Field because you can’t go keeping statues of literal monsters up. It’s just a bad look. Even if some extraordinarily misguided folks think differently about that.
Oh well. Seaver probably isn’t going to eat anyone’s brains. And I figure I’m in a very small minority of people who aren’t big fans of statues. So maybe Mrs. Seaver is right.
Now you just gotta get Fred Wilpon to pay for it. Good luck with that.
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”