SECTION: Sports; Pg. 65

LENGTH: 652 words

HEADLINE: FAITHFUL OUT OF THIS WORLD

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:


THE FIRST CONVERSATION overheard outside the bleacher entrance last night was a tip-off this would not be the usual den of Creatures.

"If nothing else," one guy was saying to the other, "having a start-up on your resume will show definite initiative."

These were words never spoken before in Section 39, the unwelcome language of money and connections which were both needed this week to land a World Series ticket.

As the regular, die-hard Creatures gathered outside the gate with increasing desperation, scalpers demanded $ 350 for each ticket under the noses of police. It was like gouging a bleeding patient for plasma. "Seeing how chopped-up the Braves were in Atlanta, that just doesn't seem a fair price," Donald Simpson said, even before Chad Curtis sliced and diced them, 6-5, with a home run in the 10th.

Bribery of security guards was attempted, and proved unsuccessful. The Siamese Twin ploy failed to get two Creatures in on one ticket. Milton Ousland couldn't even get his cowbell inside. We crowded toward the turnstiles, English soccer style, and peered at the privileged people on the other side, whining about their bad seats.

These snobs were in heaven, and they didn't even know it. They were incapable of launching a worthy heckle at John Rocker.

This is why good Creatures like Tina Lewis are reduced to tears.

Given such Darwinian conditions we were forced to busy ourselves on River Ave. with plans for the more democratic ticker-tape parade, which we figure will go off on Friday.

Ralph Giordano thought the Met players should be forced to walk behind the police horses at the parade, on sanitation duty. It was suggested that Bobby Valentine carry a broom.

Eventually, several Creatures managed to finesse their way into Section 39. There, outnumbered, they performed with incredible bravery against all odds.

When a baseball was knocked into the stands during Braves' batting practice, Dan Mofsenson of Manhattan hurled himself between rows to retrieve the evil baseball. There was a melee. Somebody slammed the left side of Mofsenson's head into a metal bench. His forehead swelling, he wouldn't let go of the ball.

"I was seeing stars, and for a minute I was trying to figure out who'd hit the ball," Mofsenson said. "But then I remembered it was a Brave, and I knew what I had to do."

So Mofsenson rose from the pile, and without hesitation he hurled the ball back on the field, where it bounced willfully and harmlessly in the general direction of Greg Maddux. Hours later, Mofsenson's was one of the voices that rattled right fielder Brian Jordan into dropping an easy fly in the first inning, leading to an unearned run.

As for me, faced with enough hassles already, I have given up on dragging Mrs. Creature with me to the Bronx. When I explained her presence was required in the bleachers to liven up my World Series columns, she protested, "Can't you just bring a cardboard cutout?"

Then Mrs. Creature, professor, said something I'm sure her Columbia journalism students will be very interested to read. Rather than accompanying me to the Stadium to enhance my stories, she suggested, "Can't you just make it up?"

Either my wife's standards have sunk drastically, or she is not taking my life's work very seriously. When she said George Vecsey of The Times was correct yesterday calling The Creatures, "borderline sociopaths," (we take exception to that word, "borderline") I had heard enough.

MRS. CREATURE was disinvited to the World Series, banished from Section 39. The fact that I couldn't find her a ticket clinched the deal.

Also, Rob Andre threatened to steal her from me, despite his sworn adoration last night for someone else named Cheryl, who had replaced someone named Sharon. Andre seemed a bit more intoxicated than usual last night.

I'll give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was love, and not Budweiser.

LOAD-DATE: October 27, 1999