So, for the first time in 17 years, I got to attend the World Series this week courtesy of the Los Angeles Dodgers. The two games in Chavez Ravine brought me back to all the happiness, disappointment, and sheer nervous tension that these games bring about. And it brought me back to another coast and another World Series. Actually the very last WS game I was in person for.
Thursday, October 26, 2000. Unbeknownst to us at the time, this would be the last World Series ever to played at now-halfway-dismantled Shea Stadium. For the first time ever, it's the Yankees versus the Mets in the Fall Classic---a Subway Series in its truest sense.
We're at Game 5 and the Mets need to win to prevent the Yankees from clinching it all. In a very tight game, the Yankees manage to pull it together in the top of the ninth. As future Hall of Famer Mariano Rivera attempts to close it out for the Bronx contingent, the final hopes rest on the shoulders of Mike Piazza. He offers one mighty swing and sends one soaring to the centerfield wall. On most nights, this is a home run. But, in the late October misty air of Flushing Bay, the moisture holds the ball in the air long enough for it to be pocketed by centerfielder Bernie Williams.
The Yankees celebrate at Shea Stadium, of all places. Manager Joe Torre is hoisted aloft, sobbing all the while. Another great Fall for the Yankees. Another mighty fall for the Mets.
Watching from the third base of the mezzanine level are yours truly and my best friend from high school, Danny. Being true baseball fans and sportsmen, we did not skulk into the night with disgust. We stayed and watched the festivities. Next to us were two Yankee fans. A dad and his eight-year-old son.
The youngster is decked out in the warmest of Yankee apparel. He is grinning from ear to ear. Danny and I remember the feeling of being there in 1986 when our own team was doing all the whoop-de-doing. We leaned over and shook the boy's hand in congratulations. He thanked us and continued to bask in his life's most significant moment to date.
It was the dad's response that has always stuck with me.
"This is great and all, but, for his sake, I hope they lose one of these years."
Huh?
He continued in the role of Hugh Beaumont as Beaver's wise old dad.
"Ever since he got interested in baseball, the Yankees win every year. They need to lose so he can finally understand what it is to be a true fan."
Sheer brilliance and wisdom amongst the hot dog wrappers of Section 22. A father who truly knew how to balance life with fandom. I've taught about that exchange many times. Every time my team loses a playoff or a division title or a close game. And I think about that kid who, in the very next year, probably learned and cried a lot when the Yankees blew Game 7 of the 2001 World Series to the Arizona Diamondbacks.
I wonder if the kid is still a Yankee rooter. I should do hope so. Because that would make him a real fan.
Ah, baseball. It hugs you. It kills you. It makes you the person you are.
Dinner last night: Peking pork from Panda Express.
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