The Sunday Memory Drawer - The World Series 20 Year Ago

It's that time of year.  Even in COVID-laden 2020.   The World Series will play out.   In a bubble down in Arlington, Texas.    

There seems to be something wrong with that.   The World Series doesn't seem right if it's not playing games in Los Angeles or Chicago or Boston or....

New York.   Ah, the World Series games of my childhood when it always seemed to be the Yankees playing one of the other teams in town.   The Giants or the Dodgers or...

The Mets.   Yes, that happened.   20 years ago this week.   And I managed to go to NY for those games and I went to four of the five games played.

It was exhilarating to see New York so alive.   Given that less than one year later, we had 9/11.

But I remember getting a seat among the Yankee Stadium bleacher contingent who took the Met cap of a ten-year-old and threw it on the outfield grass.   This was the game that reminded me of my youth.  Popping down on the subway.   I was ten years old myself...all over again.   I, of course, was smart enough to wear neutral clothing in enemy territory.

The Mets blew Game One in the ninth inning and the contest dragged into extras.   When the Yanks got the winning hit in the 12th inning, that may have been the last time I ran fast.   I had no interest in the celebration.  My goal was to get the subway uptown with as few Yankee fans as possible.

I flew up the steps to the Jerome Avenue station.   Ideally, there was a train in place.   

Empty.

I sat down in the car and could hear and feel the crowd exiting the stadium and coming up the stairs.

Close the doors.

CLOSE THE DOORS.

CLOSE THE FUCKING DOORS!!!!

Finally, after a minute or an eternity, the train doors closed and I was still by myself.

Phew.

For Game 4 at Shea Stadium, I had to be in Manhattan for work.  So, for the first time ever, I opted to travel to Queens via a ferry that landed at the Flushing Bay Marina.   How different was that?   Even more different was the fact that I was seated next to Matthew Broderick.   I resisted the urge to ask where his wife was.

Only in New York.

But then there was the fatal Game 5 the very next night as the Mets faced elimination.   

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. 

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 among 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.  

But, in the past twenty years, perhaps the kid has graduated college and maybe moved to the Midwest and roots for the Kansas City Royal.   Indeed, I'm much less a Met fan and now more a Dodger fan in 2020.   

You never know what can happen in two decades.  Or the past six months for that matter.   Whatever the case, thank goodness for memories. 

And the ability to have them.

Dinner last night:  Barbecued pork and fried rice from Mandarette.