Going, Going, Gone
I have lived within screaming distance of Yankee Stadium (ok, that might be hyperbole, more like a few hundred Bob Beamon long jumps) virtually my entire existence.
Born with Yankee pinstripes coursing through my veins. With father, sister, cousin, children, friends and grandchild feeding my addiction through the decades, I have entered and exited the House that Ruth Built and the one he didn't hundreds, maybe even thousands of times from the days of Eisenhower all the way to those of Biden.
And over nearly 70 years I have been witness to an enormous bucket of post season highlights to remember.
Except I don't.
In recent days I have been asked to attend both games 4 and 5 of the upcoming World Series against the Dodgers. Which immediately brought to mind a contest, nearly a half century removed, against the boys from L. A. Maybe the greatest performance ever in a World Series. I was there in 1977 when Mr. October arrived. Three Reggie Jackson swings, three home runs. Sitting in the upper deck, behind home plate, I can still picture one moon shot landing in the black beyond the center field fence.
And then everything goes virtually blank. The screen suddenly darkens. I might have been out in the bleachers with my nephew for a clinching Series win one year. But beyond that, nothing. Not a single World Series image to be viewed. Not a feeling recalled. Nothing.
Oh there is that home run by Chris Chambliss to win that American League playoff series against Kansas City Royals in 1976. His trip around the bases with the crowd having swarmed the field, Chambliss like a running back knocking over linebackers who dared stand in his path.
And the angst remains from that game 7 debacle against the Red Sox in 2004, Johnny Damon's first inning blast down the right field line off Kevin Brown virtually crushing my spirit right off the bat (double entendre intended).
But where did all the other games go? Who was I with at those Series? Where did we sit? Did the Bombers win? Did I enjoy it? Did I suffer with the losses?
How is it that so much, so much that was of such meaning to me has now escaped the location where I lovingly placed it? And if it is now resides in some alternate dimension, did it ever really occur?
Fernando Valenzuela passed away this week. In 1981 he was a rookie helping his Dodger team best the Yanks in a six game Series. I must have been there at least once.
Right?
And the 1996, 98', 99', 2000, 2009 wins with Derek and the gang, I was often in attendance.
Right?
I have a short video in my head of standing on long lines with friends for the chance to earn the chance to wait on a second line a different day to win a kind of lottery to see the Bombers in the Series. And we all went together often.
Right?
I do recall on one occasion searching for a place to park the car for the game. Almost giving someone $50 to leave my vehicle in a private driveway. Then worried it was a scam and changing my mind. That was for the World Series.
Right?
How long will games 4 and 5 this year stay with me? Or will they suffer the same fate as so many others? A Harry Houdini. Now you see it. Now you don't.
I have never taken my extraordinary luck in being able to attend these games lightly. These times having formed a large part of the tapestry of my life.
But, to my lasting sadness, they have become much like that Reggie Jackson blast.
Going, going, gone.