A Fan’s Lament

I am now officially sad.  Honestly, it feels like I’m losing an old friend.  I watched the ceremonies and the game on Sunday and found tears in my eyes more than once. 

I lost my dad to cancer about 10 years ago.  Losing him was like the major leagues while this is like low rookie league.  But the same sort of feelings are there.  Yearning for just one more glimpse.  An inner-ache for just one more chance to tell them how you feel. 

Stupid, I know.  But Yankee Stadium was always a friend to me.  I saw my first major league ballgame there, with my dad.  I saw Bobby Murcer’s four-dinger doubleheader there.  I saw Ray Fosse get hit in the leg by a firecracker while catching there.  I saw John Smoltz pitch there, the Beach Boys jam there and Derek Jeter play there.  I took my son there when he was six months old and then took him back again last summer, along with my daughter, and watched Joe Torre manage there.  Old friend?  More like a member of my family.

I don’t get to see her very often.  I may make it to New York once every two or three years.  But it’s like the cousin you only get to see every other summer or the best friend you haven’t seen since high school.  Once you see each other again and start talking, all the old feelings start coming back and it’s like you’d never been apart. 

I was in my then-girlfriend’s (now wife’s) house watching game six when Lemke fouled Wetteland’s pitch off to Charlie Hayes.  Pride welled up in my heart as I watched her celebrate the end of her longest championship drought.  It made me happy that champagne again flowed through her veins. 

I watched as Wade Boggs rode around her grass on a horse.  I watched as Jetes, Booney, Brosius,  Bernie and Tino hit historic home runs.  I watched as The President tried to heal an injured country.  I watched with glee as the roll call was performed.

Soon, Edison’s magic concrete will be put to its ultimate and final test. I wish they’d leave her in place, like a giant museum to the magic that’s played out within her for 85 years.  Unfortunately, I know that can’t be.  Next year I’ll travel to NYC and will walk through the park where she now stands and will remember and will probably ache.  I wish I’d told her how I really felt before she was gone.

I’ll miss you old girl.