My father, like his father before him, was a big-time Brooklyn Dodger fan;
which, naturally, makes me a died in the wool Mets fan. I grew up learning
to loathe the New York Yankees. Okay, there was that momentary lapse in
1977 when even I was sucked in by Reginald Martinez Jackson and the Yankee
juggernaut. I was thrilled when Wayne Zlotshewer and Jason Kupferburg
invited me to Game 2 of the 77 Series, to see of all things the Dodgers drub
the Yanks by a score of 6-1. That was the last time I set foot in Yankee
stadium to root on the bombers -- until last night.
I got the call sometime in the afternoon from a friend with tickets thirteen
rows behind the plate. He didn't need to ask twice. I would have to bury my
differences for one night, just as Yankee-haters nationwide have done. In
these ultra-patriotic times, the Yankees embody the American ideal of
greatness. Like America, they strive to be number one, and they fight on in
a time of adversity. We all need something to cheer these days, and the
Yankees have a habit of giving us that ray of hope.
Of course, the outcome of game is of miniscule importance in a city that has
lost nearly five-thousand of their own. But there was magic in the Bronx
last night -- and this Mets fan could feel it. I think the nation can too.
Source: Evan Cohen (firstname.lastname@example.org)