The guy to the right of me, wearing a stained #13 Alex Rodriguez jersey, grabbed his glove and screamed “Here it comes! Here it comes!”
The woman behind me was yelling “Oh my gawd! It’s comin’ this way!”
The man in front of me put down his beer and said “I got it, I got it.”
All I could see was that spinning white orb against the summer night sky, getting closer and closer. It was like it was looking right at me. All I could think was “OHMYGOD”.
I was 7 years old the first time I went to Yankee Stadium. It was the summer of 1977; the Summer of Sam; a blazingly hot summer of serial killers, blackouts, and punk rock. My folks were good friends with a few people that were rabid Yankees fans. How could you not be that year? Willie Randolf, Ron Guidry, Thurman Munson, Bucky Dent, and, of course, Mr. October, Reggie Jackson. My birthday is in October and so I always felt he and I had a special connection.
It was different then. It was mania. It was terrifying as we shuffled our way through the concourse- beers sloshing onto me, cigarette cherries burning my arms, sweaty crowds of smelly New Yorkers pushing to get to their seats in time.
Well, maybe it wasn’t that different.