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"What if..." Submitted by: Lisa Wheeler-Cooney - Center Moriches, New York

What if…….

WHAT IF the world stood still and YOU were the only one who could move? Could anyone hear you? Could anyone see you? What IF the world stood still and you could do anything you WANTED…..What would you do? Where would you go?

WHAT IF the world stood still in the middle of a baseball game?

HEY!

WHAT IF it was the WORLD SERIES’, LAST GAME OF THE SEASON?

OK, so…

WHAT IF it was the WORLD SERIES’, LAST game of the season, BOTTOM of the 9^th inning, TWO outs, BASES FULL and EVERY SEAT in the stadium was TAKEN?

What would you do if all of a sudden, everyone

F-R-O-Z-E I-N M-O-T-I-O-N?

But NOT YOU!

PICTURE IT, it’s a beautiful day and the batter is about to make, possibly, the last hit of the season. The ball has been pitched and is HALFWAY to home plate, dugouts are still with anxious players and baseball fans are staring down on the field. Imagine the loud cheers! Half the fans are making a wave, kids have their hands filled with popcorn and hotdogs, the umpire and catcher have their eyes set on possibly, the LAST pitch….. ABSOLUTE tunnel vision. Sweat is about to pour down the pitcher’s forehead, runners are deciding whether or not to steal base and THIS batter is known for his HOME RUNS…

Who will make the catch? Anxious fans with mitts on their hand are wondering if they could BE so lucky!

YOU HAVE 9 MINUTES!

NINE MINUTES to do or go anywhere in the stadium before the World Series’, POSSIBLE, last play takes action…

What’s your next move?

Can you succeed before the baseball reaches home base and the batter swings?

You have 9 MINUTES before the umpire calls the play. NINE MINUTES until the players run from their dugout in celebration.

WHAT WILL YOU DO?

Joe Pickering Jr.

King of the Road Music BMI

YANKEE STADIUM

CHORUS

GENERATIONS OF LAUGHTER AND SOME TEARS

MANY MEMORIES TUMBLING DOWN THE YEARS

YANKEE STADIUM HOME OF THE BEST TEAMS

YANKEE STADIUM OUR FIELD OF DREAMS

SPRING THROUGH SUMMER, DEEP INTO FALL

MEMORIES SPRING ALIVE FOR US TO RECALL

THE CHANT DEE-FENSE; THE OLD BRONX CHEER

WIN ONE FOR THE GIPPER FIRST SPOKEN HERE

BEST FOOTBALL GAME PLAYED THE COLTS WON

BEDNARIK HIT GIFFORD LIKE A BABE HOME RUN

JOE LOUIS STRUCK A MIGHTY BLOW FOR ALL

A DYING LOU GEHRIG STOOD AND SPOKE TALL

REPEAT CHORUS

CASEY’S IN THE PARK HOMER IN TWENTY THREE

HE WON THE MOST SERIES IN HISTORY

JOLTIN’ JOE FLAWLESSLY CAUGHT THE BALL

MICK HIT A HOMER ATOP THE FACADE WALL

REGGIE JACKSON BECAME MISTER OCTOBER

NEW LEGEND BORN, YANKEE GREATS MOVE OVER

MUNSON’S JERSEY HANGS IN HIS LOCKER TODAY

PLANES TOOK THURMAN AND LIDLE AWAY

REPEAT CHORUS

ALI, ROCKY, BILLY JOEL, AND PINK FLOYD

JOHANNSON, PATTERSON HIS FIRST NAME FLOYD

BILLY GRAHAM, THE WITNESS AND THE POPE

BRINGING TO PEOPLE ETERNAL HOPE

WITHOUT THE AID OF ONE CAN OF BEER

BLEACHER CREATURES SCREAM THE LOUDEST CHEER

AS THE NINE ELEVEN SERVICES ARE DONE

AMERICANS EVERYWHERE BECOME ONE

REPEAT CHORUS

GENERATIONS HAVE COME, GENERATIONS HAVE GONE

WE ALL BELIEVED BABE’S HOUSE WOULD GO ON

TWO THOUSANDEIGHT THE ALL STAR GAME IS PLAYED

IN THE BABE’S HOUSE FINAL SPORTS PARADE

NEW STADIUM, NEW MEMORIES IN TWO THOUSANDNINE

NO MORE BABE TO HIT HOMERS DIVINE!

ONCE THE LAST’S GAME’S OVER IN TWO THOUSANDEIGHT

WATCH THE BABE’S GHOST FLOAT OUT THE GATE!!

NOT TO BE FORGOTTEN, THE COSMOS AND PELE

MAGICAL MOMENTS OF YESTERDAY

WITH THE ONLY PERFECT WORLD SERIES GAME

YANKEE STADIUM BELONGS IN THE HALL OF FAME!

REPEAT CHORUS TWICE

FADE

Joe Pickering Jr. Songwriter King of the Road Music BMI Copyright owner C 2007

I think whatever mortals crave

With impotent endeavor –

A wreath, a rank, a throne, a grave –

The Yanks go on forever.

by: Del Lucas

dlucas@ctwnj.com

In the Bronx where they play

practically every night and day

Yankee stadium is were they dwell

I like to say they play real swell

Derek jester is the captain

something good is bound to happen

no matter in the day or dark

A-Rod will hit them out the park

Giambi hits the ball real hard

it usually goes out the yard

Gary Sheffield goes up hacking

he sends the other team packing

you know posada has a gun

when people steal they know there done

when Randy Johnson throws the heat

other teams know there beat

they haven't won it in a while

next year they’ll go the extra mile

next season the yanks will be fantastic

hopefully make it to the fall classic

Eric Gomez - 16 years old Belleville, NJ - Belleville High School - a REAL TRUE Yankee fan

Behind Enemy Lines: A Yankee Fan’s Story

The Story of a Yankee Fan in Red Sox Nation

By FP

Intro of Behind Enemy Lines: A Yankee Fan’s Story

Go Yankees. Yes, I am a New York Yankees fan, and proud to admit it. The Bronx Bombers are the team. Our team. My team. Pride, Power, and Pinstripes. In the thirteen years of my life, those three words became synonymous with the words "New York Yankees." From the time I was born, I was raised a Yankees fan. Baseball is a second religion to me, and the Bronx Bombers have been my chapel. It is hard to capture the essence of the Yankees in such a short story as the one you are about to hear. Ruth, Gehrig, DiMaggio, Berra, Mantle, Munson, Mattingly and Jeter. Just a small list of the greatness contained in New York. For 100 years and more, the New York Yankees have been the personification of victory. Twenty-six World Championships was enough to make that point. The Yankees have won more championships than any other sports franchise in history.

Part One of Behind Enemy Lines: A Yankee Fan’s Story

I never truly understood what it meant to be a Yankee, or even a Yankees fan, until around 2000. At a young age, I always proclaimed myself a Yankees fan, with no concept of the implications. And with me living on Cape Cod, MA, (about an hour and a half away from Boston, home of the arch-rival Boston Red Sox) baseball arguments at school would go like this: "Yankees stink!" "Red Sox stink!" "No, Yankees stink!" "No, Red Sox stink!" And so on and so forth. It was a beautiful thing in all it’s simplicity. When you wanted to "talk baseball" in first grade, you said who stunk and who didn’t. I did know more about baseball than most others my age. Heck, I had been playing since I was four. And when I got that first hit, I loved it. When I had my first strikeout, I hated it. These are feelings that are not easily described. It’s baseball. What else can be said?

Of course, it can’t be so easy forever. After a while, I grew a desire to learn my game. And so I started to hone my knowledge of the game. Ball four, nine innings, steals, infield flies, balks, bunts, foul balls... The list is endless. I loved it. And I still do.

So one day, a dispute turned out like this: "Yankees stink!" yelled my adversary. "OK, the club ERA is down to 3.00, Jeter’s batting .332, and the Yankees have twenty-six World Series Championships. You’re going to tell me that we stink?" "Huh?" was the reply. I became pretty darn proud. With the Yankees always winning, I had nothing to fear. Except one thing. The rivalry that the Yankees had with a certain Boston team, and a certain curse involving a certain slugger who wasn’t so little around the middle.

In case you don’t already know, the rivalry between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox is undoubtedly the greatest in sports history. There has been so much conflict between those teams over the past decades that they have become the bitterest of foes. For those who are unfamiliar with the situation, the "Curse of the Bambino" plays a large role in this drama.

It’s 1920. Boston’s star pitcher and slugger George Herman "Babe" Ruth, has led the Red Sox to a 1918 World Championship. The Boston dynasty looks like it will never end. But, in desperate need of cash, Red Sox owner Harry Frazee sells Babe Ruth to the hated New York Yankees for the lucrative sum of $125,000. Babe Ruth goes to New York, becomes a national icon, saves the game of baseball (another story), then revolutionizes it. Babe becomes the first "true" home run hitter, swatting a record of sixty homers in one season, a record that would stand for nearly forty years. The Yankees go on to win twenty-six World Series Titles. Meanwhile, the Red Sox wallow in heartbreak. Their dynasty gone, they go without a championship for eighty-six years, with plenty of chances in between. And thus, the Curse of the Bambino.

You get the picture. Such is the story of New York and Boston. I never hear the end of it at school, or anywhere else. Because I’m a Yankees fan, I’m at the center of mean jibes and cruel remarks almost every day. But I’ve gotten used to it. Being at the core of this rivalry has, at the least, thickened my skin. But no matter how much I take from the Red Sox Nation around me, it seems that the Yankees still always come out on top. Prime examples are: The Yankees nabbing Babe Ruth from the Sox. Yanks center fielder Joe DiMaggio always getting the better of Sox left fielder Ted Williams, in the press and on the field. Or 1978. The Yankees were fourteen games behind the Red Sox in their division, but the Yankees fought all the way back to tie for first place. Then, in a one-game playoff, light-hitting Bucky Dent hit a pop fly that would be an out anywhere else. But not at Fenway. It got over the short left field wall, and the Yankees went on to later win the World Series. Even as recent as 2003. Game 7 of the American League Championship Series, the Yankees are down, 5-2 in the eighth inning. But they rally against Boston’s best pitcher, Pedro Martinez, who was left in the game by the manager, Grady Little. With the game tied in the 11^th inning (two more innings than a regulation game), Aaron Boone, who was a bust in the regular season, came to the plate. He hadn’t gotten a hit in the series. But before he came the bat, Yankees captain Derek Jeter said "Ghosts come out [at Yankee Stadium] in October." On the first pitch he saw, Boone sent a high fly ball tracking into the night for a homer, and the Yanks had won again. So it was Babe, Bucky, Boone. And Boston. "Maybe they should move to Worcester." Heartbreak in Beantown. But in 2004, all of that was about to change. The Yankees lost the in the first round of the playoffs in 2002. I could deal with that. They lost the World Series in 2001 and in 2003. I could deal with that, too. But what happened in 2004 was something I almost couldn’t bear. It was a disaster that put a very regrettable hatred in me. And those around me (friends who happened to be Sox fans) didn’t make it any better. Yes, I got support from my family, but it didn’t help very much. You see, over the years, I had built up a great confidence. It was a confidence that the Red Sox would always be second-best, and that the battles I had with Sox fans would always turn out in my favor, and that my beloved Yankees would never disappoint me. Yes, in 2001, 2002, and 2003, they did in small ways, but I never expected them to fall the way they did in ‘04. Perhaps I was too confident; too cocky. I always thought that heartbreak belonged solely to Red Sox fans. I was full of pride. But what do you expect? I am a Yankees fan.

Part Two of Behind Enemy Lines: A Yankee Fan’s Story

The Yankees downfall actually began at 12:16 AM on October 16, 2003. Not a loss, but a victory. A great victory. In Game 7 of the ALCS, Aaron Boone, a disappointment for the 2003 Yanks, hit a walk-off homer in the 11^th inning off of Tim Wakefield, after the Yankees rallied from three runs down in the 8^th against Red Sox ace Pedro Martinez. Pedro had shut them down the entire game, and when he started to crumble, Sox manager Grady Little made a trip to the mound. Little then returned without taking Martinez out. The Yankees continued to come back until the game was tied. With three perfect innings of relief from closer Mariano Rivera, the stage was set for Boone’s blast. The Yankees won, 6-5. I saw the whole thing. In my opinion, that was my "christening" as a Yankees fan. I had seen the Bombers victorious over the Beantowners. Upon seeing my Sox fan teachers the next day, I raised my fist in the air. My finger was up making a "number one." The teachers were speechless. I had seen incredible bias from them the whole series. They always sided with the person making fun of me. Whenever I heard, "Derek Jeter is the biggest loser of all time!" (And some other remarks that weren’t so polite) and I would turn around and say, "You know, I’ve heard enough for today. You need to shut up," a teacher would reprimand me like this, "Now, sportsmanship is important!" Uh, hello? Who is the instigator here? I’m not blowing anything out of proportion when I say that they were against me as much as the students. But I didn’t expect them to be nice about it. The Yankees lost the World Series, but I didn’t care. Sure, I was disappointed, and a little angry. But now, I was convinced that the Yanks were invincible. No Red Sox team could beat the New York Yankees. The off-season passed with the Sox acquiring pitcher Curt Schilling, who I wished the Yankees had gotten. Then the Red Sox were on the verge of signing the reigning MVP, Alex Rodriguez, a.k.a. A-Rod. But the deal fell through. Who got him? You guessed it. The New York Yankees. The Boston brass was furious. What they could not accomplish in two months, the Pinstripers had accomplished in about three days. There were a few other acquisitions, such as right fielder Gary Sheffield and pitcher Kevin Brown. Now, I was sure that the Yanks would beat the Red Sox. They had done it for eighty-five years. Now we had the best player in the league, Rodriguez. There was nothing that could stop the Yankees dominance. And so the 2004 season began.

As it turned out, the Yankees got off to a bad start. Alex Rodriguez wasn’t producing, and the Yankees lost five of their first six contests with Boston. The Yankees needed to find a turning point. They did that and then some. In a game in Boston, at Fenway Park, New Yorkers got what they needed. Alex Rodriguez, the new Yankees third baseman, was plunked in the back by Red Sox pitcher Bronson Arroyo. A-Rod immediately took offense, yelling profanities at Arroyo. Boston catcher Jason Varitek got in between the two and proceeded to promptly shove Rodriguez’ face with his big catchers glove. Varitek never even took off his catchers mask to face A-Rod. The benches cleared, and there was a huge brawl. Two Red Sox men (Trot Nixon and David Ortiz) jumped on one Yankees man (Tanyon Sturtze) in an "I’ll-hold-you-punch" match. The Yankees lost that game, but the fight was enough. They got their act together and started winning, pulling into first place and winning the AL East Pennant in September. It was time for the second season to commence.

Part Three of Behind Enemy Lines: A Yankee Fan’s Story

First came the American League Divisional Series. The Yankees played the Minnesota Twins of the American League Central Division. Even though Boston ended up in second place (behind the Yankees) in ‘04, they won the wild card by being the second-place team with the best record. They played the Anaheim Angels of the AL West. Both series’ passed without much incident. New York beat Minnesota. Boston beat Anaheim. Once again, the rivals were set for the American League Championship Series, the last stage before the World Series. I was slightly on edge, wondering about the consequences of a Yankees loss. But my overbearing confidence conquered my fears. Even when my friend super-imposed my head on Red Sox center fielder Johnny Damon’s body, I didn’t care. On October 12, Game 1 began.

New York went into the series as the underdog for the first time in a long while. Mike Mussina was the starting pitcher for the Yanks in Game 1, while Curt Schilling (who said nothing would be better than "shutting up" 50,000 Yankees fans) started for the BoSox at Yankee Stadium in the Bronx. The Yankees jumped to an 8-0 lead early. Mussina, a.k.a "Moose," was perfect into the 7^th. The Red Sox rallied late, but the Yankees held on. Yankees closer Mariano Rivera shut the door in the Yankees 10-7 win. I felt good, but I knew that if the Yankees wanted to win, they had a long way to go. Series Score: Yankees-1; Red Sox-0

Game 2 also had the Yankees wearing pinstripes and an interlocking "NY." That only meant one thing: home game. In New York, Jon Lieber started for the Yankees. His opponent was Pedro Martinez. Earlier in the season, after another devastating loss to New York, Pedro said, "I guess the Yankees are just my daddy." And so, chants of "WHO’S YOUR DADDY?" rocked the Stadium and echoed through the Bronx night while Liber pitched seven inning, three-hit, one-run ball. Pedro stumbled, and the Yankees won, 3-1. The final margin was provided by Jon Olerud’s two-run home run. Rivera saved it again in the final inning. I was then 60% sure that the Bombers were going to win. All the while, though, I kept my mouth shut at school (alright, it was shut most of the time). Yet I was sure that another victory was coming my way. How naive. Series Score: Yankees-2; Red Sox 0

Game 3 was a record breaking night for New York, and a heart breaking night for the Sox and their fans. In short, the New York Yankees pulverized the Red Sox for a 19-8 win. Sheer embarrassment reigned during the game, and broken hearts took over in the aftermath. Kevin Brown pitched horribly for New York, but it didn’t matter. The Pinstripers set LCS records in runs (19)and extra-base hits (13). They tied the records for hits (22), doubles (8) and home runs (4). It was awesome. But more importantly, the Yankees had taken a three-game lead in a best of seven (meaning first to four) series. No team had ever come back from three games down. Ever. In all of baseball history. There was no way the Red Sox would be any different. By now, the "Johnny-Damon-picture-of-the-Yankees-fan" had circulated around the school and was in most of the classrooms. But hey–a three game lead? You can have your picture. School days passed without much incident in the baseball sense. No one said a word to me about "you-know-who." And I usually kept quiet as well. I couldn’t help poking a little fun after Game 3, though. Their reply was "Believe in Boston!" Yeah, OK. Series Score: Yankees-3; Red Sox-0

Part Four of Behind Enemy Lines: A Yankee Fan’s Story

After Game 3, I expected school to be like a funeral. After all, it was in 2003, after the Red Sox lost. And in my opinion, Boston had lost. But instead of sadness, an unprecedented faith prevailed. One teacher even set up a "shrine" on her wall, with pictures of each member of the Sox and the words "WE BELIEVE" over them. It was unbelievable. But it didn’t diminish my feeling of accomplishment. Not at all. I looked at the "Johnny-Damon-picture-of-me" and laughed.

Here comes Game 4. I really wanted to sweep and just get it over with. The Series went to Fenway Park in the "Fens" of Boston, MA. Orlando Hernandez, a.k.a. "El Duque," started for the Yanks, and Derek Lowe started for the Sox. A homer by Alex Rodriguez put the Yankees up 2-0 in the 2^nd inning. The Yankees held a lead up until the 5^th, when the Red Sox took a 3-2 advantage on a David Ortiz single. The New Yorkers came back later to get a 4-4 tie, and then took a 5-4 lead on an infield single by first baseman Tony Clark. With that lead, Mariano Rivera returned, and put up a scoreless 8^th inning. Then, in the 9^th, with only three outs needed for the AL Pennant, he walked Sox first baseman Kevin Millar to lead off the inning. Millar represented the tying run. The Sox put in pinch runner Dave Roberts, and he stole second base. Then, third baseman Bill Mueller lined a single, scoring Roberts. The game was tied. The game went into the bottom of the 12^th inning. Paul Quantrill was on the mound. A leadoff single by Boston left fielder Manny Ramirez set up a walk-off homer by David Ortiz, a.k.a. Big Papi. Beantown won, 6-4. "So what?" was what I said as I climbed into bed. "So what?" was what I said in school when numerous jibes were directed at me. "So what?" But I couldn’t overcome that ominous feeling. Series Score: Yankees-3; Red Sox-1

So, Game 5 rolled around. I was truly ready for victory now. Nobody had ever come back from 3-0 down in a best-of-seven series. Mike Mussina (NY) and Pedro Martinez (BOS) went to the hill again. The Yankees had a 4-2 lead going into the 8^th. David Ortiz then hit a solo-homer to make it 4-3. After walking Kevin Millar, Yankees reliever Tom Gordon gave up a hit to Trot Nixon. Mariano Rivera came on after blowing the save in Game 4. Red Sox catcher Jason Varitek then lifted a sacrifice fly to center field. Pinch-runner Dave Roberts scored from third. Rivera had blown the save again. The score remained at 4-4. Until the 14^th. Esteban Loaiza came in to pitch for the Yankees. After walking Johnny Damon with one out, and walking Manny Ramirez with two, David Ortiz struck again. He hit a walk-off single into right field. The Sox won again. I couldn’t believe it. I had stayed up for all 14 innings, just for that. In school the next day, it seemed that there were more Red Sox "fans" than the day before. It was "peculiar." I was hit with more remarks, some worse than others. "Hey, Yankees suck!" "Just shut up," I would say, "You haven’t won yet. And you weren’t a Red Sox fan yesterday..." A teacher would butt in, "That is not acceptable! You have to have good sportsmanship!" My reply would be "Didn’t you hear what they said? Didn’t you?" It seemed that they always heard me, but never the opposite. Never the offense, only the defense. Did they expect me to just sit there and take it? Did they expect no retaliation? Did they want me to just roll over and die? Series Score: Yankees-3; Red Sox-2

Game 6. "OK Yankees. Time to live up to your name: Bronx Bombers. You beat Curt Schilling once, you can beat him again." What’s more, Schilling had a right ankle injury (that would require surgery after the season ended) when he went out for the Red Sox, and the Series was back in New York. And reliable Jon Lieber was going for the Yankees. But it wasn’t meant to be. In what would become the performance of the "ultimate Red Sock," Schilling pitched a seven-inning, one hit gem, despite blood from his ankle staining his sock. The Yankees bats went dead. The game was decided by a three-run blast by Sox second baseman Mark Bellhorn, who had a mere .150 batting average, and ten strikeouts in twenty at-bats. And when the Yankees began to try and rally, Alex Rodriguez became the poster boy of the Yankees collapse.

It was the 8^th inning. One on, one out. A-Rod hit a bouncing ball up the middle. Pitcher Bronson Arroyo nabbed the ball. He ran to tag Rodriguez and clearly had him out. But Rodriguez swung his arm and slapped the ball from Arroyo’s hand. The ball rolled away, Derek Jeter scored from first base, and A-Rod was called safe. Argument immediately arose from Boston, and the new ruling came quickly and deliberately. Rodriguez out, Jeter returns to first. A-Rod, who was standing on second base, raised his arms and said "What?" I originally thought that he should be safe at second. But upon looking at the replay, I knew that the right call had been made. It was just frustration. I was frustrated, A-Rod was frustrated, Yankees Nation was frustrated. Whether he knocked the ball from Arroyo on purpose or by accident became a moot point. Anyone in Alex’s situation would’ve done it. There isn’t any denying it. But he did it, and that’s what mattered.

It ended 4-2, in favor of the Red Sox. The Yankees were even admitting after the game that "Boston is a great team." A-Rod said "If we lose tomorrow, it won’t be embarrassing." "Here we go again," said Yankee shortstop and captain, Derek Jeter, "That team on the other side has responded well in three games that were do-or-die. Now we’re going to find out how we do in a do-or-die situation." Somehow, I knew that he realized it. The dynasty was falling apart. Eighty-six years of dominance was falling by the wayside. And no one would let me forget it. Not even the Yankees themselves. Tony Clark, (who struck out to end the game) said, "It’s a beautiful thing. These two teams have been so evenly matched ... to have it come down to Game 7 is nothing surprising." Beautiful wasn’t the word I was looking for. Series Score: Yankees-3; Red Sox-3

And so, the final game rolled around. On the New York sports radio station "Mike and the Mad Dog," Chris "Mad Dog" Russo said, "Not this team, not this building," when asked about his opinion on who would win the deciding game. I realized that the Yankees still had a very real chance to win. All they had to do was win one game. Joe Torre opted to go with experience when he sent Kevin Brown to the mound. Brown had been disappointing in the regular season, but I had to trust Torre. His hunches had always proved right. Since 1996, he hadn’t let me down. It was up to Kevin Brown. Signs of "1918!(the last time the Sox had won the World Series)" were everywhere. A Yankees fan even put a big white sheet over himself and proclaimed he was "the ghost of Babe Ruth." But there were no heroics for the New York Yankees. Johnny Damon hit a grand slam, which became the mark of the Sox game 7 victory. Derek Lowe came through for the Red Sox, with flying colors. Pedro came in and "WHO’S YOUR DADDY?" resumed. The Pinstripers put up a small rally. And I never lost faith. I thought that maybe, just maybe, the tides would turn. But it was over. Alan Embree induced Ruben Sierra to hit a slow grounder to the second baseman. And it was over. The Boston Red Sox had won 10-3, and they were going to the World Series for the first time since 1986. On October 20, 2004 the Boston Red Sox defeated the New York Yankees, and became American League Champions. I am not ashamed to say that I trudged up to my room, threw myself on my bed, and cried. I cried and cried and cried. I was...it was...an indescribable feeling...a mixture of anger, depression, desperation, anxiety and hatred. Baseball is my religion, and the Yankees are my chapel. But my chapel has collapsed. "Swung on and grounded over to second, the throw to first is...in time, and the Red Sox are AL Champs! THE CURSE OF THE BAMBINO IS NO MORE!" Series Score: Yankees-3; Red Sox-4--Red Sox Win Series; American League Pennant

Part Five of Behind Enemy Lines: A Yankee Fan’s Story

And so I thought it was over. I had watched the Red Sox celebrate on the middle of the ball diamond. I had watched about 50,000 dejected Yankees fans file slowly out of the Stadium. David Ortiz, the Yankee Killer, was ALCS MVP. The Red Sox had won a well-deserved pennant. But it was far from over. I seriously contemplated not going to school the next day. But I decided that wouldn’t be right. They deserved to brag. But I was not prepared for what would happen. I didn’t even hear a "Hi," before "Yankees suck!" "HAHA! What are you going to do now?" "You just weren’t smart enough to root for the right team!" "Whose your Papi?" And earlier in the day, someone had written, "GO RED SOX" in big chalk letters on the blacktop playground. So the teachers decided to arrange everyone over the letters and take an "aerial picture" from the roof. I said, "I don’t really want to be a part of this." And the reply from one teacher was, "You should do this in the spirit of sportsmanship." "I just really don’t want to, thanks." "All of the other Yankees fans in the school are doing it." "But they don’t care about it as much as I do." "You should really do this! I’m very disappointed in your behavior." "I just don’t want to be forced to do this." "Go stand over there with your friends. Don’t make it worse than it has to be. Just go over there!" So I did. I wasn’t wearing a smile, that was certain. "C’mon, smile!" No, thanks.

At lunch, the principal gave out ice cream. I said "no, thanks." But they insisted. Just to escape their nagging, I ate the ice cream. It was bitter with the taste of defeat.

I had mistakenly gotten one teachers e-mail address earlier in the year, and in an e-mail to the teacher, I had called the Red Sox the "Red Slobs," something I frequently did. And the next day, I was strongly reprimanded. "The Red Sox are not slobs! That is very disrespectful." I was stunned.

And so, the Red Sox went to the 2004 World Series. It was the first time that they had been there since 1986. But they hadn’t won since 1918. They played against the Saint Louis Cardinals of the National League Central Division. And in four not-so-tight games, Boston swept them. Manny Ramirez was the World Series MVP. There was dancing in the streets of Boston. All of New England rejoiced. After Boston won, we had "Red Sox appreciation day" at school. So I wore a #2 Yankees home jersey. Derek Jeter. And so, the principal actually pulled me out of the classroom. I like my principal a lot, but I was flabbergasted at what she said to me. "I’m disappointed in you. You aren’t wearing anything to show any appreciation for the Red Sox." "Sister, I have no appreciation for the Red Sox." "But you’re not wearing anything red, not even a little red dot. Don’t you even respect the Red Sox?" "No," I said. "Not at all."

Closing of Behind Enemy Lines: A Yankee Fan’s Story

I still haven’t escaped the Boston Red Sox World Series victory. It’s everywhere. On hats, shirts, pennants, flags and signs. It follows me everywhere. Nor have I escaped the awful hatred the was kindled in my heart after the Red Sox won. It may not be as bad or as strong as I think, but it is still pretty horrible. This deep anger burns like a fire in me. Every time I see David Ortiz, or Manny Ramirez, or any Red Sox logo, I bristle with an old anger that has been awakened. And the only way that it can be extinguished is if the Yankees get redemption. The Bronx Bombers have to beat the "Idiots," the Red Sox. The collapse of 2004 will serve as motivation. But no matter how long it takes for that to happen, I will always be a Yankees fan. And I will never be afraid to proclaim it to the world, even though I am behind enemy lines.

Now, one year later, I’m still waiting. I still love the Yankees, and I still hate the Red Sox. But I am still waiting for the Yanks to win again. I just hope I won’t have to wait 86 years.

The 1960's Yankees through another young boy's eyes.

I’m pretty sure that I wrote this for a grammar school assignment in 1962. I received an “A” on it. I copied it exactly, even leaving in spelling and grammatical errors.

If I Were by Marc Friedland

If I were the manager of the Yankee’s I’d do many different things that Ralph Houk didn’t. My line up would be Moose, Richardson, Berra, Mantle, Maris, Howard, new shortstop, Boyer, Pitcher. My pinch hitters will be Blanchard, Cerv, Hale and others. I won’t make any foolish deals. I’ll pay them a good price as long as they hit the ball and catch it. I’d never put my pitchers in order it depends on the other pitcher who I pitch against him. I’d probably trade Lopez and other players. I’d tell Maris and Mantle try for homers not average.

That’s how I’d manage the Yankee’s.

KEVIN BROWN, WHAT A CLOWN, TAKES TO THE MOUND LIKE HE'S CHARLIE BROWN.

1 AND 1/3, SIX RUNS DOWN, 14 MILLION DOLLAR HOUND.

CRUSHED BY ANYONE HE FACES, PUNCHES WALLS IN PLAYOFF RACES, BALKY BACK AND OLD AND FLAT, THIS GUY GETS A YANKEE HAT?

GAME 7 HE GETS AND 3 TIMES IN THE FIRST, FOR SOME WEIRD REASON (MONEY), I GUESS THEY DON'T THINK ITS HIS WORST!

WELL IM WILLING TO FACE IT AND CALL HIM A BUST BECAUSE WATCHING HIM PITCH FOR THE YANKS IS NOT JUST.

WRITTEN BY: JEFF WEAVER

Sox/Yanks

I once was a Yankee fan, but I thought it was easy,
So I went for a team that the Yankees see as sleazy,
In ALCS 2004 I saw a an absolute collapse,
It happened so terribly slow, due to strategic mishaps.
The empire had fallen, was through, and finished.
The chances of victory and morale were diminished.
the Red Sox were victorious they had seized the momentum and day,
The Fenway freaks are out, and the pinstripe fans have gone away.
Beantown started with high hopes then went 0 and 3
Take a homerun by Big Papi, a bloody sock, and then you get "history."
True Schilling had a blood sacrifice, but earlier so had Jeter.
But in Game 6, A-Rod went from a Yankee to a cheater.
Yanks just three outs away, Torre gave the ball to Mo,
A walk, a stolen base, a single, and then Mo had a blow.
All these events I saw closely happen but said, "What the hey,
"I'm used to losing, I root for Tampa Bay!"

Then the season was over for the men who were winners,
With what Boston had done, they must've felt like sinners.
With all of the Yankee faithful feeling like dopes,
The Red Sox went on to Fall Classic sweep, St. Louis had no hopes.
A chance to return to the World Series had been missed,
No World Series, a loss to Boston, means Emperor George is pissed.
Heredia went to the Mets, Lofton to the Phillies,
Torre had kept his place, but the Mets now are Willie's.
Cashman doesn't sit back on the off-season, he goes to it with a bang,
So he went on a signing and a trading spree, and got back the old gang.
Favorites came back, Stanton, Joe Girardi, and Tino,
I'm sure if he could've, he would've gotten the Bambino.
Youth returned to the rotation, in Carl Pavano and Jaret Wright,
And best of all Randy Johnson, the Yankees tunnel-end had some light.
But who could really know how Opening Day would be,
Results from what they'd call Game 8, they'd have to wait and see.

So the day finally came when the Yankees got retribution,
A combo of the Big Unit and Godzilla was the Red Sox execution.
A recipe that would feed the Yankees another Series champs was cooking,
The season is just one big formality, it's the fall where the Yanks are looking.
New York Yankees, 27-time World Champions, is a comfortable fit.
But if it is true and done, it will also have a nice ring to it.
So good luck and congrats on a good start,
A team well blended and talented, each player will play a part.
But me and Sweet Lou wish you well, though Yankees fans of yesterday
We'll give you hell all nine innings, cause we root for Tampa Bay.

Coach Donnie B.

For the New York Yankees there's a coach of much respect,
He has so much talent, the players he must infect,
He must infect them with his old ability and skill,
So that when the bat meets the ball, the bat will make a kill!

To the fans he's known simply as Donnie Baseball,
To the players, he's one of the best players of all.
So when he became hitting coach, a post he couldn't refuse,
He assured a highly talented team that they couldn't lose!
He coaches the pinstriped hitters so well good 'ol twenty-three,
Through the following examples, I'm sure that you'll agree.

Alex Rodriguez, he sure does blow a ball away!
Only trouble was if he wasn't doing that, he was producing a K.
So Donnie got him in the clubhouse and they had a talk,
A few lessons later, and A-Rod learned how to work a walk.

Miguel Cairo, former Cardinal, a journey man of utility,
But his time in New York, he was a student of Donnie B.
A student, yes, he learned all from the great man,
Boost his B.A. over 45 points? Yes, yes he can.

And most epically the slugger Jason Giambi,
For his lack of swing, a juicer he used to be.
But he came clean and wanted to win the right way,
So Donny said to him, "I'll improve the way you play."
His hits were so predictable, so Donny had to say,
"You'd be a better hitter if you go the other way."
Now when Giambi plays, the shift is always on,
But it doesn't matter when the ball is going, going, gone!

So when Yanks are in a slump they know right where to go,
A few batting sessions with him, he'll make your swing flow.
He put Giambi's bat in a renaissance, teaches Yankees not to strikeout,
So in the case of good 'ol number twenty-three, the Yanks just cannot do without!

Jonathan Carlson, New Jersey (fmr. Yankees fan)

"PEDRO (LITTLE MANGO TREE)"

BY: CHUNGAS FURY

POOR LITTLE PEDRO WITH 5 CENTS CAUSE HE'S POOR,

THREW ALL THE MANGOS HE COULD FIND ON THE FLOOR,

WATCHING THE BUSES GO BY 1 BY 1, POOR LITTLE PEDRO, HE BAKED IN THE SUN.

HE HAD 2 CHOICES THAT DAY AS HE STOOD WITHOUT FARE,

HE COULD THROW ALL THE MANGOS AND SHAKE THE TREE BARE,

OR PERHAPS HE COULD WAIT AND LET THE FRUIT SHADE HIS HAIR.

POOR LITTLE PEDRO WAS JEALOUS OF ANOTHER, HE KNEW HE COULD THROW A MANGO HARDER THAN HIS BROTHER.

SO LITTLE PEDRO PRACTICED BY KILLING THE BIRDS FIRST, HE BLEW OFF THEIR BEAKS AND DEVELOPED HIS THIRST.

THEN HE PICKED MANGOS TO THROW AT THE CROWD, AND 1 BY 1 HE STARTED KNOCKING PEOPLE DOWN.

POOR LITTLE PEDRO WITH 5 CENTS IN HIS POCKET, NO HE DIDN'T COME FROM TEXAS LIKE THE GUY WE CALL ROCKET.

POOR LITTLE PEDRO UNDER LITTLE MANGO TREES,

WHAT COULD HE PROVE UNTIL HE SET HIMSELF FREE?

HE SWAM TO L.A. AND HE STARTED A TREND,

HE THREW THE BALL LIKE A MANGO FROM START UNTIL END & HAD NO IDEA WHERE THE THING WOULD LAND.

POOR LITTLE PEDRO WAS KICKED AND SLAPPED, PUNCHED & BEAT, HE WAS FORCED TO CONTROL MUCH OF HIS HEAT.

EJECTED, SUSPENDED, THROWN OUT OF THE GAME, HE THOUGHT THROWING BASEBALLS AND MANGOS WOULD ALL BE THE SAME.

POOR LITTLE PEDRO, UNDER LITTLE MANGO TREES,

IF YOU SEE THIS LOSER, KEEP WALKING PLEASE.

Oh - Roger Rocket

Have I got news for you

You sold out to Houston

You're a traitor without a clue

You say you signed for friendship

I believe Pettitte is his name

Well if Andy jumped off a bridge

Would you then do the same?

You never planned to retire

Just didn't have the backbone to say

You wanted out of New York

So you did it in the most cowardly way

You took our loving send off

And got a Hummer to top it off

Then I see you on Sports Center

Wearing the colors of Astro cloth

I heard you are disturbed

By the way New Yorkers feel

Did you really ever think

We would embrace your 1 year 5 mill deal?

Pitching ten minutes from your mansion

you say you just couldn't turn down

well here's a news flash, you traitor

you're a backstabber, a liar, a clown

When the hall of fame comes calling

I hope I never see

you wearing Yankee pin stripes

Because you don't deserve to be!!!

Native New Yorker

Silence in Beantown

As Friday began in Boston Town

Little was said about a world series crown

They watched last night and frustration grew

Here come those damn boys in "pinstriped" blue

Not a word was said; not a boast or brag

No dancing in the street, no waiving of the pennant flag

And even though this is only game two

Last night, Beantown looked pretty much through.

To New York this win came as no surprise.

Game one just threw a little dirt in our eyes.

It takes more then one game to win the show

Oh but wait a minute, 99.9% of Boston wouldn't know.

So I hope Wednesday night in Boston was grand

I hope you all could hardly stand

Even Beantown should taste a little bit of victory

And hope that the curse is just a piece of history

Saturday brings home one of your own

A face that Boston made very well known

But some how to Roger that means not a thing

'Cause on his finger "The Sox" never put a world series ring.

So to Boston this series is all your gonna get

Its locked up at 1 and the Yanks didn't even start yet

Raise you glasses while you sit in your pubs

And toast to the "Babe" as the YANKS play the CUBS

by - Jon Encarnacion

Manny at the Bat, a Ballad of the Curse
A PARODY of "Casey at the Bat, A Ballad of the Republic".......
By Vin Britton

The outlook wasn't brilliant for the Boston nine that day;
the Yanks led four to two, with but one more inning to play.
And then when Nixon died at first, and Mueller did the same,
a sickly silence fell upon the faithful at the game.

A straggling few got up to go thinking, "this is the worst".
Many more clung to their seats thinking, "we can beat the curse."
They thought only if Manny could get but a whack at that,
they'd put up even money now with Manny at the bat.

But Damon preceded Manny, and did Nomar that chump,
The former was a pretty boy, the latter was in a slump.
With a thread of hope, but not much chance the Bosox fans all sat,
it was not looking good for Manny getting to the bat.
But Damon ripped a single, to show he wasn't through,
Nomar hit a little bloop, all that he could do

25,000 plus fans cheered with all their soles.
The noise rumbled off the monster, and wrapped around the pesky pole.
"Now we have a chance" they thought, certain they were of that.
Fore Manny, the mighty Manny, was advancing to the bat.

All eyes were on him, as he rubbed his hands with dirt.
All the fans were shouting, as he wiped them on his shirt.
Then while the aging Rocket ground the ball into his hip,
defiance gleamed in Manny's eye, a sneer curled Manny's lip.

Here comes Rogers fastball like a bullet from a gun,
Manny stood there watching, and the umpire said "strike one!"
The Rocket leans in, and gets the sign, his chest bears Yankee blue.
A stream of milk, at the knees, and the umpire said "strike two!"

The sneer is gone from Manny's lip, his teeth are clinched in hate.
He pounds with furious anger, his bat upon the plate.
And now the Rocket holds the ball, and now he lets it go.
And now the air is shattered, by the force of Manny's blow.

Somewhere Clemens' is winning rings, somewhere Boggs has one.
And somewhere Buckner's thinking, if we just had one more run.
Somewhere the Babe is laughing, while the Sox fans scream and shout.
Fore there is no joy in Beantown, the mighty Manny has struck out.......

When The Season Ends

By Casie Shimansky

I became a Yankee before I even knew what being a Yankee really meant. On May 11th I came into the world shouting, "YANK-EES!! YANK-EES!!" instead of being a normal crying baby. My dad had one eye on my birth, and the other on the Yankees game. My family has loved baseball, played baseball, coached baseball, had screaming fits of rage while watching baseball on TV, and gone to baseball games at the greatest stadium in the world- The House That Ruth Built. I sat in those stands, cheered for my team, ate hotdogs, and watched some of the greatest players do what they do best.

It's been almost twenty-one years now, and nothing has changed. Although I am forced to watch the games on television in Florida...everything else is still the same. I am still a Yankee. I'll always be a Yankee. Out of all those baseball teams I found a home with the Yankees, and that's never been a bad place to be.

My cousins, David and Steven decided to take me along with them on a trip to the baseball card store. It was a long walk for my little five year old legs, but I knew I could make it. I had to make it. We were halfway there when I tripped and fell. My knee burst open from its impact with the concrete. I didn’t cry. I don’t remember the pain. After a few minutes I even stood up and started to walk again.
    “What about the blood?” I looked at my knee and then to Steven as if he would have some magical cure in his back pocket. He was the older of the two, but it was David who spoke of what seemed to be my only option.
    “Just lick it.” We continued to walk.
    “Lick it?!” I squeaked truly horrified at the idea. I was a little girl and little girls don’t lick their own blood!
    He shrugged his shoulders, “It’s only blood.”
    Steven looked at his younger brother as if he had just handed me a cigarette, and told me that it was a healthy habit that would guarantee me a long prosperous life. He smiled at me however, “We’ve still got a while to go, Case. Want a piggy back ride?”
    My eyes lit up. Of course I want a piggy back ride! I shook my head, “Yeah!” I shouted enthusiastically.
    Steven laughed, “All right then,” He crouched closely to the ground, “Dave, help her up.” David lifted me off the ground and placed me onto Steven’s back. I quickly clung to his neck as he stood into his natural height. “Now don’t go getting any blood on this shirt…got it?” I nodded my head again as we continued our way down the street.
    It wasn’t too much longer before we reached the card shop. Steven set me up on the counter, and I picked out a few packs of baseball cards with David’s help while Steven and the store’s owner cleaned and bandaged my bloody knee. The boys then picked out a few packs of their own before we paid and left the store.
    We walked slowly down the street as the boys inspected each card, each player, and each statistic. I quickly unwrapped my first pack and shoved the cardboard gum into my tiny mouth.
    “What’d you get, Case? Anything good?” David was still searching through his newly acquired cards. I shrugged and handed him my first pack, and he searched through them. I pretended to search through my second pack as if I knew what to look for.
    “I got one! I got one!” I shouted, my mouth overwhelming full of chewing gum.
    The boys laughed. They didn’t have to ask to know who or what I meant, yet Steven humored me and inquired excitedly, “Who’d you get?!”
    I held out my card to him and beamed, “Daryl Strawberry!” I said the name as if it were golden. My cousins laughed again as I continued, “I don’t have this one…”
    It was only natural for Daryl Strawberry to be my favorite. I realized that a baseball player with my favorite fruit for a last name was rare, and so it seemed to be fate. Fifteen years later I still carry a small scar on my left knee from that concrete encounter.  It seems to be a simple reminder that baseball never leaves you.

    He was twenty years old when his mother called him, “Johnny? What do you want me to do with these baseball cards?”
     He laughed. “Baseball cards? You still have those?”
     “Of course I do! Now…what do you want me to do with them? They’ve been sitting around this house collecting dust for years.”
     “Just throw them away, Mom.” He sighed. You’ll regret this.
     “You want me to throw them away?” She was stunned.
     “Yeah…yeah.” Just tell her to put them in the attic.
     “Are you sure?” She could tell that he wasn’t. A mother always knows.
      He hesitated. “Absolutely,” he was more confident this time, “I’m too old for silly cards.” He inhaled deeply. They’re just stupid baseball cards.
     “All right, Johnny…if you’re sure.”
     “I’m sure.” It’s okay. They’re just baseball cards.
     She hung up the phone, and walked out to the curb where she opened the trash can and threw in her son’s box of childhood baseball cards. She knew she shouldn’t have. She knew that she could’ve put them in the attic. He never would’ve known she had disobeyed him. She closed the lid and sighed. What if he regrets this?
     In that box sat legends. Johnny’s favorite was Mickey Mantle, and he had strived for years to acquire all of his cards. He had nearly succeeded. How was he to know? There was no way for him to know. You’re never too old for baseball. Baseball is never too old for you.

"Daddy?" I tugged at the side of his white t-shirt as we stood in a Disney World Sport's shop.

He shook his head lightly as if to rid himself of a faded memory, "Yeah?"

"What'cha lookin' at?" I stared up at the autographed picture that was carefully hung on the wall. The picture wore a 'sold' sign around its golden frame.

"That? That's a photograph of Mickey Mantle." His tone was hushed.

"He's a Yankee." I stated matter-of-factly. The pin striped baseball uniform and symbolic logo was hard to miss. I knew nothing of Mickey Mantle though. I was a different generation of Yankees fans. I knew of Daryl Strawberry and Don Mattingly, but nothing of Mickey Mantle.

"Yes, Case. . .he was." He appeared to be reminiscent. I began to ask a question, but before I could finish he whispered, "He died this morning." We stared at the photo silently.

My mom then came around the corner followed by my two younger sisters. She immediately looked up at the photograph on the wall, and smiled slightly as if she knew this is where we would be.

"John...what ever happened to all of those old cards?" She asked.

He sighed, "I told mom to throw them away years ago."

I pried my gaze away from the photo, "What old cards?" I let the question hang in the air as I searched my parent's faces for an answer.

"I used to have a baseball card collection," dad began, "Full of Mickey Mantle cards. He was my favorite. Now they're gone." He forced a smile in my direction.

"You told grandma to throw them out?" It didn't make sense to me. How could he just let her throw them out? How do you throw away your team?

"I thought I was too old for baseball. I had no way of knowing. . ."

"You still watch it though! You yelled at them just the other night!" I protested.

He nodded his head, "I know, Case. I know."

The rest of the family began to walk out of the store slowly, but dad and I stood there for a moment longer staring up at Mickey Mantle. I slipped my tiny eleven year old hand into his palm, and we smiled at one another before we began to trail my family's footsteps toward the exit.

"Daddy? Tell me about Mickey Mantle."

He squeezed my hand tightly, "Mickey Mantle was a great baseball hero. . ."

     My mom, Kellie, and I sat in the living room watching television when Stefanie rushed out of the master bedroom in a fit of laughter. Mom and I exchanged a concerned look as Stefanie fell to the floor. The tears rolled down her rosy cheeks.
     “Um…Stef? What’s so funny?” Kellie questioned.
     “You can’t hear him in there yelling at the TV?!” she choked out..
     Mom and I looked at one another again. “How could we not hear him?” Dad had just spent the past nine innings of a baseball game yelling at the Yankees. Suddenly from around the corner he appeared. He was still red in the face as he sat down in his green leather recliner.
     “Good game, Dad?” I questioned as I smiled at Stefanie.
     He stared intently at the TV screen which was now programmed on the news, “The Yankees suck.” He grumbled.
     “Guess not,” Mom said answering my question. We were forced to laugh as he continued to pout. It seemed to be my dad's favorite saying, and it took me a long time to understand the reasoning behind it. It's just a superstition. My dad will say that they'll lose in hopes that they'll really win. It's odd, but that's the mind of a sports fan. I smiled to myself as I was fully aware of my own superstitions.  He was upset now, but there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that he would still tune in for tomorrow night’s game. Only a true fan would.

     Ms. Barris, my gym teacher taught our class how to play baseball. What the terms meant. How to swing. How to run. How to steal the bases. When to play it safe, and when to be brave. I struck out a lot. I was just better at striking out than running the bases. It’s not that I wanted to strike out. No one ever wants to strike out.
     My opponents were in their places that day on the field. My teammates were sitting behind me. I put the helmet on my head, took a bat, and stepped up to the plate.
     “Ready?” Ms. Barris yelled in a voice that only drill sergeants should have.
     I shook my head. She threw two pitches, and I missed two hits.
     “All right, Casie…last try. Three strikes and you’re outta here!” She shouted again from the pitcher’s mound.
     Throw the ball! I took a deep breath. She threw the ball, and I swung with every intent on knocking that ball past Ms. Barris, past my classmates, and past our school’s outfield. The ball flew past my bat with a sudden whiff. The catcher caught it. I stood there, and for a moment things were quiet. We all knew what was coming. This scene had run it’s course before. I held my breath.
     “And the Mighty Casie has STRUCK OUT!” Ms. Barris quoted the children’s tale excitedly as if she had struck out Babe Ruth himself. She did it every time we played baseball. She did it every time I struck out. I hated it. I loathed it. Why’d they have to name that character Casey? Why’d we have to play baseball? When we played dodge ball or volleyball there were no references to children’s stories. I never struck out then.

I was nine or ten when I stepped up to the plate that day. Nothing was different about the day. Nothing was even remotely special about the day. It was just another Saturday baseball game. I tried to exude the image of a professional as I stood there in my baby pink Twins t-shirt. I swung the bat lightly in a practice attempt, and aimed exactly where I thought the ball would be pitched. It was my own personal routine. I readied myself. Then it came. Strike one. It came again. Strike two. Last chance, Case. Deep breath. It came one more time. I swung. You always know when you hit the hell out of a ball. You can feel it in your bones.
I watched that ball until it was gone, and by gone I mean the farthest edge of the field. I ran around every single base and came home to a cheering crowd that surrounded me. I felt heroic. I felt like a champion. I don’t know if we won that game. I can’t tell you how many other games we did win, but that was my shinning moment. My first. . .and only. . . homerun was witnessed by no more than parents, teammates, and opponents on a field in New Jersey over ten years ago. That is still one of the highlights of my life. The day Casie did not strike out.

     I tore the box open rapidly. I knew what was inside of it. I had been waiting for it’s arrival for weeks now. I had just purchased the Derek Jeter jersey off of EBay for twenty dollars. I picked it up out of it’s cardboard box and smiled. I inspected the shirt’s front and back before throwing it over my tank top and tucking it into my denim jeans. I raced toward the mirror to get the full effect. It was a little big, but that was okay. It was mine. I walked into my parents bedroom where Stefanie and her friends were watching TV.
     “Like my new shirt?!” I grinned as I modeled the jersey. Stefanie rolled her eyes as her friends smiled politely. “Well?” I encouraged her comments.
     “It’s great.” She murmured sarcastically just to please me. She turned to her friends and whispered, “She’s nuts about baseball…I don’t know why, but she is.” I was too wrapped up in my own excitement to notice her lack of enthusiasm. It had arrived just in time for the World Series.

“The Marlins have won the World Series! The Marlins have done it!” The radio announced. I turned off the car, and climbed out slowly. I felt sick. It had been my first night of a new job at a local restaurant, and I tried to focus on the guests. I really did, but I'd be lying if I said my eyes never ventured up to the TV screen at the bar. I kept an eye on the game all night, and when my manager let me go home early I raced to my car to turn on the radio. Listening to the games on the radio was nothing like watching them, yet it still had a certain undeniable excitement to it.

    I walked slowly through the garage, and then into the house. I entered the kitchen and then finally the family room. Dad was in his green recliner and the news was on. He looked up at me. I wish I could've watched the game at home. We would've had so much fun even with the upsetting loss.
     “The Marlins won.” He mumbled.
     “I know. I listened to the game on the radio.” The season was over. We watched the news for a while. “Turn on FOX, Dad.”
     “Why? I don’t want to see them celebrating.”
     Neither do I. He turned the channel back to FOX. The Marlins were jumping all over our field. They deserved it, no doubt, but…on our field? It was too much.
     I got up to get ready for bed, and walked down the hallway toward the bathroom. I was forced to hesitate at Stefanie’s door. Her TV was on, which was no surprise…she often fell asleep while watching TV. However, it was what was on the screen that caught my attention. I entered her room quietly and slowly sat myself down on the edge of her bed. She had been watching the game. I smiled knowing that she'd never admit to this scenario. I sat there in the dark as the season came to an end. The Marlins celebrated, the broadcasters made their last remarks. Then I turned off the TV. There will always be next October.

Fans do not stop being fans because their team has lost. We may yell, scream, jump up and down, lose our voices...curse...and some even cry, but we never stop believing that OUR team is the BEST team. I got lucky...my team just happens to be one of the best sports teams in history. We never lose hope that we'll pull off the big win, make the great play, and ultimately save the day.
Once a Yankee, always a Yankee. So, until next season...goodnight from Yankee Stadium.

THE HOTTEST GAME

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TAG LINE REPEAT ONCE

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