Subway Series: A lifetime of hope becomes a reality
Turning back the clock to fulfill every baseball fan’s fantasy
When I was a little boy, perhaps seven or eight years old while growing up in Jersey City, there wasn’t a single thing more important than baseball. I would absorb every ounce of the national pastime that a youngster could soak in, every bit of possible information, every morsel of knowledge. As part of that life’s lesson, I used to love to sit and listen to the stories my father would tell about New York baseball in the "Glory Days."
Subway Series: A lifetime of hope becomes a reality
Turning back the clock to fulfill every baseball fan’s fantasy
When I was a little boy, perhaps seven or eight years old while growing up in Jersey City, there wasn’t a single thing more important than baseball. I would absorb every ounce of the national pastime that a youngster could soak in, every bit of possible information, every morsel of knowledge. As part of that life’s lesson, I used to love to sit and listen to the stories my father would tell about New York baseball in the "Glory Days."
Back in the 1940s and 50s, when the Yankees reigned as champion every year, when the Dodgers were in Brooklyn and the Giants were in Manhattan. About places like Ebbets Field and the Polo Grounds. About Willie, Mickey and the Duke. About Yogi and Campy. About Bobby Thomson and Ralph Branca and "The Shot Heard ‘Round the World." Why Sal Maglie was "The Barber" and Phil Rizzuto was "The Scooter." About the world’s most influential athlete, Jack Roosevelt Robinson, a.k.a. Jackie, who played his first professional game practically in my backyard.
Back then, the baseball season would culminate in a yearly event called a Subway Series. Oh, sure, it was also known as the World Series, the granddaddy of all baseball events. But in New York, it was always the Subway Series, because the Yankees were there every year, facing off against either the Dodgers or the Giants. The Bronx Bombers against Dem Bums from Brooklyn.
I’d hear the stories of my father, who once played baseball in the Giants’ organization, but adored the Yankees. Of course, my Dad would point out to me the big-time players like Mantle and DiMaggio, names that even my mother would know. But he would also call attention to the little-known players, like Charlie Silvera and Nick Etten, forcing me to ruffle through the pages of the Baseball Encyclopedia to find out if these guys really played for the Yankees or Giants or Dodgers.
In amazement, I could not believe how many times that the entire World Series was played within the city of New York. I wondered what happened, like did the rest of baseball just stop playing to allow the World Series to be played in New York?
Places like Chicago and Boston would go for decades without hosting a World Series game, but in the ’40s and ’50s, it was an annual October occurrence in the Big Apple, like the falling leaves, the changing temperatures and the plans for Halloween.
When I heard those stories, or read books, or saw historical perspectives of the time period, I used to dream and wonder what it must have been like to be alive at the time, to witness the pure beauty of a Subway Series.
And how I wished that I were somehow born during that time period, so I could have been in Ebbets Field, been to the Polo Grounds, traveled to Yankee Stadium and experienced a Subway Series. I wished I could have been a part of it all.
"It must have been something back then, huh, Dad?" I would ask.
"It was the best," he’d say.
I even was blessed to have an older brother who had been a teenager in the 50s, who was also a Yankee fan. He told me tales of sneaking out of St. Aloysius High School to listen to Mel Allen call the Yankees-Dodgers series.
Well, this weekend, I can become a little kid all over again – only this time, it’s for real. No dreaming is necessary.
As unbelievable as it can be, the Yankees will play the Mets in the first Subway Series since 1956, beginning this weekend. For this baseball lover and historian, it’s a dream come true.
The Mets accomplished the feat by defeating the Cardinals in the National League Championship Series on Monday. One day later, it was the Yankees’ turn to join in the fun, defeating the Mariners to win the franchise’s 37th American League championship.
And since it has become a reality, I have been absolutely numb, thinking that some gremlin is going to pinch me, wake me up and show me the standings where my beloved Mets are in last place in the National League East, some umpteen games out of first. That’s the way it usually is.
This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. The Yankees are actually playing the Mets in the World Series? For 10 wonderful and heart-wrenching days, fathers will be pitted against sons, husbands against wives, brothers against brothers. Long-time friends will become instant foes. Devotion to one’s baseball team will do that, especially with a World Championship on the line.
Since I’ve been alive, when the Mets were good, the Yankees were horrible. And vice versa. There were only a few years were both teams were even in contention. In 1985, both teams were decent, but fell short in the end. The Mets won the World Series a year later.
While the Yankees were constructing their most impressive run of late, the Mets were an afterthought – until Memorial Day weekend in 1998, when the greatest hitting catcher in baseball history named Michael Piazza actually put on a Mets uniform.
We came real close last year, when the Yankees won the pennant and the Mets tugged on our heartstrings before finally falling to the Braves in the NLCS in six games. That was as close as we got to making history. Before this weekend.
The buildup for such a historical event is just beginning. Television reporters are standing outside Shea Stadium in the rain, even though they know nothing is going on inside. They’re asking people what team they’re rooting for. And there are all the reports of how intense the atmosphere will become, with possible barroom brawls and physical altercations.
I’m just thinking about history, how I can someday tell my kids and grandkids that I was alive for a Subway Series, when the Mets played the Yankees. And how I wish my father and brother were here to enjoy the time with me.
Who am I rooting for? There isn’t a doubt. I live, breathe, eat, sleep, live and die with my Mets. I want this more than anything. I want to be able to enjoy the tickertape parade down the Canyon of Heroes and cheer for my favorite team again. It’s been 14 long years since the Mets have gotten this far. I want to cherish the time and the moment.
And for my friends out there who I know are rooting for their favorite teams, guys like Hoboken coach Buddy Matthews and his crony, Joe Reinhard; for Hudson Catholic coach Mike Zadroga and Ferris coach Mike Hogan, who hates the Mets more than I hate warm beer; to fellow sportswriter Mike Spina, who I hope is recovering and able to root for his Yankees …
To the crowd at Dohoney’s and the guys at Leo’s Grandevous and the fellows at the St. Joseph’s Men’s Club in Union City; to the members of the Roberto Clemente Little League, who scoured and made faces to me when I came to a Bucky Dent baseball clinic wearing a Mets hat …
And to my loving wife, Mary, who has become more of a baseball fan in the time we’ve been together and who roots for Paul O’Neill with unconditional love, as a 1999 World Champion banner flies outside our home, get ready. There’s going to be a blue and orange one blowing in the breeze in about two weeks. Yes, the battle lines have been drawn inside my own home.
Enjoy the time. It should be wild. I know I will. It’s something I’ve waited my entire life to see.
As long as the boys from Flushing by the Bay are left holding the trophy in two weeks, then everything is wonderful in the world. The World Series, that is, New York style.