New York Yankees

This column from today's Washington Post about the memories some people have from visiting Yankee Stadium as a kid stopped me dead in my tracks.

I was 11 years old when my dad took me to the stadium for the first time.  That was more than four decades ago and I still remember where we sat (box seats behind home plate given to my dad by one of his customers), who the Yanks were playing (Orioles), that both pitchers pitched complete games (how often does that happen anymore), and that the Yankees won.

I also remember what I felt like as we exited the highway and saw the stadium for the first time and when we got into the stadium and I saw the what is imbedded in my mind as the greenest grass ever grown on the field. 

Maybe it's really my morning coffee rather than the memories, but just thinking about this still get's my heart beating a little faster.

I grew up in New York City. I have one memory of going to Ebbets Field, and I often tell people that if the Dodgers hadn't left Brooklyn I would probably still be living there. But by the time I became a baseball fan, the Yankees were not just the only team in NYC, they were my team.

They still are. I've mellowed a bit in recent years (I no longer hate the Red Sox; I just root against them and hope they lose to every team they play), but going to Yankee Stadium is still close to a religious experience for me.

I am a huge Yankees fan.

I grew up in Brooklyn.  Although I have one memory of watching the Dodgers play at Ebbets Field, by the time I was old enough to develop a loyalty to a team the Yanks were the only one left in New York.  I can still give you the names, numbers, and positions of every player on the 1961 Yankees. I still grieve over Bill Mazeroski's homerun in the seventh game of the 1960 series against the Pirates.  Thurman Munson and Bucky Dent will forever be heroes.