TM 245: What's the first thing you remember?
Yankee Stadium.
I was lucky enough to be a kid in the greatest city on earth, and maybe I should say that my first memory is of Central Park or the Empire State Building or FAO Schwartz. I remember all those places, but if I try to think back as far as I can, I end up on that old diamond in the Bronx. We were out on the field for some reason. It was Stark Industries day, or Dad was giving out an award, or getting an award, or having a section of the parking lot named after him, or something. Whatever it was for. Dad was standing there in front of home plate, and his voice was booming over the loudspeaker. Mom was holding on to me -- of course, I just wanted to get down and play in the dirt, so I was squirming, but she just held me tighter. Then she lifted me up and the crowd roared.
There was no connection, naturally. Dad had just said, "Give a hand for the New York Yankees, the greatest team on Earth," and people had cheered as they do. But the way Mom and Dad told it, I started going nuts, waving, like I thought they were all cheering for me.
This story had a different tone, naturally, when my mother told it, and when my father told it, and I've been over it with any number of friends, girlfriends, and therapists. In case you were wondering. Not that this disclaimer will stop any amateur psychologists out there from professing your own opinions.
All I mean to say is that I'll miss old Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth built. They'll have a shiny new stadium after this year, but it won't be the same. Still, I wish the team well -- prima donna attitudes and ten games out of first place, notwithstanding. As old T.S. said, "Not fare well, but fare forward, voyagers."
I was lucky enough to be a kid in the greatest city on earth, and maybe I should say that my first memory is of Central Park or the Empire State Building or FAO Schwartz. I remember all those places, but if I try to think back as far as I can, I end up on that old diamond in the Bronx. We were out on the field for some reason. It was Stark Industries day, or Dad was giving out an award, or getting an award, or having a section of the parking lot named after him, or something. Whatever it was for. Dad was standing there in front of home plate, and his voice was booming over the loudspeaker. Mom was holding on to me -- of course, I just wanted to get down and play in the dirt, so I was squirming, but she just held me tighter. Then she lifted me up and the crowd roared.
There was no connection, naturally. Dad had just said, "Give a hand for the New York Yankees, the greatest team on Earth," and people had cheered as they do. But the way Mom and Dad told it, I started going nuts, waving, like I thought they were all cheering for me.
This story had a different tone, naturally, when my mother told it, and when my father told it, and I've been over it with any number of friends, girlfriends, and therapists. In case you were wondering. Not that this disclaimer will stop any amateur psychologists out there from professing your own opinions.
All I mean to say is that I'll miss old Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth built. They'll have a shiny new stadium after this year, but it won't be the same. Still, I wish the team well -- prima donna attitudes and ten games out of first place, notwithstanding. As old T.S. said, "Not fare well, but fare forward, voyagers."