Gentlemen,

    Do you believe in miracles?  I do.  I was there.  I saw one.

    It wasn't just a baseball game.  Nothing happens in New York these days
that doesn't happen against the backdrop of September 11.  I saw the spirit
of the city, the spirit of this country, the spirit of the brotherhood of
man, burst through the night as surely and as explosively as that Brosius'
drive into the left field seats.  It was a wondrous thing to behold and to
share.  Let me see if I can share any of it with you:

    It all started with a phone call on Wednesday night from a local friend
of mine, recently retired teacher, more than slightly anal personality, who
said he had a line on a couple of WS tickets for game 5.  I had never been
to a World Series game, so my immediate response was, "great.  let's do it."
After I hung up, the effort of putting this trip together had me rethinking
the quickness of my response.

    First there was the cost.  He said the tickets would be $175 but we
could get them at that face value.  He had three, maybe a chance at a
fourth, but we wouldn't know about that until the next afternoon, when the
original holder would decide if he would go to the game with us, or let us
purchase that one also.  I immediately thought about just who might be
excited to participate in this adventure, (some die-hard Yankee fan?), but
then I thought of my 23 year old son.  He's a Met fan. (Thank God.  Rather
he be gay than a Yankee fan if truth be known.)  It had been much too long
since I took the then maybe seven year old, promising shortstop, to his
first game at Shea Stadium to see the likes of Mookie, Wally Backman,
Darryl, Keith Hernandez and the incredible pitching phenom, "Doctor K".  It
just struck me at the time that it would be great to take him to a World
Series game for a little adult, man to son, bonding.  Like I said, I now
believe in miracles.

    But then there was the time and distance factor, aside from the $350 I'd
be shelling out in ticket costs (you know I'm picking up the tab for him,
and I've got huge rotogolf debts looming).  He now lives in Wilkes-Barre, a
slight detour from a straight shot to NYC which is a 450 mile swing as is.
Those of you familiar with the area will appreciate the fact that we were
also going to have to drive to Deer Park to get the tickets.  I'm looking at
an 8 hour plus automobile ride just to get the tickets before sitting in two
hour traffic into the stadium.

    And then there was the more than slightly anal personality that I was
going to have to deal with who was key to this deal.  In addition to wanting
to go to the game, he decided to book a tee time at Beth Page Black, sight
of next year's Open, for 2:45 to play "however many holes we can get in
before dark."  Now I've got the cost, the drive, the time, the golf, the
traffic, the reality of the absolutely daunting effort that making this
thing happen would require.

    So I called him back and said, forget it.  Find somebody else.  Luckily,
my anal friend would not let me off the hook so easily, and with great
reluctance I allowed him to talk me into the necessary 5 AM departure that
we would need to pull this thing off.

    And this is the first thing about miracles that I know:  Sometimes in
life you have to really put out an effort to put yourself somewhere other
than where it is easier to be.  Trust me on this one.  Make the effort.
Great things present themselves when you travel outside of your comfort zone
to meet them.

    As luck would have it, the Yankees win game 4 on the incredible two out
home run by Martinez and Jeter's walk-off.  The sports world is buzzing the
next morning about the incredible finish and the magic of the Yankees.  It
makes the start of the day's journey much more palatable, especially with a
strong cup of coffee.  Here is where Albert comes into the story.

    I had called Al to tell him of the possibility of the fourth ticket to
see if he could arrange to get there with us.  And I mentioned golf at Beth
Page Black. So......... As the day evolved so did the plan to meet with Al
and a surprise guest, Guy, at the golf course.

    It was great to see Guy.  Not that it wasn't great to see Al, but I had
seen him just 6 weeks earlier.  Since September 11, friends are a little
dearer for all of us, and playing a few holes of golf and watching Guy have
a few laughs was reminder that the reward for my efforts was indeed worth
the energy being expended.

    We played six holes of golf on an absolutely beautiful golf course, the
only one that I've played that has a WARNING sign on the first tee.  Al
played great.  I broke the course record for six holes.  Guy lost a bunch of
golf balls.

    Then it was quick, down a beer, forget about the money Al stole from me
in ridiculous betting, get son Shamus who had been patiently waiting for us
to get done with this stupidafucking game, get my anal friend off the golf
course while he was whining about not playing more holes, and deal with the
L.I.E. traffic on our way to the House that Ruth built.  Unfortunately there
was no ticket for Al or Guy as the lawyer guy who had the tickets decided to
keep his, and meet us at the game.  He turned out to be a great guy and
wouldn't accept a dime for the tickets he gave to us.  A lawyer?  Not
accepting payment?  I told you that this story was full of miracles.

    We arrived a full hour ahead of game time, perfect, and the crowd that
milled about outside of classic stadium taverns like the Yankee Tavern and
the immortal STAN'S, was electric.  LET'S GO YANKEES,  and ARIZONA SUCKS
were the cries du jour.  Standard fare outside of Yankee Stadium to be sure,
but there was more going on with this crowd than normal.  The win in game
four was carrying over to a feeling of destiny for the Yankee fans who were
confident that they would blast out of their slump against this nobody,
Bautista, and roar back into Phoenix up 3-2 with choker Randy Johnson
quaking in his boots.  Vendors were hawking hats, shirts, NYPD and FDNY
paraphernalia, Flags, you name it.  This place was as alive as the Saturday
morning market in pre-Taliban Kabul.

    Stadium entrance security was cursory and seemed random, but I wondered
how many plain clothes detectives were in Yankee t-shirts and hats
screaming: Arizona sucks, at that moment.  Our seats were front row, loge
section, just above the field boxes, half way down the left field line
between third base and the fair pole.  Great view except for calling balls
and strikes, which I always recommend should only be done with a mask on
anyway.

    The obligatory stadium Death Dog was downed, program purchased, FDNY hat
secured atop of my balding head, and we worked our way to our seats.  The
program purchase was pretty eventful because son Shamus announced that he
wanted to keep score for the game and scorecards were intact.  Watching that
game with my son, keeping score together, conferring on ways to transcribe
the plays into moments pressed and recorded in time forever, yes, we now
have this classic game captured in pencil forever, as is the effort we
shared doing it.  Magic.
    Pre-game festivities buzzed along until it was time for the show to
begin.
    What a show.

    Some Spanish surnamed policeman sang God Bless America in the best
rendition that I have ever heard.  A HUGE American Flag was unfurled by
about forty police/firemen in center field and the Harlem Boy's Choir Club
sang the National Anthem in traditional style with a monstrous bald eagle
flying in from centerfield for the finale.  I'm sure that you've seen it all
on TV, but being there for it all was really impressive.  Yes, I was Proud
to be an American.

    Then it was time for the real game.  Jim Joyce (no relation to Dan) is
behind the plate, Dana Demuth is at first, Rippley is at second, Hirschbeck
is at third, Scott is down the left filed line and Rappuano in right.  I am
ready.

    Mussina starts strong and pitches his ASS off for the entire night.  Two
mistakes in the 5th to Finley and that catcher out of nowhere leave the
Yanks down 2-0.  Bautista starts off a little shaky but settles down without
giving up a run or a big inning.  As he goes on, he gets stronger, throwing
the Yankee hitters off of their timing until all they are doing his hitting
weak ground balls.  Now the fans are starting to wonder, who is this guy?
Carl Hubbell?  Mussina works out of a jam in the seventh to keep the Yanks
within reach, but this kid Bautista isn't letting up.  The ND guy, Counsel
is fabulous in the field.  Fans start to boo Justice in frustration.

    And then it begins.  Kim comes in and gives up a leadoff double to
Posada in the ninth and the crowd starts to bring it on.  Somebody
(Justice/Spencer?) grounds weakly to third and the runner does not advance.
Knoblauch looks sick on a half-swing, called strike embarrassment, and the
D-Backs are one out away from a victory again.  And then Brosius hits that
shot down the left field line.  From where we were sitting, I could follow
the flight of his ball off his bat and all the way into the seventh or
eighth row.  As it passed by me in flight, I could see the stitching on the
ball and I knew that it had enough on it to get out.  STAY FAIR, STAY FAIR,
STAY FAIR, was all I that I could think as I saw Luis Gonzalez practically
climb into the fourth row attempting to get it.  Fabulous leap off of his
feet.  But the ball is deeper, the score is tied, and the crowd goes wild.

    I have never seen anything like it.  There have been many game ending
heroics which I have seen where everyone was delirious that the home team
had prevailed on a miracle play. Stopping Miami or Penn State at the goal
line, Harry Oliver's field goal, Bill Mazeroski's home run, Joe Carter's
home run, Doug Flutie's Hail Mary, the Immaculate reception, the California
band play, on and on the list could go, but none will ever match the
electricity of that moment.  The world's heart had been broken six weeks
earlier, but this city's heart had been crushed.  Down to their last out for
the second consecutive night, they stared disappointment and unfulfilled int
entions in the face and beheld a miracle of happening once again.  It was
climactic, and it was magic.

    Strangers were hugging strangers.  High Fives all around and then all
around again.  Women were crying.  Men were shaking their heads in
disbelief.  Children were laughing and screaming their bloody heads off.  In
fact, everybody was doing all of the aforementioned.  Cheers and clapping
were thunderous.  The cement beneath our feet started to sway and roll
(scary, that).  It filled you, through and through.  So good, so good.  And
it went on and on.

    The rest was what the literary types call denouement.  D-Backs load the
bases with nobody on and don't score when Soriano makes a five star catch to
save the game.  Rivera fights through a night without his best, Sterling
Hitchcock comes in to save the day, Knoblauch sprints from second to home on
Soriano's hit and a great throw from right to the plate that nearly nips
him......  on an on it went with the crowd ever ecstatic that the destiny
that they had claimed in those pre-game celebrations was being realized in
front of their amazed eyes.

    As the loudspeakers blared Sinatra doing NY NY and fans stood and hugged
at the games conclusion, as police on mounted horseback rimmed the stadium
outfield below, as NY's police and firemen and their families swarmed on the
playing field, I hugged my son and knew that we would forever be bonded in
this moment in time with baseball as our welcomed heritage, with hope in the
face of despair a faith that we would always possess in our souls, with a
sharing amongst over fifty thousand perfect strangers a testimony to man's
ability to feel communal love, I knew that we had glimpsed a piece of the
universe as it can be in the shadow of the nightmare of the world that we
wished wasn't.

    As we came out of the stadium into the streets, the mounted police were
exiting the stadium two abreast.  As the crowd cleared a path for them to
ride down the street, they started to clap and cheer wildly for the police.
Amazing.  Imagine that.

    And then a chant went up that soon filled the entire scene, the crowd
was booming: USA! USA! USA! USA!

    I don't think anybody got mugged in the city that night. It was great.

    It was truly a November Classic.

Peace to you all,
Andy