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<\/a><\/p>\nAlthough I knew of Ruth, Gehrig, Lazzeri, Ford, and Mantle, I didn\u2019t see them play, so I feel as though I can never fully appreciate their accomplishments. I did, however, have the chance to meet Joe DiMaggio at a baseball card show in Midtown, Manhattan when I was 12 years old. I also grew up seeing Yogi Berra as a coach for the Yankees, so they mean as much to me as the players I grew up watching: Thurman Munson, Bucky Dent, Graig \u201cPuff\u201d Nettles, Reggie Jackson\/Mr. October, Ron \u201cGator\u201d Guidry, Jim \u201cCatfish\u201d Hunter, Goose Gossage, Willie Randolph, \u201cSweet Lou\u201d Piniella, and Bobby Murcer. The names of these men are the melody of the background music of my childhood: a sonorous tarantella for the wedding reception of my memory\u2019s dance floor.<\/p>\n
The late 1970\u2019s Bronx Zoo Yankee teams were compiled of a cast of boisterous, colorful, free-wheeling characters: they came to the neighborhoods and residencies of my family members from the country of Television, which made them transplants\u2014a new wave of immigrants, just like my relatives were.\u00a0 The way my parents and grandparents saw it, the Yankees were Nicolettis, which made Thurman Munson our clan\u2019s captain.<\/p>\n
What\u2019s more, Thurman was the first Yankees team captain since Lou Gehrig. I learned later on that Thurman was a reluctant \u201cofficial\u201d leader. He wanted his play to speak for itself, which it did. He made seven American League All-Star teams, and was the starting catcher for three of them. As the 1970 Rookie of the Year and the 1976 Most Valuable Player, he was and remains the only player to win both awards as a Yankee. Thurman was also a clutch hitter, owning a lifetime .357 batting average in postseason play, including a .529 clip in the 1976 World Series. He often played injured: he endured broken hands, separated shoulders and blows that knocked him to his knees, which were fractured on several occasions. Many of my memories are images of him staggering to get to his feet after tagging a runner out at the plate or being beaned by an opposing pitcher. Thurman was relentless. The more pain he was in, the more spectacular his performances seemed to be. His unique combination of tenacity and talent mesmerized me: Thurman was Major League Baseball\u2019s Poet Laureate of guts and persistence; a star player who played with the urgency and intensity of any of the fans sitting in the cheap seats or watching the game on the tube at the neighborhood bar or at home. Tanti saluti.<\/p>\n
I was also taken with Thurman\u2019s appearance. He didn\u2019t seem to look or carry himself like a typical baseball star: he was squat, even for a catcher, and had quite a paunch. One could make a case that he always looked out of shape. Coupled with his scraggly bearded face, he looked to me like a hairy punching bag.<\/p>\n
Thurman and my father seemed to share a go-getting, blue-collar approach to their livelihood. I remember him scowling the eyebrows off of any pitcher who dared to shake him off, especially during games against the Boston Red Sox and the Kansas City Royals. My father wore the same expression on his face whenever a taxicab or truck tailgated his bus. Even though Thurman was a famous ballplayer, he was an everyman, just like my father, albeit an athletically gifted, feisty everyman who was as stout of heart as he was of stature: two rough and ready, family-oriented men whose professional demeanors were fostered for pursuing the diamond life for their loved ones; la dolce vita in an equally rough and ready work environment.<\/p>\n
\u201cWatch and learn. He hustles,\u201d my father would say to me, his face bathed in the electric glow of televised baseball.<\/p>\n
A prominent part of my Scorsese-esque cast of family characters is my Aunt Karen. In addition to being the wife of Uncle Michael\u2014my father\u2019s kid brother, she is as big of a fan of the Yankees as she is of eating and playing Pokeno. She had a crush on Thurman, to Uncle Michael\u2019s chagrin, which he combated by calling him \u201cWalrus Man.\u201d Nevertheless, Uncle Michael was also a die-hard fan, especially of the 1960\u2019s Yankee teams. Like my father, his favorite player was Joe \u201cPepi\u201d Pepitone, the notorious slugger who introduced the use of the hair dryer in baseball clubhouses and wore a toupee under his cap. Pepi played First Base, like Lou Gehrig\u2014Uncle Michael\u2019s second favorite Yankee\u2014did, both of whom were New York City natives: Pepi from Brooklyn, Gehrig from Manhattan. Also, like Gehrig, Pepi\u2019s name is a strange legacy to the game of baseball and beyond. Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis is also known as \u201cLou Gehrig\u2019s Disease,\u201d while \u201cPepitone\u201d roughly translates into \u201cGoof-off\u201d in Japanese.<\/p>\n
Uncle Michael referred to Joe Pepitone as \u201cPepi le Pew,\u201d after the Looney Tunes cartoon character. According to family legend, Uncle Michael struck out Pepi with the bases loaded in a little league All-Star game. My father once said that he was never more proud of his brother than he was on that day. Uncle Michael\u2019s assessment of his performance was succinct:<\/p>\n
\u201cI always liked Pepi le Pew because he stunk, especially when he faced me.\u201dThe Pepi le Pew Affair, as it has come to be known, is his favorite war story, and he\u2019s a Vietnam Veteran. It always came up whenever he watched the Yankees with us, which was often. Regardless, my family\u2019s interpretation of Yankee baseball telecasts was that the team had been to our house countless times. As such, Sweet Lou, Bobby Murcer and Thurman Munson were our favorite relatives and guardians: our spiritual Zios and Padrinos. We lived and died with Sweet Lou, Bobby, Thurman, and the rest of our beloved Yankees each baseball season. The Bronx was always burning in our house, perhaps never more so than it did in 1979.<\/p>\n
After my father showed my mother the tickets, we ate dinner. The hills of my mouth were alive with the taste of homemade gnocchi. I was ecstatic, almost careless of my mother\u2019s ladle, which had three dents in it: one from my sister Nicole\u2019s head, one from mine, and one from my father\u2019s. She hit Nicole and me with it during the previous Christmas Eve because we were up past our bedtime. My father was hit because he allowed it. My mother continued to serve food with the ladle, as a reminder to us of the importance of order. I took to calling it Mjolnir, after the Marvel Comics character Thor\u2019s hammer, his trademark weapon.<\/p>\n
After dinner, Nicole and I were in the living room. She was watching Beneath the Planet of the Apes. I was half-watching it, alternating between watching the movie and reading a dog-eared copy of The Invincible Iron Man during the commercial breaks.Nicole\u2019s enthusiasm for the movie was loud and proud. One particular example of this stands out. I missed the end of a commercial break, but the character of General Ursus, played by James Gregory, caught my attention in the scene where he sees a statue of the Lawgiver, the Ape\u2019s God:\u201cHe bleeds! The Lawgiver bleeds!\u201d Aghast, the character Dr. Zaius put his hand in mouth, and Nicole flashed her world-famous-on-Teed Street-ear to ear smile. \u201cYes! Love it! Beneath the Planet of the Apes!\u201dAnd how. I do, too, thanks to Nicole. I nodded, and resumed reading my comic. \u201cPOW! Iron Man\u2019s cool,\u201d Nicole said in her booming voice as she read over my shoulder.\u201cYeah.\u201d\u201cThe best-dressed hero there is.\u201d\u201cNot really,\u201d I said. I couldn\u2019t help myself. I channeled my inner wise-ass. If was a Super-Hero, I would be Captain Contrary, or Dr. Different, at least in the company of my family.Nicole was onto me like the sauce on the gnocchi we had for dinner. \u201cNot really? Whatcha\u2019 mean, not really? Who\u2019s better?\u201d she asked, glaring at me like a bull charging a matador stripped of his red sash and dagger.\u201cWonder Woman.\u201d\u201cWonder Woman? Because of Lynda Carter, right?\u201dI was guilty as charged. \u201cI think she makes her costume pretty.\u201d La donna \u00e8 molto bella. \u201cYeah, she\u2019s hot,\u201d Nicole said, sipping her glass of water.\u201cI like her invisible jet. It would be cool to know how to fly a plane. I could go anywhere I wanted.\u201d\u201cQuiet!\u201d my mother yelled. \u201cTurn up the volume!\u201d She walked into the living room on-point, a seemingly decade\u2019s worth of concern in each step, with Mjolnir in her right hand.\u201cAnywhere I wanted,\u201d murmured Nicole.<\/p>\n
The dulcet tones of a broadcast news anchorman\u2019s practiced bass filled the room with starched-shirt confidence.<\/p>\n
\u201cGood evening ladies and gentlemen. We interrupt this program to bring you this special report.\u00a0 New York Yankees catcher and team captain Thurman Munson was killed in a plane crash earlier today.\u201dSilence filled the house like stuffing in a burnt turkey.\u201cKilled?\u201d I asked no one in particular.<\/p>\n
My mother\u2019s concerns fell in tears and mascara down her face as the announcer continued. Thurman was an aviation aficionado, and had recently purchased a twin-engine Cessna citation jet. He had been practicing flying it anytime the Yankees had a day off. When the plane came in for a landing at the Akron-Canton, Ohio airport, it crashed short of the runway and caught fire. Canton was his hometown. There were two other passengers in the jet, both of whom survived. Thurman\u2019s last words were, \u201cAre you guys okay? I can\u2019t move.\u201d<\/p>\n
Neither could I. It was at this point that I noticed that my father was in the room. \u201cHoly shit,\u201d he said quietly.<\/p>\n
My Mother lit a Benson and Hedges cigarette. My father walked out of the living room, muttering to himself.<\/p>\n
***<\/p>\n
August 5th arrived like a successfully hailed taxicab on a rainy day in the city. \u201cNo singing at the table!\u201d my mother yelled at my father, who was humming a buttery-aired version of \u201cUnder the Boardwalk\u201d over his plate of steak and a baked potato. He was giddy, even by his standards.\u201cSo,\u201d my father said, \u201cIt looks like our game won\u2019t be cancelled.\u201dMy Mother was surprised. \u201cThey\u2019re actually playing?\u201d\u201cMmm-hmm,\u201d my father said. \u201cShould be a good one. I hate the Orioles. Too many traitors on that team.\u201d\u201cTraitors?\u201d I asked.\u201cFuckin\u2019 a, Joefish.\u201dMjolimir reared his dented head in my mother\u2019s right hand. \u201cDon\u2019t you read the backs of your baseball cards?\u201d my father asked.I wasn\u2019t following. \u201cSure.\u201d\u201cThen you know that Jim Palmer was born in Manhattan.\u201d\u201cSay what?\u201d\u201cWho\u2019s the other guy\u2026you know, the one you like\u2026\u201d\u201cOn the Orioles?\u201d\u201cSay it right. Traitors! That\u2019s what they are. A bunch of stupid-ass, stinky-toed traitors.\u201d\u201cStinky-toed?\u201d\u201cSo, the Orioles real name is\u2014or should be\u2014the Benedict Arnolds,\u201d Nicole said.\u201cYou know the guy, Joefish! He\u2019s an outfielder, Benny\u2026\u201d\u201cAyala?\u201d\u201cNo, he\u2019s worse. He\u2019s a former Met.\u201d\u201cAyala\u2019s worse than who, Pop?\u201d Benny Ayala was indeed, a former Met, and current Traitor.\u201cThe guy you like! He came up in \u201970!\u201d\u201cYou mean\u2026Singleton? Ken Singleton?\u201d\u201cThat\u2019s the guy! Simpleton! What a mutt!\u201d \u201cBecause he\u2019s an ex-Met or because he plays for Baltimore?\u201d\u201cYeah!\u201d<\/p>\n
I hurried into my room and found my 1978 Topps Baseball card of Ken Singleton. It was the first card I ever came across in a pack I purchased and thus, the first one I ever owned. There was something about his name. Ken Singleton sounded like the name of an athlete, or one that befitted a Super-Hero\u2019s secret identity. Tony Stark was Iron Man, Ken Singleton was Oriole Man. When I first looked at his main stats for 1977: 28 Home Runs, 99 Runs Batted In, .328 Batting Average, I was impressed, but when I saw that he was from Mount Vernon, New York, I became a fan. I didn\u2019t know where exactly Mount Vernon was, but the fact that it was somewhere in New York sufficed. Ken also batted from both sides of the plate: his super-power.<\/p>\n
I always watched with concerted interest when the Yankees played the Traitors. I loved Ken\u2019s game; his intelligent approach to hitting, preferring to accept a base on balls than swing at a pitch below his knees or outside the plate, refusing to get himself out; his consistent outfield play, aggressively chasing fly balls, gunning down runners with the accuracy of an assassin. As for Mount Vernon, I looked it up in the M-N volume of my World Book Encyclopedia set: my childhood Google search engine. Mount Vernon was just above the Bronx, the cradle of my baseball fandom.<\/p>\n
Perhaps part of my fascination with Ken Singleton; with Thurman Munson; with baseball, and maybe professional sports in general lies in the merging of cultures. For me, watching two teams compete against one other is to watch groups of people representing places: the individual hometowns of the athletes, the collegiate settings of their student-athlete days, and the cities they represent as members of teams. Sports franchises\u2019 fan-bases are often couched in locality: part of a baseball game\u2019s allure is as much a tale of the citizens and customs of two cities as it is having a hot dog and a beer. Or three. In watching baseball as a child, I was exposed to people from backgrounds and places that I didn\u2019t otherwise have access to. Reading about innumerable cities and towns on baseball cards was to travel anywhere my little pancreas desired, without parental consent, determination, or reliance of storytelling. For some, baseball cards opened dialogue for people who liked to trade. I saw them as Geography lessons with free bubble gum. When my mother spoke of Italy, she did so by memory, having been born and partially raised there. She also spoke of Italy as \u201ca launchpad to America;\u201d to a better life, as transforming from Italian to American. Her recollections and sense of ethnic identity were my leaps of imagination. Coupled with my mother\u2019s stories, my main sense of Italy was in the food my family ate. Baseball gave me the lay of my native land. In so doing, I began to see beyond my neighborhood\u2019s wilderness of clothes lines and rusted stop signs. By learning about the world beyond New York, I began to learn about Italia: the home plate of my immigrant heritage. Baseball may be the All-American Pastime, but my sense of being Italian is being Italian-American, which has as much to do with Ken Singleton and Thurman Munson as it does with Sunday Dinner or eating the seven fishes on Christmas Eve.<\/p>\n
My baseball-card muscles pumped, I swaggered back into the kitchen. My father was still talking smack about Ken. Little did I know that I slid into a nerve, feet first.<\/p>\n
\u201cSimpleton? Craptacular player. The guy was craptacular with the Mets, craptacular with the Expos, and Captain Craptacular with the Traitors now. What\u2019s the attraction, Joefish?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019s from Mount. Vernon. It\u2019s really close to the city, Pop.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cMount Vernon, my ass! Simpleton\u2019s a traitor! At least the Mets got Rusty Staub for him. A New York guy in Baltimore. What a flop.\u201d<\/p>\n
Nicole chimed in. \u201cKen Singleton didn\u2019t choose to be traded to the Traitors, Daddy. Besides, he\u2019s cute.\u201dMy father shook his head. \u201cFuck Ken Simpleton! The guy was allergic to wool uniforms. If you can\u2019t wear the uniform, you can\u2019t play, in my book.\u201d<\/p>\n
I flexed my baseball-card muscles further.<\/p>\n
\u201cThurman Munson was born in Akron, Ohio,\u201d I said. \u201cHe\u2019s not a native New Yorker, and you love him, right?\u201d<\/p>\n
My father looked at me as if I was giving birth to a squid.<\/p>\n
\u201cI mean, the Yankees drafted him out of college. He\u2019s an Ohio guy, and you love him.\u201d<\/p>\n
My father pumped his fist in the air triumphantly. \u201cRight! He\u2019s a Yankee. Always was, always will be!\u201d\u201cBut\u2014\u201cYou gotta be different, dontcha\u2019 Joefish? Anyway, we\u2019re going tomorrow night. I took the day off.\u201d<\/p>\n
***Our bellies filled with Onion Pie, we entered the on-ramp of the Triborough Bridge. We were in our first new family car, a 1979 Chocolate-Brown Cutlass Supreme, which we called the SS Snickers. It was busy, but we seemed to be a couple of steps ahead of the impending gridlock. My father could not only drive well, he was a master anticipator of how the ebb and flow of traffic would manifest itself: a natural, as scouts often said of Thurman as a catching prospect. Small wonder that he won 25 straight safest driver awards: the MVP award for bus drivers in New York City\u2019s Metropolitan Transit Authority. A quarter century\u2019s worth of outstanding job performances between the years 1970-1995 to Thurman\u2019s one in 1976.<\/p>\n
I looked outside my window. Planes were headed towards LaGuardia\u2019s watery runway. I wondered if anyone was coming to New York for the night\u2019s Yankee game. The entire Yankee team and their families were on the flight for all I knew.<\/p>\n
\u201cWelcome to Babe\u2019s house,\u201d my father said as we rolled onto River Avenue. Yankee Stadium stood tall: a resplendent figure in its navy blue, white, concrete and steel glory under a sky of gathered storm clouds. A monument to winning, surrounded by rusted fire escapes, boarded windows, and strawberry-blonde brick buildings which seemed to form a proud, long-toothed grin in the mouth of the grizzled, tougher-than-leather South Bronx.<\/p>\n
Chic\u2019s \u201cGood Times\u201d crackled from the radio:Must put an end to this stress and strife, I think I want to live the sporting life. Good times, these are the good times. Leave your cares behind, these are the good times.\u201cWill you please put out your cigarette, Daddy?\u201d Nicole said. It wasn\u2019t a request.\u201cSure, Pepsi-Cola.\u201dMy father flicked his ashes outside his window, and they promptly pelted Nicole\u2019s eyes like a Goose Gossage-thrown fastball.\u201cDaddy!\u201d My sister yelled.<\/p>\n
\u201cThe eyes have it,\u201d my father said, laughing. Leave your cares behind.My mother sighed, and the Snickers dodged and weaved through the stadium parking lot like a metal prizefighter. The littered ground shook in Styrofoam fear as seagulls pecked at cracked Big Mac containers. I listened and looked up: the rattle of the departing B-train was like a sip of Napa Valley-made wine after crossing the Urban Renewal desert. My father parked the Snickers after paying to do so.<\/p>\n
The stadium was teeming with people, even though we were nearly two hours early. We were in the Upper Mezzanine of Right Field, which Nicole was stoked about. She told me that a lot of foul balls and home runs came up this way, since it was the shortest part of the Stadium. Maybe we would catch a souvenir, courtesy of Puff Nettles or Mr. October. My heart\u2019s bass-line thumped at the prospect.Another possibility: a ball hit by Singy. There he was, Ken Singleton himself, playing catch with his Orioles teammates Rick Dempsey, an ex Yankee; Thurman\u2019s onetime backup catcher, no less, and Jim Palmer, in his movie-star handsome, cap-less, perfectly feathered-hair glory.<\/p>\n
\u201cTraitors!\u201d My father yelled.<\/p>\n
Then I heard The Voice of God. Bob Sheppard, the Stadium\u2019s Public Address announcer:\u201cLadies and Gentlemen, welcome to Yankee Stadium.\u201d<\/p>\n
The silver dust of Mr. Sheppard\u2019s voice made the crowd erupt with a choir of applause and whistling. I saw galaxies of goose pimples bloom on my father\u2019s forearms, and he directed my attention to the scoreboard in centerfield, which was alight with a head shot of Thurman. His round mouth open, dark eyes intensified by the scoreboard\u2019s monochromatic and orange hues, like the chest protector he wore for 10 years. His full head of hair, sideburns, and mustache accentuated a half-smile, forming on his face like a man who has falling in love at first sight.<\/p>\n
I glanced at my parents. My father\u2019s eyes were watering. Nicole handed me a pair of binoculars and pointed towards Right Field.<\/p>\n
Reggie Jackson stood, head down, in the bespectacled flesh, his number 44 hulking in the binocular lenses. He appeared to be taking off his glasses. \u201cNo way,\u201d I said.<\/p>\n
Mr. October was wiping his eyes! He, too, like every other adult in the stadium, was crying. The Law Giver Bleeds. Even Mr. October, the Yankee cleanup hitter; the great Reggie Jackson cries.It was almost too much to take in at once. There was Reggie, weeping openly in Babe\u2019s house. As sad as everybody in the stadium was, I couldn\u2019t shake the feeling that maybe his teammates knew him differently, if not better. And perhaps, I thought, none of them knew him quite like Reggie did, having pissed Thurman off something awful when he referred to himself as \u201cThe straw that stirs the drink\u2026Munson can only stir it bad\u201d in an interview with Sport Magazine a few years earlier.Even Robert Merrill\u2019s elegant baritone was wavering a bit, as his rendition of the Star Spangled Banner echoed through the stadium. My father was especially observant of this, likening Mr. Merrill\u2019s rendition to \u201ca sung eulogy.\u201d<\/p>\n
I asked my father what a eulogy was. \u201cIt\u2019s how you say good-bye to the people you love.\u201d\u201cLike when you go to work?My father grinned. \u201cI\u2019ll always come home from work, Joefish.\u201d Then he pointed to the scoreboard, which was alight with the following words:\u201cOur captain has not left us\u2014not today, not tomorrow. This year, next\u2026our endeavors will reflect our true love for him.\u201d<\/p>\n
The words were then replaced by the image of Thurman\u2019s face. My father cleared his throat. \u201cThese are the words of a prayer, for a funeral without a casket.\u201d\u201cI see,\u201d I said, not seeing at all.<\/p>\n
The game was nationally televised for ABC\u2019s \u201cMonday Night Baseball.\u201d I could only imagine what Howard Cossell, Don Drysdale, and Keith Jackson were saying on the air. My Mother offered my father a sip of her beer. \u201cMy mouth is too heavy,\u201d he said. Nicole consoled him. \u201cMaybe we\u2019ll be on television, Daddy.\u201d<\/p>\n
Other than the Traitors, everyone else in the stadium seemed to move around in a torpid state. Even though I saw Ken Singleton hit a home run and Ron Guidry pitch, my only relief came from Bobby Murcer. With the Yankees trailing 4-0, Bobby hit a 3 run homer in the 7th and then, with a bat he would never use again, a walk-off two-run single in the bottom of the ninth. Bobby\u2019s hit sent us into a frenzied outpouring of screeched gratitude for having come through for Thurman. The noisy shirts of championship flags flapped polyester enthusiasm for Bobby as he crossed home plate, streaked with a mustache of dirt.<\/p>\n
When the game ended, the crying resumed. People wept just as much as they did before the first pitch. The bottoms of my eyes were as puffy as the thousands of adults surrounding Nicole and I. Even though the Yankees came from behind to win the game, the high of the victory had crashed like Thurman\u2019s jet. Looking back on it now, I not only joined the crowd in mourning the loss of my favorite ballplayer, but I also sobbed because the game was the first stanza of my childhood\u2019s final poem. I went to my first baseball game as a green fan and came out a seasoned griever. No one close to me had died previously, and I had never heard a eulogy before.<\/p>\n
On the way home, the Snickers was once again bathed in the sounds of the car radio. I remember hearing the song \u201cWe Are Family\u201d by Sister Sledge, and then AM talk. I learned that the entire Yankee team attended Thurman\u2019s funeral in Canton earlier in the day. That they won the game delighted me. That they summoned the energy to play a baseball game after a funeral astonished me. I also learned that Bobby Murcer, the day\u2019s hero; Thurman\u2019s closest friend on the team, was a eulogist at the funeral. He was also the last Yankee to see Thurman alive. Baseball aficionados and non-sports fans alike were sympathetic to Thurman\u2019s wife Diana, now a widow having to face the reality of life without her husband and raising three children on her own.<\/p>\n
As unaware as I was of these facts during the game, I have since learned that my love of baseball is as much to do with the personas of the players as it does with location. What the Coliseum is to Rome, nicknames are to baseball; an essential part of the culture. Some are world-famous: Mr. October. Catfish. Whitey. Babe. Others are comparatively less-known by the public or casual fan, and more by die-hards, haters, and home-team insiders. Pepi. Gator. Puff. Sweet Lou. People leave their native lands for work and opportunity, and sometimes they die in the process, like Thurman did practicing take offs and landings in Canton; like some members of my family in boats from Italia to America. Thurman was learning how to fly so that he could spend more time with Diana and their children. As a bus driver, my father commuted to work, trading one set of traffic after another, in the name of familial love and honor: \u201cI make a living to make a life,\u201d was how he put it to me the night before I went away to college. This sentiment was my inheritance, my ancestral tradition; the pinstripes on the shirt I was groomed to wear on my back.<\/p>\n
My family has since been fragmented by divorce, growing up, relocation, and other assorted forms of sacrifice. In my case, my current professional life in New York had to begin someplace else, as I told my Father when I moved to Northeast Ohio to teach at Kent State University, Thurman\u2019s Alma matter, for my first paid teaching job. Babe\u2019s house was demolished and has been reincarnated into \u201cNew\u201d Yankee Stadium, across the street from the old one. On occasion, when I visit the city, I stand on a subway platform waiting for the B train. I always see people wearing Yankee jerseys, whether it\u2019s baseball season or not. The names on the backs of the navy blue Yankee t-shirt jerseys are lyrics to the rattling of the subway cars: Jeter, Pettite, Posada, and Rivera, all of whom are players of my generation, people who came to baseball at the same time that I did, but were blessed with the talent to play the game for a living and with distinction. On my most recent trip, I saw a teen-aged boy sporting a Munson jersey. Tanti saluti, Thurman, I murmured to myself. The train doors opened; a squeak of recognition and remembrance, gone in a spin of my Ipod dial as the train hustled out.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\u201cBaseball is the background music of my life.\u201d\u2014George Will<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[1],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-2214","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-essays"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2214","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=2214"}],"version-history":[{"count":6,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2214\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":2392,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/2214\/revisions\/2392"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=2214"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=2214"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"http:\/\/ducts.sundresspublications.com\/content\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=2214"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
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<\/a><\/p>\n