November 4, 2009

We started the night in a tavern, a couple of miles from our house. Amy and I were munching on nachos as Andy Pettitte picked his way through the Phillies lineup in innings one and two. My mom, who was staying with us last night, had offered to put the girls to sleep so we could get out for a few hours together. I had come from work, and wasn’t dressed for a tavern or a ballgame. But Amy didn’t seem to mind; nor did Andy.

The last time the Yankees clinched a World Series in Game 6 – 13 years ago – I was in a bar back on Staten Island, on the job as a newspaper reporter. I was interviewing locals for a reaction story on a tight Saturday deadline – so tight that I would have to dictate the story from a pay phone on Forest Avenue. I didn’t have any time to feel nervous over whether Jimmy Key could outduel Greg Maddux, nor did I have time to roar over Joe Girardi’s game-changing triple. Last night, however, there was plenty of time to take it in, as we munched on our nachos, then on wraps and fries. Of course, there was also plenty of time to get nervous.

The TVs in the mostly-empty restaurant area, where we were sitting, were a few seconds delayed compared to the TVs in the bar, which was packed with men and women wearing navy-blue spring training jerseys. The delay provided an interesting experience, as we heard the roar to celebrate Hideki Matsui’s second-inning home run before we actually saw it with our own eyes. It looked mighty good, even on delay.

The roars grew even louder when Matsui came up again, this time drilling a two-run single off of Phillies starter Pedro Martinez in the third. Back home, Katie and her grandma were getting dizzy with delight. Katie, who at 7 has never seen the Yankees win it all, picked up the words to the Yankee fans’ chant for longtime nemesis Martinez. She stepped in front of the TV and shouted: “Now who’s your daddy, baby?”

The time delay gave us yet another clue that Matsui would come up big in the fifth, and before long we were watching his long double drive home two more. This was feeling too good to be true. It was also feeling like we should stay here, since this spot had brought such good luck. But Amy wanted to get home. And there was that one annoying, 12-year-old Phillies fan across the room. So we hopped in our cars.

Wrong move. Ryan Howard homered off of Pettitte while we were nearing the house. My fault; I had left that lucky, time warp of a spot. Sure, the Cajun shrimp wrap could have been better, but the tavern had given the Yanks a great lead. Should I turn back?

I didn’t turn back. I got home to see Joba Chamberlain end the Phillies’ rally. My mom was on the phone with my brother, Eric. He was in his home, in Brooklyn, with our friend Neil. They sounded optimistic; we talked for a while, and promised to speak again later.

I was not going to clean the house, or do the dishes this night, as I so often do to calm the nerves in late innings of Yankees playoff games. No, I was going to hang in there, live or die, with this one. I picked a lucky spot, in the corner of the living room, and stood there. Damaso Marte! Down goes Utley; pump the fist. Down goes Howard; pump it again. Who knew the guy had it in him? I called my dad, who hadn’t come up to our place with my mom this week, and was therefore watching the game alone. He said he was still up, past his bedtime, and had enjoyed Johnny Damon the most of any player in this series. I felt the same.

It was time now for Mariano Rivera. He began his nightly dissection of a lineup; even so, the outs couldn’t come fast enough. The TV cameras showed Yankees fans pounding on that blue padding covering the walls of the field, like 6-year-olds trying to wake their parents up on Christmas morning. Let’s go! We want our presents!

Santa Closer didn’t let them down. As Rivera induced Shane Victorino into a harmless groundout to complete the championship, I hugged my mom, hugged my wife, and called my brother and Neil. We talked about where we’d been back in 2000, when the Yankees last won it all. We wondered about who would win the MVP, Matsui or Rivera. Eric and I marveled at the way in which Mike Bloomberg kept angling himself into the photos up on the podium, and longed for some spontaneity in the postgame awards presentation. We laughed about a lot.

After a few minutes, I said goodbye to Eric and to Neil. My mom watched the postgame interviews with us for a while, then went to bed herself. Amy and I headed to bed as well, and she drifted off to sleep.

It’s just a game, I know. And yet, how many days in the last few months have I talked with both parents, my brother and Neil on the same day, while also spending a few hours sitting with my wife? How many times had we all taken a break from the rat race to slow down and make time for one another? Was Matsui’s monster game just a sporting accomplishment, or was it part of a larger call to community that had brought families, friends and colleagues together, if even for one night?

The girls would want to hear all about it in the morning; it was time for me to get some sleep as well. The Yanks had done it again, and it had been a good night. A little like Christmas.