Baseball was my first true love.
Nothing captured my childhood imagination like the infinite possibilities of this majestic game… a game that laughs in the face of time limitation and dares the mind to believe in the unbelievable. Perfect in its imperfections. As a kid, I was mesmerized by its history and devoured the statistical data provided to me in encyclopedias and reference books. I would calculate batting averages and mimic plate stances and pitching windups. How important it all seemed.
This week, Tim, my son Sebastian, and I went to Yankee Stadium for a game. This has become an annual tradition and something that has significant importance to me, as my cherished 9-year-old has also gravitated to the national pastime. He is a fine young player, and I genuinely hope to be reading about him someday in the chronicles of baseball lore. My childhood idol, Ricky Henderson, was also in attendance for Old-Timer’s Day, which added even more nostalgia to my visit.
This was our first game since David’s death. I realized that I only saw one baseball game with him… I believe 1985 was the year. I’m almost certain it was the Yankees vs. Detroit, and I don’t recall how we got our hands on the tickets. I do know that we had adult supervision as we entered the stadium, me and my 5-year-old cousin. I believe my Dad had driven us. Gramp was there. I remember the pride in my heart as I introduced him to this wonderful spectacle, green grass stretching for what seemed like miles. Championship banners lofted in the air, symbolizing the robust history of the Yankees long before Derek Jeter ever graced the 90 feet between second and third base. The House That Ruth Built.
Way before we ever talked about girls, stayed up all night laughing at movies, or contemplated suicide…
This was before life got in the way.
So I walked into the stadium with this little peanut of a kid, V-shaped cowlick in the back of his head, miniature baby teeth and dimples half the size of his face. I told him to root for the home team like the song says, and for the rest of the day, he proceeded to cheer for the “Ankees!!!” Time and time again, he would yell as loud as his little asthma constricted airways would allow. I couldn’t possibly correct this adorable child who meant the world to me. Why ask for a “Y”?
It remains one of the cutest things I’ve seen, my own children included. A memory that I just now located in the graveyards of my past, like I had been searching for it with a slow-burning lantern and a hound by my side. Fearing what I might find. Wind howling at my back before a ray of light shot into plain sight and landed a bit of solace smack dab on the side of my train of thought.
Before he fell asleep that day, he provided one more bit of magic to the festivities. Somewhere in the middle of the game, the good folks in the Steinbrenner camp decided to give away a trip to Florida. Whatever seat number was called would have two tickets to the Sunshine State coming to the them in the mail. Pony Express.
I can actually remember the buzz in the crowd as the anticipation built before the seat number was displayed on the screen. Florida may as well have been Heaven; whoever won these tickets was the luckiest person on earth!
And what seat number do you think they called?
Little Dave Price’s…
The freakin’ kid won two tickets to Florida.
After a Godfather-esque family meeting, it was decided that my Gram and Gramp would go on the trip. A worthy selection, but I think they should have sent me and David. I would have come back with a 3rd-degree sunburn, and David would have shut down the giant lollipop business in Magic Kingdom…
Sometimes, the luck of a rabbit’s foot is evident immediately. Sometimes, it takes decades to understand.
I think that day, it was evident. I think today, maybe I understand. Sometimes, you’re lucky to have someone for just a little while. You may not understand their luck or how they possess it. But you admire it. You value it. And sometimes the possessor of that luck may not even appreciate how valued their own luck is. And they forget about it. Maybe they have lost belief in luck. And maybe you have to be the one that reminds them of it. And if you forget to remind them of it, the least you can do is remind everyone else so it’s never lost. So it spirals throughout time like the statistics in a baseball encyclopedia.
I don’t know if there are rabbit’s feet or if Florida’s in Heaven… I do know that on one day in 1985, I was the luckiest kid at Yankee Stadium, sitting next to the luckiest kid at Yankee Stadium.
