
I should have known we were in for a long night when, after he got changed, he was wearing one of those stupid rope necklaces. The ones that all of the baseball players wear (i.e. the ones that are ridiculous). But I kept my snarky comments to myself and just let him enjoy being all Yankeed-out, which I thought was rather mature. (I am nodding proudly). The buzz on the subway was palpable – this was also my brother’s first time riding the subway, but he seemed to think it was way easier than he expected. As we got further from the World Trade Center and closer to 161st, the Yankees fans started to trickle onto the 4 train in droves. And by the time we got there, it was a rowdy affair, we were packed in like sardines, and you could hear the tense chatter about the AL East race and Jorge’s hissy fit. We needed to avoid getting swept, but could junk-ball genius Freddy Garcia really out-duel Jon Lester? My brother patiently watched the subway map lights tick off, one-by-one, for 19 fucking stops, until we finally arrived.




Regardless of the Yankees’ loss, I am so happy that we went. The game itself may not have been memorable, but I will never forget the clear anticipation on my brother’s face. Or the way that we ate our way through the Stadium. Or the small old Asian man sitting next to us, who my brother kept high-fiving to celebrate and who seemed appalled at our cheering. There is no place like Yankee Stadium – and I am thrilled that I got to share it with him. Even if we had to see a Jonathan Papelbon fist-pump in the process.
