Eight years ago, as my wife was in labor with our first child, I watched a Yankees game in the delivery room. She's never forgotten or forgiven me, but it was, in fairness, the playoffs.
A week later, with my wife still on bed rest, I held the newborn YaYa in my arms as I screamed with joy at a Yankee comeback in the World Series. I have video of it, actually.
Two years later, the Yanks lost the Series to the Marlins on the day I was out celebrating my wedding annivesary. It still gnaws at me.
A year later I took my Dad on a road trip to catch the Yankees in Chicago.
The season after that, I took my infant son to his first ball game - the Yankees game where Arod hit his 399th and 400th home runs. I blogged about it here.
I love me some Yankees. Why? Because they win. Seriously. They are determined, almost to a fault, to succeed each and every season for nearly a century. I admire that, and I adore many of the names that made them winners: Ruth, Gehrig, Joe D, Mantle, Berra, Bernie, Jeter, Mo, Arod. They are, unabashedly and without pause, committed to their traditions, and to their own greatness. They are a microcosm of the American ideal.
And now, finally, they're back where they belong: on top o' the world.
Congrats guys! What a team, what an effort, what a great World Series!
27 rings! Whoo-hoo!
UPDATE: I can't believe I forgot to congratulate the Philadelphia Phillies on playing a hard fought, tense World Series. I mean that - they're a hell of a team, and there weren't many moments where I wasn't sweating bullets. They'll be in the post-season again, count on it.
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