The Miracle on Ice (1980)

This is part 9 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Previous: Good Night, Captain (1979)

I had zero interest in hockey prior to the 1980 Winter Olympics. In fact, I really don't remember exactly what about that version of Team USA drew me in, or exactly when it happened. But, I do know that it was prior to the game that is the namesake of the title of this post.

Team USA lost 10-3 in an exhibition game to the Soviet Union just prior to the games. They were seeded 7th heading into the tournament, and their first two matchups were against the teams given the best chance to upend the Soviets, 3rd-seeded Sweden and 2nd-seeded Czechoslovakia.

I think it was that first game, a 2-2 tie versus Sweden—a contest that I didn't watch—that piqued my interest, but it was game two—an impressive 7-3 victory over Czechoslovakia—that reeled me in. From that point on, there seemed something magical about that team, as they reeled off three straight wins—over Norway, Romania, and West Germany—to finish pool play 4-0-1.

Team USA's reward for their strong showing in the opening round was a medal-round matchup with the feared Soviet squad. As well as they played versus their cold war rivals, it still always felt like they were in over their heads, and it was only a matter of time until the U.S.S.R. put them away. It felt that way until they took their first lead of the game, 4-3 with ten minutes remaining. If you don't know what happened next, I don't know what to say, but I'll bet Al Michaels does:



"The Miracle on Ice" moniker is commonly used to refer to this tremendous upset victory over the Soviet Union, the game which gave them the opportunity to secure the gold with one more victory. But, to me it represents the team's performance during that entire Olympic tournament, which was capped off by a three-goal final period in a 4-2 victory over Finland.

I'm not an intensely patriotic person, although I probably was much more so when I witnessed these 1980 Winter Olympics at the age of 12. But, to me, these games also represent the birth of the goose-bump-inducing "USA! USA! USA!" chant.

While Al Michaels' famous "Do you believe in miracles? Yes!" call lives on forever, just as memorable to me is his call during the final seconds of the Americans' gold medal victory over Finland:

Five seconds to the gold medal, four to the gold medal...This impossible dream...comes true!



Next: The Louie and Bouie Show (1980)

Good Night, Captain (1979)

This is part 8 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Previous: Miracle at the Meadowlands (1978)

I returned home from school on the afternoon of August 2, 1979 and immediately did what I would do every weekday at that time. I headed down the street to hang out with my friends. At this time of year, that would usually involve a two-on-two game of baseball—or maybe I should call it tennis ball—in the street.

On this particular day, I showed up at the home of my friend Hector, who broke the news to me that Thurman Munson had just died in a plane crash. At first, I didn't believe him for a couple of reasons. First of all, he was not a Yankees fan, and secondly, this was the type of joke that was not beneath him to tell. I may have been considered an easy target as well, I'll admit.

I went inside his house to ask his mother and turn on the television. Both sources confirmed the devastating news. This was far from the saddest news I'd ever heard—both my grandmothers died when I was nine—but, as a 12-year old not wanting to cry in front of my friend, I struggled to hold back tears.

Just prior to the 1976 season, Munson was named the first captain of the Yankees since Lou Gehrig retired in 1939. As much as Derek Jeter currently embodies the qualities that make him stand out as one who is truly worthy of the honor, so did Munson. In fact, although a few of my favorite players—Graig Nettles, Willie Randolph, Ron Guidry—also held that role, in my opinion there are only four men in history worthy of the Yankee captaincy: Gehrig, Munson, Jeter and Don Mattingly.

In considering the previous statement, I asked my dad who would have been the most likely candidate to hold such a post between the Gehrig and Munson years. His feeling was that either Yogi Berra or Phil Rizzuto would have been the top choices, but neither seemed to possess quite the leadership ability as the aforementioned four.

Until Darryl Kile died of a coronary blockage during the 2002 season, Munson remained the last active player to lose his life during the regular season, so the moving tributes paid to him in the games that followed still stand as indelible memories to me.

On August 3, in the first game following his death, the Yankees starters took the field to begin the game. All of them, except catcher Jerry Narron, that is. Following a prayer, a moment of silence, and Robert Merrill's rendition of "America the Beautiful," the Yankee Stadium crowd burst into a ten-minute standing ovation. Narron remained in the dugout for the entire time, as television cameras focused on his teammates' reactions, and his empty position—or, should I say, the spot vacated by Munson—behind home plate.

Three days later, the entire team attended Munson's funeral in Canton, Ohio, then flew back to New York to play in that night's game. Bobby Murcer, after delivering a eulogy that afternoon, drove in all five runs—including a three-run homer and walk-off two-run single in the 9th—in a 5-4 Yankees victory.

Coming off back-to-back World Series victories, the Yankees' 1979 performance had come back down to earth even prior to Munson's death, although at 58-48 (.547), the season was hardly a lost cause. It may be coincidence that the team would have to wait until 1996—Jeter’s rookie season—to climb back atop the baseball world. But, then again, it might not be. Regardless, over 30 years later, Thurman is still deeply missed.

Next: The Miracle on Ice (1980)

Miracle at the Meadowlands (1978)

This is part 7 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Previous: Ode to Ron Guidry (1978)

Baseball was my first love, but among spectator sports, football definitely came next. I became a fan of the New York Football Giants in '75 or '76, but didn't start really following them until 1977, the rookie season of Joe Pisarcik. That would be his NFL rookie season, of course, because the 25-year old native of Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania played in the Canadian Football League for three years prior to that.

As I've previously written about, I wasn't as spoiled by the early success of the Giants as I was the Yankees. In my first few years as a fan, I considered myself a bit of a die-hard, though, as I would watch every game to the end no matter what the outcome.

Pisarcik and Co. were 5-3 at the midway point of 1978, with two of their three losses to the defending Super Bowl champion Dallas Cowboys. So, things were looking promising following a victory over the previously 6-1 Washington Redskins, until six consecutive losses nixed that. But, it was the fourth in that string of defeats that was the most painful.

I was watching in my parents' basement with Brian. Leading Philadelphia 17-6 going into the 4th quarter, it looked as though the Giants were going to end their brief skid, pull into a tie for third place in the NFC East with the Eagles at 6-6, and get their playoff hopes back on track. The Eagles managed a touchdown to pull within 17-12, but missed their second extra point of the game. Since a field goal wouldn't be enough to overcome the deficit, the Jints clearly were in control, possessing the ball inside of the two-minute warning, and only needing to execute a few plays to run out the clock.

After kneeling on the ball on second down, the Giants incredulously called a running play on third down. Where the breakdown in communication came from is still subject to dispute, but Pisarcik clearly wasn't ready for a quick snap from center and running back Larry Csonza didn't look prepared to take the handoff.

We watched in stunned disbelief as Pisarcik fumbled the attempted exchange, and Eagles cornerback Herman Edwards recovered the loose football and ran it in for the winning touchdown with 20 seconds left. I assumed the announcer would tell us that the play was coming back—that either the whistle had blown or there had been a penalty, or something. There had to be some reason that what I was witnessing wasn't really happening, but it wasn't just a bad dream, unfortunately.



I never referred to this game as "The Miracle at the Meadowlands" until I met a bunch of Eagles fans at college. The Wikipedia article on the subject says that Giants fans refer to it as "The Fumble."

There's another such distinction that I find quite interesting. I recently saw a book called Game Six at a Boston area store. The book is about Game Six of the 1975 World Series, in which Carlton Fisk wills his game-winning home run inside the left field foul pole to force a decisive 7th game. I'm pretty sure "Game Six" has an entirely different meaning to Mets fans, one Red Sox fans certainly want to forget. But, we'll get to that later.

Next: Good Night, Captain (1979)

Ode to Ron Guidry (1978)

This is part 6 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Previous: The Boston Massacre (1978)

For a few weeks during sixth grade, my English class's focus was on poetry. Besides memorizing and reciting "Casey at the Bat" to a standing ovation from the class, I wrote an ode to my newest favorite baseball player.

If you'd asked me back then who my favorite Yankee was, I would have been hard pressed to decide between Thurman Munson, Willie Randolph, Graig Nettles and Ron Guidry. But, Guidry was the emerging star, and judging by the fact that I had a hand-made "Louisiana Lightning" t-shirt, I would say Gator got the nod. Oh yeah, and that's not to mention this poem:

I'm not sure what to make of the pseudonym I was using back then, but I assure you I wrote this poem on the morning of October 13, 1978. How do I know exactly what day it was? Well, that was the day that Guidry was to take the mound, for my beloved Yankees, in Game 3 of the World Series. With his team already in a 2-0 hole, I was one of a countless number of fans praying that he would do what he had done 15 times during the regular season: pitch the team to victory following a loss.

Yes, you read that right. Ron Guidry posted 15 wins following Yankees losses during the 1978 season, yet he lost out on the MVP award to a player whose team coughed up a 14-game lead in the span of 51 days. Throw in the fact that he was 25-3 with a 1.74 ERA, 0.95 WHIP and 248 strikeouts, and I'll need someone to convince me that there has ever been a starting pitcher more deserving of an MVP than Guidry was in '78.

I guess I should explain this Joe Cronin Award thing. When I learned that Guidry had been named co-winner of the award with Jim Rice of the Red Sox, I thought it brought a little more prestige than it turns out it does. Awarded for "distinguished achievement," I believe it was an American League-only award given out from 1973 to roughly 1993. But, that's all I know about it. There's a scarcity of information on the web, and although I did email the Baseball Hall of Fame Library, I'm not going to wait to hear back before I post this.

Guidry did beat the Dodgers that night, but it was another one of my favorite players who was the game's hero. Guidry pitched a complete game, and allowed only one run, but gave up eight hits and walked an additional seven batters. Yankees third baseman Graig Nettles' defense saved probably two runs in each of the 3rd and 5th innings, with several of his patented diving plays on hard-hit lined drives and ground balls. The Yankees won the game 5-1, the first of four consecutive victories that brought them their second consecutive World Series championship.

I was definitely spoiled by my baseball team's success, but this may have made the failures of the team I followed in my second favorite sport hurt even more. The torment of being a young Giants fan had yet to reach its pinnacle, but that moment was coming sooner rather than later.

Update (5/26/10): I received a very quick response from the National Baseball Hall of Fame in Cooperstown. They sent me a press release from 1999, after Wade Boggs was named that year's recipient, which listed the past winners of the award. It appears the Joe Cronin Award for "significant achievement" hasn't been given out since.

Next: Miracle at the Meadowlands (1978)

The Boston Massacre (1978)

This is part 5 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Previous: The Tear-Stained Quarter (1978)

On July 19, 1978, the Yankees trailed the Red Sox by 14 games for the AL East lead. It wasn't so much that the Yanks were having a horrible year—they were 48-42 (.533)—but the Sox were 62-28 (.689). Over the next month and a half, New York went 34-14 (.708), while Boston played .500 ball (24-24), setting up a September 7-10 four-game showdown at Fenway.

What happened next is what's commonly referred to as "The Boston Massacre." The Yankees beat the Red Sox 15-3, 13-2, 7-0 and 7-4 to pull into a tie for first place. What I've always found interesting is, when shows like ESPN Classic have used images to recount this series, they've commonly shown the manual scoreboard operator at Fenway posting the Yankees' 17th hit in the final game of the series. Despite the fact that they outhit the Red Sox 18-5 in that game, the final score didn't do justice to the Boston Massacre moniker.

The following weekend, the Yanks won the first two games of a three-game set to take a 3 1/2 game lead over the Sox. So, what a lot of people don't remember is it was the Red Sox who went 12-2 to overcome that deficit over the last two weeks of the season. The Yankees didn't exactly roll over and play dead, but 9-6 wasn't quite good enough.

I recall the final day of that season, playing Strat-O-Matic Football with my next door neighbor Brian and watching the Yankees lose 9-2 to Cleveland, while Luis Tiant was pitching a two-hit shutout over Toronto to force the most famous one-game playoff in baseball history.

The October 2, 1978 game began at 2:30 in the afternoon, and the Yankees trailed 1-0 when this particular 6th-grader returned home and immediately tuned in to the game. The Sox added another run in the 6th, and it wasn't looking good as my team trailed 2-0 going into the final three innings.

What happened next, of course, is history. In the top of the 7th, Chris Chambliss and Roy White added the Yanks' third and fourth hits of the game. But, their at bats were sandwiched between flyouts by Graig Nettles and Jim Spencer, the latter pinch-hitting for Brian Doyle, who was playing in place of the injured Willie Randolph.

Having used up their best longball threat off the bench, and not in a position to pinch hit for both of their middle infielders, Yankees manager Bob Lemon was forced to allow ninth-place hitter Bucky Dent to bat. Dent batted .243 with an anemic .603 OPS (on-base plus slugging percentage) that season. I'm not sure where the latter statistic ranked him league-wide, but in recent years, that number would have placed at or near the bottom of all regular position players.

I probably wasn't the only fan watching who wanted Lemon to figure out some way to give us a little more firepower at the plate than Dent. Then, when Bucky meekly fouled a pitch off his left instep, optimism wasn't riding high. According to legend, on-deck batter Mickey Rivers had the bat boy take Dent one of his bats after the one he was using was broken in the process.

One pitch later, I can still replay in my mind the understated call of Yankees broadcaster and future National League President Bill White: "Deep to left! Yastrzemski...will not get it, it's a home run!" It was as if even he didn't believe it until the ball had barely cleared the Green Monster. I know my reaction wasn't understated, as this is my earliest memory of the type of overly exuberant reaction that only a real sports fan can understand.

The Yankees added another run that inning, and one more in the 8th, to lead 5-2. Hall of Fame closer Goose Gossage was already on for a 2+ inning save. He gave up two runs in the process, but was able to get Carl Yastrzemski to pop out to Nettles at third to seal the victory, and complete the greatest regular season comeback in American League history.

Next: Ode to Ron Guidry (1978)

The Tear-Stained Quarter (1978)

This is part 4 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Previous: Mr. October (1977)

I've previously written about my fascination with the 1982 Milwaukee Brewers, but the first team other than one of my own that captured my interest was the 1977 Denver Broncos. Not surprisingly, it was their "Orange Crush" defense that really caught my attention, which included five Pro Bowlers—defensive end Lyle Alzado, linebackers Randy Gradishar and Tom Jackson, and defensive backs Bill Thompson and Louis Wright.

For some reason, though, my favorite player was explosive punt returner Rick Upchurch, who led the league in 1976 with 4 TDs and 13.7 yards per return. His 1977 wasn't quite as spectacular, but he still led the NFL in return yards while averaging 12.8 yards a pop. Whether true or not, I always felt that Upchurch was overshadowed by Billy "White Shoes" Johnson. He certainly didn't have as great of a nickname. Incidentally, both players rank in the top ten all-time in punt return yards and touchdowns, while neither is in the top ten in number of punt returns.

The fact that I developed an interest in the Broncos in 1977 probably points more to my frustration with the Giants than to some early interest in Cinderella stories. I had become a fan while they were in the midst of an 18-year drought of not making the playoffs. They had gone 3-11 in 1976, didn't show many signs of impending improvement, and frankly, I was spoiled by the Yankees' recent success.

As had become a tradition in recent years, our family visited my Uncle Joe and Aunt Kay on New Year's Day of 1978. Uncle Joe and Aunt Kay weren't really my aunt and uncle, but they were like my dad's family, since he didn't really have much of a real family. His father had abandoned he and his mother when he was just a little boy, and his mother wasn't really up for the role of raising him on her own, so he ended up being passed around from family to family during his childhood. As a result, I had three grandmothers as a child, with the longest surviving being my dad's godmother, with whom he lived for six of his childhood years.

Uncle Joe was about 10 years older than my father, and he had taken him under his wing during his young adult years. Dad worked at Uncle Joe's service station and rented an apartment in Joe and Kay's house for some time. Needless to say, Joe was like the older brother that my father—who was an only child—never had, so the fact that my sister and I called him Uncle Joe was for much greater reason than that he didn't want to be referred to as Mister.

On New Year's Day 1978, the Broncos defeated the defending Super Bowl Champion Oakland Raiders in the AFC Championship, while the Dallas Cowboys earned the trip to their fourth Super Bowl by dominating the Minnesota Vikings in the NFC title game. The year before, Uncle Joe and I had begun a practice of betting a quarter on the Super Bowl. Of course, he let me pick my team, and I did so based not on who I thought would win, but who I wanted to root for.

I chose correctly for Super Bowl XI, picking Oakland over Minnesota, but this year I was picking the overwhelming underdog. I had faith, however. After all, I was 10 years old.

As you probably know, Dallas defeated Denver rather handily, 27-10. But, I wasn't convinced that the superior team had won. So, when I mailed Uncle Joe the quarter I owed him, accompanying it was a note outlining all the "what-ifs" that, had they happened differently, would have resulted in a completely different outcome.

Uncle Joe sent the quarter back, with his own note explaining why he couldn't accept my "tear-stained quarter." I was upset, because I had lost the bet fair and square. I may have been making excuses for why my team had lost, but in no way was I trying to renege on the bet.

Uncle Joe died a few years ago. Sitting in the funeral home, waiting for my turn to pay my last respects, an idea popped into my head. I reached into my pocket and found not just any coin, but a 1977 quarter. That tear-stained quarter will spend eternity in the breast pocket of the suit Uncle Joe was laid to rest in.

Next: The Boston Massacre (1978)

Mr. October (1977)

This is part 3 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Previous: The Revolutionary War (1977)

Reggie Jackson signed with the Yankees as a free agent in the off-season between 1976 and 1977. I'm sure I don't need to tell you about the controversy that followed him to New York, so I'll try to be brief.

Jackson had a huge ego. Was he even more of a lightning-rod for controversy than Alex Rodriguez? Maybe, but this was over 30 years ago, when these things were viewed a little differently. Reggie was also like Muhammed Ali, in that he was charismatic with his arrogance, so most people either loved him or hated him. Unfortunately, I don't think the same can be said for Rodriguez.

There was a time, however, that Jackson's teammates and his manager, Billy Martin, were in the camp that hated him, but this would all become a moot point following Game Six of the 1977 World Series. It's worth noting here, of course, that being hated by Martin was not a difficult feat to accomplish.

Reggie alienated his teammates by referring to himself as "the straw that stirs the drink," in an interview with a New York reporter. Whether or not this statement was surrounded by somewhat derogatory comments about Yankees captain Thurman Munson, or that it was completely taken out of context, were subject to debate. Regardless, in Game Six of the 1977 World Series, the man who had a candy bar named after him lived up to and exceeded all expectations.

Sarcastically nicknamed "Mr. October" by none other than Munson himself, Jackson entered Game Six already enjoying a fine series—6-for-17 (.353), 2 HR, 3 RBI and 6 runs scored—and the Yankees led the Dodgers three-games-to-two. But, on the night of October 18, 1977, he would legitimately earn the moniker that he is still known for today.

After walking and scoring on Chris Chambliss's 2nd inning home run, he would step to the plate in the bottom of the 4th with his team trailing 3-2. With Munson on first and nobody out, Jackson lined Dodgers starter Burt Hooton's first pitch into the right field seats to give the Yankees a 4-3 lead.

Reggie batted again in the 5th, this time facing Elias Sosa with Willie Randolph on base and the Yankees ahead 5-3. One pitch, one swing, one shot launched into deep right field. 7-3, Yanks.

Reggie completed the hat trick with a monster solo shot off of Charlie Hough, into the abyss of the black batter's background in center field, as the stadium throng chanted "Reg-gie, Reg-gie, Reg-gie!!!" and tossed his namesake candy bars on the field. Having homered on three consecutive pitches by three different pitchers, Reggie Jackson completed the greatest single game performance by a hitter in World Series history.

As I said in my previous post, I was only 10 years old at the time. As a result, I wasn't allowed to stay up late enough to witness this. So, I actually didn't see this game live, but I woke up the following morning to a handwritten note card which read, "Yankees 8, Dodgers 4. Reggie Jackson: 3 HR." It would be a thing of beauty if I still possessed this note that my dad left on my bedroom dresser, but I don't. Regardless, I can still picture it in my head, and it's still one of my most special early sports memories.

Next: The Tear-Stained Quarter (1978)

The Revolutionary War (1977)

This is part 2 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Previous: Hammerin' 715 (1974)

The Yankees and Royals met in the ALCS for three consecutive years from 1976-78. While I never heard this rivalry referred to as "The Revolutionary War," it would have been fitting. The origin of the term "Yankee" is in reference to a person native to the United States, and the only royalty that Yankees would be known to battle would be from England.

Of course, the analogy begins to fall apart when you consider the Royals didn't have control over the Yankees prior to those matchups. Also, while the Yankees won all three of those series in the '70s, the Royals enacted a bit of revenge by sweeping them in 1980. The two teams haven't met in the postseason since, although this is mainly due to the Royals lack of success. Since winning the World Series in 1985, they've gone 24 consecutive years without playing beyond game #162.

The three American League Championship Series played between New York and Kansas City during the latter half of the 1970s were all hard fought. 1976 and 1977 went the full five games and, although the Yankees won three-games-to-one in 1978, their final two victories were both one-run games in which they captured the lead for good in the 6th inning or later.

The moment from these three series that would have to be considered the most memorable by the majority of fans is Chris Chambliss's 1976 Game Five walk-off home run. After all, his solo blast did secure the Yankees' first World Series appearance in 12 years—the franchise's longest drought since their first ever World Series in 1921—and is featured on highlight reels that show Chambliss knocking over celebrating fans as he barrels his way around the bases to make it official. However, my most prominent memory was of the conclusion of the ALCS played one year later.

Whereas Game Five in 1976 was played at Yankee Stadium, to advance to a second consecutive World Series in 1977, the New Yorkers would have to win the deciding game in Kansas City. To do so, they would have to overcome a poor outing from Ron Guidry, and come from behind against a pitcher—Paul Splittorf—who had shut them down in Game One.

The Yankees trailed 2-0 after the 1st, 3-1 after the 3rd, and 3-2 going into the 9th. But, Dan Quisenberry wouldn't make his major league debut until two years later, and the Royals bullpen was without a bona fide closer. Apparently lacking complete confidence in a trio of relievers who finished 1977 with double-digit saves—Doug Bird, who had pitched part of the 8th inning; Mark Littell and Larry Gura—Royals manager Whitey Herzog handed the ball to Game Three starter and winner Dennis Leonard.

The Yankees clawed their way for three runs off Leonard, who was relieved by Gura and then Littell, on two singles, a walk, sacrifice fly and a George Brett error, to take a 5-3 lead. The Yanks did have a legitimate closer in Sparky Lyle, won won the Cy Young Award in 1977. Lyle retired Darrell Porter on a popup, but then gave up a single to Frank White. Next came the moment that is still etched in my brain.

Royals shortstop Freddie Patek was as pesky as they come, having batted .389 (7-for-18) in the '76 ALCS, and .412 (7-for-17) so far in this series. But, he would not further his reputation as a Yankee killer in this at bat, grounding into a series-ending double play.

I watched as television cameras zoomed in on a dejected Patek, sitting in the dugout with his head in his hands and an occasional tear streaming from his face. My thoughts turned from reveling in his failure to feeling somewhat sympathetic. At 10 years old, it was my first real experience with feeling the thrill of victory while empathizing with the agony of defeat.

Next: Mr. October (1977)

Hammerin' 715 (1974)

This is part 1 in the From Hank to Hideki series, chronicling the 40 most memorable sports moments of my lifetime.

Most people who possess the long-standing love of baseball that I do—especially those who write about it—have fond and vivid memories of their first trip to a major league ballpark. It just so happens that I don't, which is not to say I have bad memories of my first game. It's just that I don't remember.

My father doesn't seem to recall either, but my best educated guess is that it was during the 1973 season, as evidenced by an artifact I dug out of my personal archives (see photo below). If it wasn't 1973, then my first game was at Shea, because the Yankees played their home games there during the 1974 and 1975 seasons, while Yankee Stadium was being renovated.

There are some things I do remember about those formative years, though. 1974 was the year that I became a legitimate baseball fan. That is, it was the season I became a fan of the Yankees. I know it was 1974 because that's the year baseball cards of players who'd been traded in the off-season had a thick yellow horizontal banner across the bottom of their picture with the word TRADED written across it. I remember this because I'd envisioned that my 1974 baseball card would say "TRADED...to the New York Yankees".

Of course, I'm not trying to say that becoming a Yankees fan is evidence of my conversion to a true baseball fan. However, prior to that I considered my favorite team to be the Pirates. Why? Because I was six years old and I wanted to be one. That's not exactly a legitimate reason to be a fan of a particular team, in my book, although one of my best friends in college was a guy from Long Island who was a fan of the New York Giants, New York Rangers, New York Knicks and Pittsburgh Pirates.

Why the Pirates? I think he said it was because he liked their uniform colors as a kid, but it could have been for the same reason as my own admission. Another theory is that he had a desire to be different, as evidenced by the fact that he was from Long Island and wasn’t a fan of the Islanders. Actually, I believe that most Long Islanders—especially at that point in time—were fans of the Mets and Jets as well, particularly because they played their games at Shea, and it was easier for them to get to Queens than the Bronx.

One more thing I remember from those days was April 8, 1974. My family was visiting my grandparents—my mother's parents—in Clearwater, Florida. It was our year to head down to Florida, as we alternated years with my mother's younger sister's family, visiting them every other Easter vacation. I believe this was our second-to-last trip down there. My grandmother died in August of 1976 and my grandfather subsequently moved back north to be closer to his son (my Uncle Carl), his three daughters (my mom and my Aunts Dolores and Louise), and his ten grandchildren.

We were watching the Braves-Dodgers game on television. Whether Florida was considered an extension of Braves' territory or it was a Monday Night Baseball broadcast, I don't know, because I'm pretty certain this was prior to TBS's superstation days. On opening day, just four days prior, Hank Aaron had belted home run number 714, tying Babe Ruth for the all-time record.

I was pretty much rooting against Aaron breaking the all-time home run mark. After all, I was a Yankees fan for the better part of a week, and didn't want anyone to overtake the immortal Babe. Actually, I had much more of a sense of who Babe Ruth was, and what his place was in baseball history, than you would expect from someone my age. This leads me to believe that I didn't just become a Yankees fan at the start of the 1974 season. More likely, the seed had already been sown during 1973, partly as a result of my first trip to Yankee Stadium, but also because I realized that rooting for the same team as my dad should far outweigh my desire be Captain Hook's sidekick.

In the fourth inning, Hammerin’ Hank drove an Al Downing offering into the bullpen in left-center field. I watched as Dodgers left-fielder Bill Buckner tried in vain to climb the wall in an attempt to keep the ball in the park. Then, a handful of fans poured onto the field, apparently to simply congratulate Aaron as he circled the bases, eventually to be greeted by his teammates—and some guy in a white trench coat and white pants—at home plate.

It’s a scene that I still recall vividly today, right down to picturing the layout of my grandparents’ living room as we watched the game. It’s a pretty special memory, and quite historically significant at that. I’d say I’m pretty lucky that it’s my first lasting baseball memory.

Next: The Revolutionary War (1977)

From Hank to Hideki: 40 Years of Cheers, Tears and Beers

I've finally decided on the title for my Sports Fab 40 series, that is the 40 most important—to me—sports moments of my lifetime. The meaning of the title, if not already obvious, will become apparent over time, or at least with the first and last entries.

Of course, I need to give credit where it is due, so I'd like to thank Neil Young for inspiring the title, and Lee Mazzola for suggesting the sub-title. The latter is a little misleading, though, as my first sports memory doesn't quite go back 40 years, but since I've been alive for 40-plus, it basically fits the spirit of the series.

Once again, I'll explain that these are the 40 moments that are most important to me, and nothing else. Those that I witnessed in person, obviously, take on a little extra meaning, but ultimately the most important factors are how vividly I remember these moments and what they mean to me today.

I figured I'd better get started on this, over a year after introducing it, before any more memorable moments occur, thus potentially ruining the title. So, if this is the kind of thing that interests you, stay tuned.

Filling a Void

It's mid-January, the best music of 2008 list is completed, Cooperstown enshrinees have been announced, and with the start of baseball's regular season 2 1/2 months away--since the reporting of pitchers and catchers in mid-February doesn't quite do it for me--comes a period of time that is somewhat devoid of blogging material for me.

A little less than two years ago, I began a series of memoir-style blog entries chronicling one of my lifelong obsessions. I called it the Fab 40, as I wrote about the 40 artists who've meant the most to me during my lifetime as a music fan. Well, I've recently been working on compiling another list. That is, the 40 most important sports moments of my life so far.

Once again, these moments will be judged based on their importance to me, not on how important they were to their respective teams or sports, or to anyone else. Having been in attendance at the particular event, of course, will increase its likelihood of making the list. However, the most important factors will be how vivid my memories are, and how these memories make me feel today.

I need a little help, though. I don't know what to call this series. I'm looking for something a little more creative than the Sports Fab 40, but I'm coming up void of ideas. So, if you have any thoughts, please send them my way.