There aren’t too many things that I loved as a child that I still love today, but there is one thing that comes quickly to mind, and that is baseball.  My entire life has revolved around baseball, and each long winter day that passes brings me closer to another season.  This season will be different for me though. The Yankees will be playing in a brand spanking new billion-dollar stadium.  It is said all good things must pass and that is certainly true in this case.  Some of my fondest memories in life took place in the big ballpark in the Bronx.  Maybe my fondest Yankee Stadium memory occurred in the early 70’s when my dad took me to a game.

Back then, I used to bring my glove to each game hoping against hope to catch a baseball. This particular afternoon we were sitting, as usual, in the lower level of the right field stands.  In the latter innings, my favorite player, Bobby Murcer, came up for the Yankees in a key spot.  My dad told me, “Get ready, he’s gonna hit one out here.”

Sure enough, on the very first pitch Bobby ripped a liner to right. It was a long drive that sailed over the right fielder’s head and kept going. The ball banged off a wooden chair about five rows in front of me. I scampered as fast as I could after the ball, heart pounding with excitement. I would love to say I grabbed the ball and it is sitting on a shelf in my home. But that wasn’t the case. An older guy beat me to the home run ball, and my disappointment has lasted a lifetime.

To this day I can close my eyes and remember how big and colorful Yankee Stadium was. I can vividly remember the chills that ran through my body when my dad would ask, “Want to go to the game today?” I never said no.

My final trip to Yankee Stadium was last July, a couple of days after my mom’s funeral. I thought about all the times I was in Yankee Stadium with my mom and dad. Both are gone now. So is Bobby Murcer, who passed just a couple of weeks after my mom. Yankee Stadium is awaiting the wrecking ball.

Baseball is about memories of not just the games, but the people you care about most. It is about family, friends, and the players on the field. It truly is a beautiful, time-tested sport that is more than just a game. It is life. At least for me it is.

I’m looking forward to the upcoming season and watching games on TV from the new Yankee Stadium. I’m also anxious to visit the new park. Maybe I’ll even like it. But it can never replace the original stadium..

I took a recent trip to New York to attend to family business. Feeling a bit nostalgic, I decided to drive over to the park near my mom’s house to take a look. You know, for old time’s sake.

Not much had changed since my last visit a decade ago. The basketball court where I dominated in my younger days (note sarcasm) was still there. The same for the baseball field, tennis courts, and handball courts. The small lake looked the same.  The park was quiet except for a couple of mothers with baby strollers enjoying the late morning sun. There was a dopey kid on a skateboard nearby and an older gentleman throwing a ball against the handball wall. Just a quiet Monday at the park.

After taking in the scene, I began to stroll with flashbacks and memories stirring in my head. As I got closer to the handball courts, I recognized the man throwing the ball. He wasn’t just lobbing it either. He was firing the ball against that huge cement wall. I looked closely at the man and I couldn’t believe it.  It was John Verwoert, one of my former baseball coaches and a man whom I had met 27-years earlier. I hadn’t seen him in at least ten years.

“Mr. V,” I yelled.

He walked over to the fence. It took a couple of seconds before he replied in his New York accent, “Billy Rogan. What are you doin’ here? You’re supposed to be in Denvah.”

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It was the summer of 1972, and as usual I was spending it with my grandfather in the Bronx. Why they call it “The” Bronx but not “The Brooklyn” or “The Queens” I don’t know. Anyway, I digress.

My entire summer revolved around baseball. We played baseball all day at Van Cortlandt Park, or we would venture over to Coyne Park and play against the kids from Yonkers. When not playing pickup baseball games, we would play stickball or go to Yankees games. There were no video games to play and no air-conditioned malls to hang out in. It was just baseball, all day every day, and I loved every minute of it.

Late one hot and muggy afternoon, I was involved in a spirited game of stickball in the schoolyard of P.S. 19. The kid I was playing against was twelve years old, two years older and much bigger. I didn’t like this kid because he was a Mets fan, and he was wearing one of those plastic replica Mets batting helmets, the inside of which read, “Not to be used for protective purposes.”

As the game moved along, we argued over every pitch, every ruling. It was getting nasty. I was pitching and decided “enough is enough.” I fired a pitch with everything I had in my skinny body, directly at his head. The rubber ball flew out of my hand and made a beeline to his noggin. Perfect aim. Pinpoint control. Bulls eye! I drilled this yappy Mets fan squarely in the head, his shiny Mets batting helmet shattering into hundreds of pieces.

The thrilling feeling I had didn’t last long. The big kid was somewhat perturbed. Actually, worse than that. He jumped off the asphalt quickly and threw his stickball bat (a broomstick) at me like a javelin. It missed. I may have said something about that, but I don’t remember. If I did it probably was, “Ha, ya missed!”

The 12-year old kid, after misfiring on his javelin throw, then took off after me.

Diplomacy would not work here, I quickly reasoned. I started running. The goal was now very clear and simple. Survival. I needed to get to Grandpa’s apartment on 235th Street before the helmetless maniac beat the stuffing out of me. The chase was on.

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