It was 2001 and the Yankees were playing the Diamondbacks in the World Series.  A friend of mine had arranged for me to get two tickets to Game 4!  My grandfather and I headed down to the House that Ruth Built for a chance to see history in the making, we did!  Bottom of the ninth and the Yankees are down by two and there’s a 0-0 count with two outs.  Tino Martinez comes to the plate.  Let me be clear.  I hated Tino Martinez.  He was the man who came to New York to replace my hero, Don Mattingly, and did so in amazing fashion.  By the time 2001 rolled around, most New Yorkers had forgotten Mr. Yankee and had embraced Tino Martinez. I digress.  Long story short, for those who don’t remember or don’t care, Tino hits a home run and ties the game.  The Yankees go on to win.  Rewind to the bottom of the seventh.  My grandfather taps me on the shoulder and says “hey, let’s go down behind home plate so we can get closer to the exit and try and beat the traffic.”  We head down there and we start talking to two NYPD cops.  These two guys thought it was awesome that my Grandfather and I were there together.  Ahhh.  Baseball, the one American generational gap builder!  So, again, long story short, a young security guard comes up to us and tells us we need to move along or we’ll be asked to leave the stadium.  The cops turn to her and point to me and says “you come with me, gramps, follow him.”  I stood with one partner while the other brought my grandfather two rows behind home plate to sit next to Joe Torre’s mother!  Amazing.

So, why am I so sad to hear of legendary Oriole’s manager Earl Weaver passing away?  That amazing sports story is trumped by an earlier one.  We’re in the Yankee Stadium parking lot, waiting by the giant bat to meet my friend who had the tickets.  While we’re waiting, a man and his son come running up to my grandfather with a ball and pen.  “I know you,” laughed the man, “I know you!”  My grandfather, somewhat stunned, says, “Son, I think you’re mistaken.”  “I know you,” continues the man, “You’re Earl Weaver!!!”  “No,” laughed my Grandfather, “I’m not Earl Weaver.”  Of all the memories that day, seeing a stranger hold my grandfather in as much esteem as I do, even for a second, was totally cool and burned in my memory bank forever (I hope.)

So, a tip of the cap to a man who added so much to baseball.  Another tip of the cap to a stranger who made a young man so proud and a tip of the cap to the man who continues to make that young man proud.