Godzilla

I’m currently in Chicago for the weekend, and I’m staying with my cousin, David, his wife, Sarah, and their son 17-month-old son, Tyler, at their home in Aurora, which is about 45 minutes from downtown. It was almost a year ago to the week that I was here on my first trip outside of Atlanta after Shani’s death. I stayed with them for a few days, doing everything I could to just get away and possibly enjoy myself, attempting to escape the horror movie that my life had become only 2 months before. While here, it just so happened that the New York Yankees were in town, so David and I drove into the city to catch one of the four games that weekend.

The Sox and the Yankees on the South Side of Chicago. This was the same summer series I used to attend as a kid when Dad and I would drive over from Sterling, which is my boyhood home, a small town of about 15,000 in Northwest IL, two hours or so to the west of the Chicago. It was an eerie, yet comforting feeling to connect with some of my best boyhood memories during the most difficult time of my life.

As we headed toward Cellular Field that evening, traffic was at a standstill, and it looked as though we were going to arrive a couple of innings late. It was what it was, but Dave and I both felt uneasy being stuck in the gridlock. Neither of us wanted to miss any of the game. We had the radio on and were listening to the pregame when the announcer came on to say that the start of the game would be delayed as some showers were in the area and that the grounds crew was in the process of pulling the tarp over the field. They said it looked as if the showers were going to blow through. We looked at each other and grinned. We’d just bought some time.

We pulled up about 30 minutes later, and as we walked through the parking lot toward the stadium, it started to drizzle, and as soon as we entered the gates, the skies opened up. We stood under the mezzanine, looking out at the field as the showers fell. Inside the stadium, shielded from the elements, we got some burgers and drinks and headed toward our seats when the rain suddenly stopped. It may have rained for a total of 20 minutes or so with the game delayed for an hour. Our timing was perfect. We had just enough time to park, grab a bite, and find our seats.

Once we found our section situated between 1st base and the right field wall, we methodically took each step in the direction of the field trying to locate our seats. We kept going, one step at a time, until we reached the field. We were in the front row! We took our seats and watched the Yankees finish their warm ups. For a moment, not only was I not thinking about the horrible feelings that had dictated everything in my life for the past 2 months, but I felt at home. I was at the ballpark with my cousin, watching my childhood heroes, the New York Yankees.

Dave and I were pointing out the players as they jogged by, played catch, warmed up and ran wind sprints. I spotted Hideki Matsui, the Yankees Designated Hitter for the night and told Dave the story about Shani buying me his jersey for my birthday just 2 years before. It was a pinstriped, home jersey with his number “55” and “Matsui” on the back. Affectionately known as Godzilla, I loved the gift, but honestly had no idea why she bought it for me when she did. Nothing against him at all, he was a great player, but far from my favorite at the time. They had Derek Jeter, Alex Rodriguez and Mariano Rivera. I would have chosen a Jorge Posada, or even a classic Reggie Jackson or Thurman Munson jersey before I would have gone for Matsui.

I remember saying, “I love it!” as I tried it on. “But why Matsui?”

“Because I knew you didn’t have it and that it’s one you never would have bought for yourself,” she said.

“Ok,” I said in agreement, still thinking it a bit odd, but still appreciative. “Only a woman would use such logic,” I remember thinking, under a chuckle.

Dave got a kick out of it too.

The entire first inning was uneventful with one runner reaching base, and no runs scored. As we sat there, I realized that being in the front row, there was the possibility that a foul ball could come our way. As if to imagine one headed in our direction, I leaned over the wall, practicing the proper technique for putting myself in the best position for catching the ball, given the opportunity. I realized that attempting to stand and lean over could lead to me tipping over the railing and falling onto the field. I found that my best shot would be to drop to my right knee and reach over the top with my right arm. From that position I could scoop a ball right off the ground as it shot down the wall.

I’d never caught a foul ball at any of the probably hundreds of games that I had attended throughout my life, and with more than 31,000 in attendance that night, my chances were increased by our seats for sure, but it wasn’t like I held out any kind of realistic hope of actually getting a ball. I was just thrilled to be so close to the action.

In the top of the 2nd inning Matsui stepped to the plate. A left handed hitter, he took his first swing of the night, jumping at a pitch early in the count. A bit out in front, he turned on it and laced a ground ball somewhat in our direction, but not directly at us. Suddenly it ricocheted off of the extended portion of the wall, causing it to change direction and roll toward me. It wasn’t just coming in our direction, it was heading directly AT me. Instinctively, I assumed the position I had practiced earlier with my right arm dangling over the railing, following the path of the ball. I stuck my hand out and quite literally picked it up off of the ground. It felt like a dream, and I was literally in shock. Dave looked at me in bewilderment, leaning back and laughing. I looked back in amazement, and we both shook our heads. Matsui?!? Seriously??? We sat there rehashing what had just happened over and over, and I held the ball tightly for the rest of the game. It ended up being an excellent, extra inning game with the Yankees losing, but I was understandably not feeling any pain over the loss on the way home.

I told Dave on the way home that I wanted to give the ball to Tyler, his 5 month old son. I remembered how his Dad and my other uncle, his father’s twin, would bring me gifts from their travels when I was young and how much I appreciated them when growing up. I thought about how Ty might feel the same about the ball as he grew older. I had the story, I had the sign, and I had Shani. And with that, I had more than enough. Ty can keep the ball.

Hideki Matsui would go on to be named the MVP of the 2009 World Series, accumulating 6 RBI in the series clinching, Game 6 victory over the Philadelphia Phillies.