Yankees: Sept. 10, 2001 and the last normal Yanks-Red Sox rainout

The Yankees and Red Sox were supposed to play for this writer’s enjoyment on Sept. 10, 2001. It’s amazing how quickly that became irrelevant.

September 10, 2001 was going to be the best day of my 10-year-old life.

I’d been to Yankee Stadium before, of course, but I’d only seen the green grass from angles that could generously be described as “off-center”.

I’d attended Yankees-Red Sox, too, but it had gotten very uncomfortable very quickly. Shoved into a section with a handful of hooligans, a tupperware full of pineapple soaked in vodka, and several Pedro Martinez diehards, the environment wasn’t ideal for a child, head cloaked in parental hands-turned-“earmuffs” all game long.

But this was the big one. Yankees-Sox at the Stadium, a pennant race chill in the air, Roger Clemens on the mound going for win No. 20 in a resurgent season, and two box seats, 10 rows behind home plate. There was mastery on the docket, and I was about to have a front row seat, nine rows removed. They’d even serve me a grilled chicken sandwich while I watched.

I tried to make it through the entire sixth-grade school day in the suburbs without bragging too blatantly — after all, things could always go wrong, right? But by the end of technology class, I was buzzing, letting it slip repeatedly that I was headed to enjoy a night of luxury on a night well before the Red Sox were any sort of grave concern to me.

This was a win, would be a win, and would be glorious.

Then, the rains came.

After an early escape from the high brick walls of Pierre Van Cortlandt Middle School, I conservatively sat in the sopping wet seats behind home plate for two and a half hours, awaiting the decision of MLB’s braintrust. At a certain point, I noticed fans begin to gather around the concrete home dugout, inches-deep puddles growing on the alternate logos that adorned it. A player, his face and body hidden by the railing, was reaching his hand out to accept items, autographing them, then blindly handing them back.

As he reached for mine, the official announcement came that the game had been postponed. He passed my program and pen back without a word, disappearing into the clubhouse. For the final time in the period before the inflection point, I was devastated by something so callously normal.

https://twitter.com/yankees_nut/status/1304080333344772096?s=20

The very next day, the sky was clear blue, and the import of an early fall baseball game was forever banished to the back burner. As I suspect was the case for many of my peers, the idea that the world contained horrifying, unforeseen consequences became real that morning for the first time.

The same classmates I was so conscious not to brag about my good fortune to the day prior were huddled in the corner of the cafeteria, or sent home early on a fleet of buses, not knowing how many parents they’d be encountering when they returned.

Months later, by the time October baseball rolled around, I again learned something that I’d never known before. The ins and outs of a regular season of baseball, as well as the daily lows of adolescence, young adulthood, and middle age, may not matter much in the grand scheme. But conversely, the healing and restorative effect of a good, solid escape knows no bounds.

By the time baseball came back, it truly was as important as I’d believed it to be that day I packed my backpack and prepared to let the floodlights wash over me at my favorite cathedral. This game can do plenty for those who require superficial salvation.

Hopefully, on this day of reflection, as a horrific 2020 draws nearer to a close, this day can serve as a reminder to focus on what we have, as well as the potential extreme catharsis of this season’s end, a salve for the needy across this upended country. Once again, we all need baseball. Once again, the lows will someday be blotted out again by the highs.

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