Dave Buscema - Game of My Life New York Yankees: Memorable Stories of Yankees Baseball

DAVE BUSCEMA

Copyright 2004, 2013 by Dave Buscema

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN: 978-1-61321-206-6

Printed in the United States of America

To my mother, for being stronger than anyone knows.

To my nonnas, for loving me more than I know.

To my father, for teaching me to laugh, work and believe.

And in memory of my grandfather and Uncle Joe for endless hours in the backyard and in front of the television playing and watching games.

I love baseball because it reminds me of all of you.

Thanks especially to my family and friends across the country for their support, especially Thomas Buscema, whose late-night Internet pep talks helped.

To Gordie Jones, one of the best columnists in Pennsylvania, who provided many valuable late-night feedback sessions via e-mail. To Wayne Lockwood, who can make any writers copy better and give him a great design to boot. To Wallace Matthews, a tenacious reporter, talented writer and fantastic friend. To Mike Vaccaro, the New York Post columnist who proves you can be among the countrys best, but not forget the papers youve come from.

To Tracy Vogel, a trusted friend and a writer too humble to recognize her own talent. Ditto Tom Joyce.

To Luis Bravo, my best friend and a constant sounding board, for picking me up during stalled spots. To Manny Bravo, for his enthusiasm and encouragement. To Mike Flick for pushing me to write stronger and inspiring me with his own creativity.

To Patrick Verdi, whose dad, Ron, taught him the game and who taught me to remember the people for whom Im writing. A part of this book is in honor of his memory, Pat.

To Raymond Flip Johnson, who keeps me honest even when he doesnt know it.

To my godmother, Irma Rossi, and Jeannie Murphy for endless support.

Thanks for a great edit to Bob Quinn, one of the best editors Ive had because he has the confidence to let me go and the cockiness to rein me in.

To Herb Gluck, who first inspired me through his work on The Mick: An American Hero, then became the best mentor a pain in the neck could have. I owe you more than I can express here. but thanks for pushing me so hard. To Jeff Gilbert and Paul Vigna, former bosses who still inspire me.

To Ed Lucas, one of the most inspiring people around the ballpark, a talented writer, an endless resource for baseball knowledge and a wonderful friend. To John Pennisi, the talented sports cartoonist who makes anyone who can call him a friend fortunate and can always make me laugh.

To the Hall of Fames Jeff Idelson and Bill Francis, whose research produced huge assistance with perspective-filled newspaper reports.

To the Yankees public relations staff, Jason Zillo, Monica Yurman, Ben Tubelitz and especially Rick Cerrone, for his cooperation and patience in whatever request I made. Thanks to Dave Kaplan at the Yogi Berra Museum, Tom McEwen and Andrew Levy for putting me in touch with players and, for that matter, all the players and managers who gave their time. Special thanks to Kathy Jacobson for her extra effort.

To the Yankees beat writers who provided information and support, specifically Dom Amore, who will be shocked to discover the book is completed.

To Bob Herzog at Newsday, one of the business nice guys, an extremely talented writer, trusted editor and valuable baseball historian.

To Mike Pearson at Sports Publishing for bringing me on board, Scott Rauguth for helping me adjust projects on the fly and Dave Brauer for patience, poise and a great job overall that greatly improved this book.

To Julie Ganz, for her fine editing, support, feedback and understanding in helping ensure the final edition was the best it could be.

To John W. McCarthy, Peter Zellen and Marc Lucas for some lastminute assistance.

And most of all, thanks to Jesus. For everything.

After I hugged the best friend who had finally returned to New York, outside of Yankee Stadium, we took the subway ride back home to Queens, to the bar where I knew Id find the friend I became close to when I made my return to the city three years before.

This was the kind of night the Yankees had given New York once again in October 2003, holding off the Red Sox, making the part of the city that loves them show off its unending energy and passion.

My friend, Lou, was finally getting a taste of what it meant to be back after adopting the L.A. lifestyle he still clung to even after making the decision to return. We hugged not because the Yankees had won, but because he had finally gotten a glimpse of just what made him come home.

The Broadway Station bar in Astoria was still as packed as I expected it to be, every Yankee fan in the place drunk off the Yankees comeback against Boston, Aaron Boones home run sending them back to the World Series.

Lets hear it again, Brendan, the bartender, said and hed flip the jukebox on the same kind of endless loop of Sinatras New York, New York that played on at the stadium.

People had been dancing on the bar, hugging strangers, united by the Yankees the way they would whenever Id come home from work after another exciting game, trying to unwind after filing my story.

Now, amid the buzz, a non-stop parade of passion and noise, my friend Patwho helped me find an apartment when I came back to Queens in 2000, who helped me rediscover my New York, the New York full of characters, not mannequins, and more compassion than anyone thinkspulled me aside.

He slipped his arm around my shoulder, talked into my ear so I could hear him above the noise.

Dave, you know my fathers dying, he said. You know thats why Im going to California next month. Today, I said a little prayer.

Just let them just get back there one more time for him.

This is what baseball can be at its absolute bestdistraction, inspiration. A bond between father and son, between friends.

Something so pure it can yank you out of whatever fog youre in and provide the clarity of childhood, just ready to root your heart out for something good to happen. Ready to believe it can.

Of course, baseball is far from the pastoral purity of all those old Norman Rockwell paintings. Theres tons of flaws from steroids to superstar egos so removed from why you love the game they think those cheers are all for them.

And, sure, in many ways they are.

But not really.

Most times when youre sitting there screaming your heart out for another comeback, its not for them; you are rooting for yourself too, arent you?