Permanent Transit
My first game there was a real blazer, in ’93. It was hot. The Yankees came back on the Angels, late. They were down 8-1 or something. Rallied and won. From my upper-deck seat, the ball appeared a snowball, flying around, serving the whims of gravitation. It was all I watched… the snowball in the blistering sun…. Slicing through the infield and the sliding men trying to grab it… the snowball… soaring over the fence as the crowd reacts favorably… the snowball… it was everything. I was only vaguely aware that the Yankees had won. It mattered little. I had just seen a show. And I was hooked.
