"Mr. Cohen's room."
I'll never forget what followed.
A look of horrified disbelief crossed his face and it was made all the worse because Mr. Cohen couldn't tell anyone. In a room full of 8, 9, and 10 year olds, how is a full grown man going to empathize with kids who can't spell their own last name let alone comprehend the biggest sucker punch to the economical gut of America in the last 70 years?
"Thank you."
Mr. Cohen hung up the phone and calmly went back to his desk and resumed his grading while the rest of the class meandered on through our writing. We didn't get recess that day, which was odd because Mr. Cohen was always so lenient with our time on the jungle gym. Half the class had their families come pick them up, including mine. Tuesday was Dad's late night at work, I wasn't expecting him to be on the sidewalk when I walked out of school that day.
I've been to New York once in my life. It was fun I guess, I'm not a fan of huge cities. My mom stepped on a bum, though. I didn't know much about it other the size. It was hard for me to realize. I didn't know what a terrorist was; I thought it was a synonym for someone who dressed up in bad clothing, got a harsh sunburn and traveled to exotic cities. I had never heard of Afghanistan before. And now I hear that name every single day, even if I make a conscious effort to avoid news outlets, Twitter, etc. Had I been an adult, I think I would have been struck with anger more than anything. That's what I feel now.
But in some sick and twisted way, I am thankful I didn't have to cope with it as an adult. I know it may sound shortsighted and closed-minded, but I was upset that baseball wasn't on for the following week. Every morning I would read the Detroit Free Press sports section, scouring over box scores of the previous night and getting up to speed of the upcoming action. For 10 days, there were just pictures of an eerily empty and freshly built Comerica Park. This was 2001, before the left field fence was moved in, and I remember just seeing a picture of the field with sunshine over it but I couldn't help but feel impatience and fear for the future.
When November rolled around, I wanted nothing more than for the Yankees to win the World Series. They were my first little league team and you all know I was/am a huge Derek Jeter fan, so I was rooting for them deep into the chilly postseason. I may have been young but with the lip service and touching video footage of New Yorkers coming together, I was pulling for a win for the city of New York.
While I was sitting at the counter eating my Reese's Puffs on September 12th, I was too young to realize that America needed baseball that week. Baseball is special in the scheduling sense because there is a game every day for almost six straight months, beginning in April and ending in October. Except for the All-Star break, there is baseball to be played every single day. It brings a sense of normalcy and comfort to the everyday routine; wake up, go to work, come home and watch baseball. Football and other fall sports are almost more of a special event because its once a week. But not baseball. It's with us every day of our summer lives, day or night, (light) rain or shine.
But not the week of 9/11. After the towers fell and the American people were left broken and in tears, they needed two things: each other, and something to rally behind. In an interview with MLB, Mets catcher Mike Piazza said "people wanted to find refuge in baseball, in a crowd, in being around other people." The Mets were on the road in Florida on their way to Pittsburgh when the disaster struck. They would not play a home game until September 21st against the Braves. It is this game that has a special place in my heart. I'll tell you why.
At the Hall of Fame last summer, the interns all had to give an "Artifact Spotlight," where we got to present two artifacts that are in Collection of the Hall but not on display to the public. July was Mets Month at the Hall, so a few weekends were dedicated to Mets trivia, Mets tours, and other Mets themed special events. On one of these Mets Weekends, I got to present an artifact from this September 21st game.
This game was the first professional sporting event in New York since the attacks. Despite being bitter rivals through the years, Atlanta and New York put that in their back pocket as managers Bobby Cox and Bobby Valentine shared kind words and an embrace before the game. As chants of USA rang through Shea Stadium to the core, the Braves eked out a 2-1 lead over the Mets, scoring an unearned run off of starter Bruce Chen and then a 2-out double off of Mets captain and New York born John Franco in the 8th. Things were looking bleak for the Mets as Atlanta reliever Steve Karsay came in to preserve the lead.
Piazza will say he was just doing his job, but last time I checked, giving the biggest city in America a reason to fight for the good in the world with a single swing wasn't in a baseball player's job description. On an 0-1 pitch, Piazza took an outside fastball deep into the New York night, giving the Mets the lead and brief sense of hysteria for New Yorkers everywhere that everything will be alright. Pinch runner Desi Relaford scored and with Piazza's tap of home plate, the Mets took the lead and America wouldn't look back. Here's the video from MLB.com; I was crying before Piazza swung - beat that.
Though Atlanta lost that game, I think any Brave would agree that you couldn't write a better script. It was what America needed. People wanted answers, revenge, an explanation, names, a plan, anything that would stop the bleeding. What they got wasn't quite as resolute as any of those, but just as powerful. They were given a symbol of hope.
Piazza's home run wasn't just a clutch performance on the field, it showed the world that the USA would never give up. That was the biggest punch in the face America could have taken, and Mike Piazza swung right back.
I presented John Franco's jersey from this night. Franco only threw 2/3 of an inning before allowing the Braves to take the lead late in the game. As a lifetime New Yorker, I doubt that was how he had it playing in his mind, but holding the jersey that he wore that night woke me up a bit that summer.
I realized that despite that crippling blow to New York and to Americans everywhere, it was okay to cry. But it was not okay to give up. Giving up is admitting defeat. Mike Piazza didn't, the Mets didn't, New York didn't, and America sure as hell didn't. Like I said, I've never been to New York for more than 24 hours. I've never been to a Mets game, and I don't think Bobby Valentine is a very good manager. But working with this jersey that John Franco wore through that intensely emotional night in Queens brought me closer to the tragedy. It taught me lessons that I don't think any news footage could have, in a sense. I appreciate the tributes and the moments of silence, but when I see Mike Piazza take that hack and send those 41,000 fans into absolute pandemonium to forget about 9/11, if even for a second, I see the humanity in baseball. It's not just a game or a team to root for, but it's a refuge. It's a safe haven, a sanctuary where you come as you are and leave feeling resurrected. On September 21st, 2001, Mike Piazza was America's preacher, savior, and idol all rolled into one.
To those that lost their lives, I pray that we will never forget what happened on that day in your honor. To those that worked tirelessly for days and weeks to search for the missing, you have taught us what it means to give back. To those who have lost their lives in the ensuing war on terror, thank you for the ultimate sacrifice.
And thank you, Mike Piazza, for giving us something we will always remember after something we will never forget.
Thanks for reading. And don't ever give up.
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