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« Trevor Winkfield at the New School [Reviewed by Meg McGuire] | Main | Eye to ear to eye and back [by John Emil Vincent, with quotations from Gizzi/Killian's new, wonderful, Spicer Collected: "my vocabulary did this to me"] »

February 27, 2009


I was sad that they tore Shea down. It was the ugliest stadium in the world, with those blue and orange metal tiles stuck all over it, but it was a proud and uncompromising ugliness. It was distinctive. It had pizzazz. It said, "Yeah, I was built in horrible Midcentury Modern style. Whaddya gonna do about it, bub?"

And this spectator burst into tears. But I had basically been crying throughout the game. Everything was still so raw. When Liza took the field for the 7th inning stretch and sang New York, New York, with a row of firefighters behind her, I lost it.
There was a big mountain of a man sitting in front of us. He was alone, and stoic throughout the game. But at the moment David describes above, he rose up, thrust his arms in the air, and cheered. Then he and the woman to his left (who was there with her family) embraced.

Not to nitpick but it was to dead center field, not in the left field bullpen.

What can I say? Memory is less reliable than the instant replay, and though I've seen that home run on TV a number of times in the years since, I still remembered wrong. Thank you for the correction.
LO, I love the way Piazza evokes the pizzazz of your recollection of Shea.

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