Published: October 16, 2008

“Our sense of a place is in many ways more important than objective fact.”—Peter Turchi, author of “Maps of the Imagination”

It was one of those moments in life that you know is special as it’s happening, and in response, all your senses heighten. I remember everything: how Stan’s Sports World looked like a baseball fan’s Candyland, the potent scent of hot dogs and beer that engulfed the air and the ambient sound of 85 years of memories being shared met my ears like a symphony. As I emerged from the stairwell of the uptown D onto River Avenue, the heat of the unusually warm September sun settled on my neck and I thought: Wow, it still feels like summer.

Technically, it still was, being Sept. 21. But this wasn’t the prototypical carefree summer day. I was already three weeks back into school, overwhelmed with 20 credits worth of assignments and various other obligations. And my Yankees were nine games back, essentially out of the postseason. But on this Sunday, none of that mattered.

On this day, this place—Yankee Stadium—was its own world, a world so grand that its true value couldn’t be measured. As fans bustled through the surrounding streets, it seemed as if it was simultaneously April 1923, September 2008 and every time in between. But to me, as I traveled up 158th Street, it simply felt like mid-July in a summer that had no end.

Along with 12 other FCLC students who obtained their tickets courtesy of the Campus Activities Board (CAB), I lined up at Gate Six to enter. As I waited, the day’s first dose of Yankee magic happened.

“Billy!” I heard Brent, another FCLC student and one of my best friends, with whom I’ve seen countless games in Section 39 over the years. He picked up his ticket separately and we had no intention of meeting up, but it was only fitting that we bumped into one another on this historic afternoon.

“Can you believe we’re actually here?” I asked. “I swear, this is the greatest day of my life.” At this point, everything seemed surreal, though I specifically remember it starting to sink in when my ticket successfully scanned.

We immediately bought programs and got on line to walk through Monument Park and then the actual field. Unfortunately, 50,000 other people were also on line, and at least half of them were in front of us. We waited for about two hours before giving up and deciding to take our seats.

It was a little disappointing, not being able to get onto the field, but we were grateful just to be there. We spread ourselves out in the then-vacant left-field bleachers. The concession stands were open so we loaded up on hot dogs, water and soda as we reminisced.

I first thought of Robert, my uncle who took me to my first Yankee game in July 1998 and who is the reason I became a fan. Two nights before Friday’s game, the last one we would see here together, Robert and I sat in the second tier left field stands, where he remembered watching one of his first games with my grandfather. The Yankees played the Orioles, just like tonight.

This began a seemingly endless thread of associations and memories that continued through batting practice and only ceased at the start of the pre-game ceremony. Yankee alumni filled the field including living legends, the kin of those deceased and all the great players from the late ’90s dynasty era, the same guys on the baseball cards that I collected and whose posters I hung on my wall: Brosius, Paulie, Tino, Girardi, Boomer, Coney and Bernie.

Non-fans have difficulty understanding this, but for the tens of thousands of the Yankee faithful present that night, this was a family reunion. Whether it was a 21-year-old fan like myself or someone in his or her 30s, 50s or even 80s, this retrospective meant something to everyone. Though Brent was a section over and Robert 600 feet across the Stadium, it felt like we were all watching together. Because of our shared fanaticism, I bonded with several members of CAB whom I had just met. And even though my grandfather passed before I was born and I never met him, maybe he was there, too. This is the magic of baseball: its ability to bring people together.

In comparison, the game was almost anti-climactic. The crowd was fatigued and relatively quiet for the first few innings—after all, most of us had already been at the Stadium seven hours before it even started. The Yanks didn’t give us much to cheer about until Damon got us on the board. Though Baltimore tied it right back up, a Molina long ball gave us a lead we never gave back. The rest of the game played out like clockwork. Pettitte left with a lead, Joba pitched a scoreless eighth and Mo put it away in the ninth.

When the final out was made, a groundout to first, the opening notes of Sinatra’s “New York, New York” instantly blasted from the Stadium speakers and the celebration began. Our captain Jeter, traditionally a man of few words, gave a brief, but sincere speech. We hugged each other, took pictures, laughed and cried as we loitered for about an hour after the game’s end, until security forced us to leave.

Surprisingly, the mood outside was very celebratory. Fans bought souvenirs in such a frenzy that it seemed like a looting scene, as T-shirts, hats and key-chains flew off the shelves. The experience was cathartic. I felt closure.

Brent looked at one of the bars mobbed with people dancing and smiling faces, then offered a dead-on comparison: “It feels like Labor Day, you know, the last party of the summer when everyone’s just going crazy because they know it’s the end.”

And it was. A cool breeze formed as we entered the early morning hours, and it officially became autumn. The 85-year-long summer that seemed like it had no end was finally over. And I realized that missing the playoffs for the first time in 13 years had nothing to do with why this off-season—this autumn and the impending winter—was going to be the hardest of them all.