It's the greatest pilgrimage a Yankee fan can make.
You wake up on one magical October morning, the exhilaration of two nights ago still as fresh in your heart as it was when the final out was made, and dress in the early morning chill.
You pull on every bit of Yankees memorabilia you can dig up... hats, shirts, jackets... and head out to the train station.
You're in the middle of rural New Jersey, so there are only about fifteen people at the station. Three or four are businessmen on the commute; the other dozen are proudly declaring their allegiance.
They're going the same place as you. You make small-talk, discuss the games you've been to, how great the Series was, and wasn't Brosius's homer amazing?
The train comes, and you get on. You're excited; you and your traveling companions talk of nothing but stats and stories and famous Yankees and the best teams ever.
And at every stop, more people come on, with their Yankee hats and their smiling faces, and you catch the familiar names in the train chatter.
After an hour or so, the train reaches its stop outside the city. You crowd
onto the PATH train, into the World Trade Center station, and out onto the streets.
It's amazing. Every single person you see, and this is a busy New York street, is breathless and adorned with
the interlocking NY. (Or a cop.)
You press up against the baricades, wheedling with the cops to let you through. They mutter about
how crazy you are, and what this world is coming to, and why is everyone so crazy about a game, and how it's their responsibility to protect you.
You're staring through uncountable hundreds of people up by the street, atop every object they can find,
and hundreds more are at your back. You can see the floats through binoculars, and you can hear the screams
and the distinctive "Dar-ryl."
Eventually, people start heading back your way, and you figure that probably all the players are gone. But the cops have changed positions now, and you finally talk one into letting you through.
The crowds are still thick and nearly impenetrable, but eventually you pull yourself up onto an oily and greasy truck, which still has room for a foothold and a handhold on the side. Sure enough,
you're looking at Little League teams and steel drum bands, but at least you can actually see the parade.
Finally, the parade itself is over, and you're now swept up in a wave heading completely the opposite direction.
Trying to locate those you came for; it's not that easy to pick out a guy in a Mickey Mantle jersey, amongst millions
of whom hundreds, at least, are wearing the same thing. You go back down into the World Trade Center station... it's
oddly beautiful to see all the halls and walkways and escalators packed full of Yankee fans. Someone calls out, "Let's
go Yankees!" and from all around you comes the clapping, the familiar rhythm. It's the walkway tunnel out of the stadium
to the parking lots, multiplied a hundredfold. It's magnificent...
As you finally make your way onto the train to ride home, tired and happy, you realize something. You realize that even
though you didn't get a chance to actually see your Yankees, you weren't drawn here to watch. You were part of something huge,
and crazy, and fantastic. You were one body out of millions, a tiny part of making a statement to your beloved Bronx Bombers,
that they deserve every bit of this wild insanity. And, looking around Manhattan for a few hours, you were able to imagine that
you lived in a world inhabited solely by millions of Yankee fanatics.
What a wonderful world it would be.
