The Last Page

The Last Page

The view from Seats 17 and 18, Row G, Main Section 26, down the left-field line at Yankee Stadium, is terrible. The left-fielder, when not obscured by the foul pole, is the only player who is easily recognizable. Everyone and everything else looks skewed, making it hard to follow the simplest of plays. But even if our seats were lousy, this was the World Series, and my son James and I were in the park.

We were there because of a long-ago good turn. In 1985, at a time when my spirits were low, a concerned friend got me to split the price for two upper-deck, box-seat season tickets to the Stadium, right behind home plate. Not for every game on the schedule, but for all the Sunday afternoons, plus Opening Day and a few other holiday games. For a couple of hundred bucks, I’d at least get out of the house regularly all summer long, enjoy the sunshine, and, maybe, cheer up. What’s more, the tickets guaranteed that my friend and I could purchase seats for all playoff and World Series games at the Stadium, should the Yankees advance to post-season play.

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