On Tuesday night, HBO premiered its documentary Nine Innings From Ground Zero, a stirring look at the role baseball played in New York’s recovery after Sept. 11, 2001. Its focus is the Yankees’ run to the World Series, which ended in a gut-wrenching game-seven loss to the Arizona Diamondbacks. Yet, the Yankees’ loss was irrelevant.
Having grown up in New York well, Long Island one would think that my allegiance lies with the Yankees. Having a father from Philadelphia, however, I was brought up to root for Philly teams and hate, nay, loathe, New York teams. And loathe them I did, starting at the top with the Yankees, down to the Giants, Knicks and Rangers.
After the events of Sept. 11, though, it became hard to hate New York teams, especially the Yankees. I hated that I couldn’t hate them. They were playing for a wounded city and a wounded nation, and there was something magical in that.
In Nine Innings, countless stories are recounted from life-long Yankees fans about how much it meant to have baseball in those trying times. There was something in baseball that carried an all-purpose elixir to lift the spirits of anyone watching. Baseball was, and is, America’s pastime. After America was attacked, it became vital to cling to those things which reminded us that there was life before Sept. 11, and more importantly, that there would be life afterwards. I hate to admit it, but there is nothing more American than the Yankees in the World Series.
I remember watching those World Series games, and as much as I wanted the Yankees to lose as a matter of principal, I desperately wanted them to win as a matter of pride. That Yankees team broke down the municipal boundaries that typify our view of sports as “us against them.” This time, though, the “them” was not Philadelphia or Boston; it was bigger than that. The attack was not a debate about whether the Yankees were “the evil empire,” but rather about whether America was the evil empire. And so, some had no choice but to root for this team-a team we would hate when things somewhat returned to normal. For the time being, though, the Yankees were not being propelled by the ghosts of Yankee Stadium, but rather the smoke billowing from recovery efforts just nine miles away.
Those were special times in New York, and to have been a part of it is something that won’t leave you. With every at-bat that brought the crowd to its feet, there was a palpable sense that something bigger was going on. It didn’t matter how the at-bat went as long as everyone was standing together, rooting for the Yankees, or, in this case, rooting for America.
