The name Joe Carter is an expletive for Philadelphians, but for most of them it’s just one in a long stream of failures and disappointments. For people about my age, however, it’s the formative name in our baseball lives. I don’t have many memories of Phillies baseball, and sports in general, from before the Blue Jays’ right fielder smoked a walk-off three run homer into left field to win the 1993 World Series.
The only memories I do have before that tear-inducing moment, which led to my first “you can’t win ‘em all” lesson from my parents, were from two days before, when my dad and grandfather took me to Game 5 of the Series. I was young enough to actually worry about getting a nosebleed in our seats, which were in the 700 level of the glorified meat-packing plant that was Veterans’ Stadium. I only have a few photo-image memories of being there—the short distance between our seats and the top of the stadium, a rundown between third and home, the scoreboard with the 2-0 result after a Curt Schilling gem. But it was a win, and my baseball innocence would survive for a few more paradisiacal hours.
Game 6 turned me into the baseball fan I am today—one that expects to be heartbroken anytime something remotely inspiring could happen. Ah, to be innocent again!
—Mike Stewart (COL ’08)
The first time I ever saw really drunk people was during New York’s last subway series in 2000. I was 12 years old. I was riding the subway with my family, a rare and exciting experience in itself, when a group of intoxicated men decked out in Mets garb crammed themselves into the already crowded subway car. I remember clinging to the support pole and watching in horror as they performed a raucous rendition of Riverdance that made the entire car shake. The beer fumes wafting from their collective breaths made me want to puke. I thought I was going to die, but we got off at our stop before I had the chance. The Mets lost the series.
—Katie Norton (COL ’10)
We were reading Shiloh and learning simple scientific principles as the Cleveland Indians had made their way to the World Series in ‘95 for the second time in three years. My teacher, Miss Hist, showed up each day of the series decked out in red and blue Indians apparel, raving about the latest game, the random facts only truly devoted fans know and all the “hunks” on the team.
One day Miss Hist gathered the most talented artists to have them draw her their renditions of the famed Indian mascot Chief Wahoo. She chose talented John, a brown-haired nine-year-old, to take a seat next to her rocker in the middle of the room. His self-consciousness was obvious as he painted the famed Indian image on her cheek. The rest of the class watched, craning our necks to get a glimpse at the developing image, praying the Indians would win again so we might get a chance to do it tomorrow. Sadly, it didn’t happen.
—Liz Kuebler (MSB ’10)
