Whether it was tension-filled pennant drives or as the muffled voice from transistor radios beneath our pillows, each syllable spelled elation or devastation.
— Gary Cohen, September 25, 2004
I’ll be the first to admit it: I had an incredibly cliché childhood. I’m reminded about this periodically. Most recently, it was yesterday.
Back in the day, in the magical year of 1986, my Mets were big, bad, and invincible. And I followed every game I possibly could. We didn’t have cable, so if the game wasn’t on Channel 9, it was on my radio. And the best nights were when the team was on the West Coast, and I would fall asleep listening to Thorne and Murph on my clock radio.
When the post-season rolled around, I was juiced. But I was also a 6th grader, and while I now extol the virtues of day baseball, back then a day game meant a missed game.
Unless, of course, you had a radio. And so, the fond memory: sitting in the back of the classroom, with the permission of my social studies teacher, listening to the Mets and the Astros in what is possibly the greatest post-season series ever played.
I thought of this, because on Wednesday afternoon my corporeal self was sitting at my desk trying to bang out some invoices, but my inner 6th grader was staring intently at the ESPN Gametrack, waiting for the next pitch to be updated, and trading IMs with co-workers and family.
Ah, to be young again.