October 2003 Archives

For the love of God, even I thought the Yankees would win in the end. Shows how much I know. Well, I am a Met fan, I can't claim to pick the winners...

When I die, if I make heaven, in my little space, the Mets will win the World Series.

Not every year. Maybe every five years. Just enough to make me riotous with grief and angst and the thought that they'll never win again...until they do, and victory is sweet.

I respect some Yankee fans. Honestly, I do. Some of them have a real fervor for the game, and the spirit of the Babe shines through their eyes when they talk about him. That's great. That's honorable.

Then there are the Yankee fans that sit behind their desks, distracted, arrogantly announcing that the winning run is on base and the game is over, when really, they choked when they had a grand slam in position and the Marlins swept it from them anyway.

It's those Yankee fans. THOSE Yankee fans. Those Yankee fans should be made to be a Mets fan for a while. They need to feel the hurt and pain when they get close and lose. They need to not have the consolation of the extremely reasonable thought, "They'll get it next year." They need to actually be on the tips of their toes, biting their nails (especially when they're not regular nail-biters), heart thumping and everything tensed, waiting for Benitez to screw up another save.

And when they win, when the sweet moment comes when Mets fans can have a whole year of bragging rights over Yankee fans, those displaced Yankee fans will feel the true glee for the first time, an elation that could probably only be matched by a Sox or Cubs fan. And when you explain this to Yankee fans, they don't hear it. They just don't hear you. It's like telling a winning man he should step away from the craps table for a while. It's like telling a child to take slower bites, so he can enjoy it more.

They just don't listen.

But when victory comes, boy will it be sweet.

And boy will the newsroom hear my glee.

At the end of a week like last week, I have to say I was very happy I cried.

I was getting ready for work when we heard that the ferry had crashed. I turned on the TV and there was my friend Seth, talking to Channel 4 on behalf of the Staten Island Advance, and it was real, this really happened. I was buttoning up my blouse and mechanically watching the rest of my workweek unfold, and something clicked into gear that shut out the emotional output. It was work - I was watching work.

I was sent to the hospital to try and get victim reports and survivor scenery. I stood outside in the cold for over five hours, jumping on other people's tragedy, commiserating with other journalists, subsisting on yogurt-covered raisins and the tea a good Samaritan had brought by. We were told there was a lot of carnage. People lost their feet, legs, heads. An orderly said later that he was just happy the day was over. I talked with people at their bedsides, while their families grouped around them with confused expressions, half horror and half joy that their ferry-rider-loved-one was still alive.

And I didn't really feel like I cared. It was all about getting it done, going on overdrive and adrenaline and holding off the emotions as long as I could. It's not that none of us felt what a tragedy the boat crash was, it was that we just couldn't allow ourselves to process it.

But on Friday, when the hospital held a press conference to celebrate the finding of Kerry Griffiths, a British nurse who saved young Paul Esposito's life onboard the crashed ferry, I was so spent that I couldn't hold it off anymore. I had already put over 23 hours into the ferry stories, and it was supposed to be my day off, but I had started the story the day before and didn't want to let go of it. So I sat at the press conference and listened to Kerry's story, and sobbed even as I took notes. I later held the victim's grandmother's hand and cried some more, and since then I've been to their house had chicken salad lunch with them and just absorbed all that's happened and the incredible resilience they're showing in the face of a double-amputation. And I have to say, I'm happy I still can feel it.

I was told, right before I started this job, by a double-Pulitzer-nominated journalist, that as soon as I couldn't cry, I should get out. I had really worried that before this week was over I'd have overshot that warning, but luckily I'm not yet numb. I hope I can say the same in 20 years.

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In other, happier news:

One of the very best things about my new job is that at the end of all my articles, my e-mail address appears.

Now, while this is great for getting tips, ALL CAPS emails from angry members of housing associations, notes that say in the first sentence how much the writer loved the article and in the second prove he/she didn't read it at all, and of course the occasional advertisement that claims how very much I need a larger...organ...these are not the reasons I love it so much.

I love it because I hear from all my old friends who've Googled my name and have come up with my articles. I heard from one person I hadn't spoken to since high school, and whom I've missed. I heard from parents and friends and relatives and proud people I didn't know were still looking for me.

But the best, the absolute best, were the photos I got this evening.

Back in November 2000, right after the Yankees vanquished my precious Mets in the Subway Series, Bush and Gore had their little showdown. I watched all of this unfold - the way I watched almost everything unfold in college - from my newspaper's newsroom, with my friends. One day, my friends Sean and Sarah said they wanted to go down to the Supreme Court to see the protests regarding the botched election, so we trooped down with a digital camera.

While there, Sean, a tremendous sports buff and now professional sports reporter, found a spare piece of oaktag and a big pen.

Our pictures from that wonderfully funny day were lost for a long time. Tonight Sean emailed me at my new work addy to show them to me:

The most sensible argument being made outside the Supreme Court following the 2000 election.
Sean's the one that looks like Waldo

These pictures also illustrate another key point: how far digital photography has come. Those were taken with my Agfa 1280, roughly the size of a brick, which I got in the early days of digital cameras. Compare those to this:

Little Nicky
or
My favorite place in London

The last two were taken with my brand new Canon Powershot G3, which has too many features for me to harness. I am in desperate need of Kristin's help on that score.

Here's my favorite picture so far, because of the flying roses.

Photography - how I wish I had time.

And I think I've just thought of a name for this Web site. Hm. More soon.