for the record

I was backstage at Wicked, when I saw it happening.

A cast member sat entranced at the television. Bottom of the 8th. 3-0. The curse was about to evaporate.

We went to a bar on 50th Street. People were climbing on top of one another. Top of the ninth.

We drank a little. I had a Bombay Sapphire martini, he a Bacardi and coke. I dragged my poor interviewee, who knows nothing of baseball, to this bar to "watch history!" as it occurred. "This is Americana, right here, you're lucky to see this," I told him. "You're lucky to be in America, in a bar, to watch as this huge piece of history happens right here, right now, tonight."

We stood by the bar, standing room only, waiting for it. Like counting down to New Year's.

We toasted to an excellent night and then, following a roar that surprised us, turned to the screen. The pitcher savored his throw to first base.

People were screaming, jumping on the bar. Our drinks spilled. We might as well have been in Boston. I tried to explain how this was more than sports, this was more than passion, how this was emotional. How baseball gets under skin and nerve and competition, and cuts to the heart.

This was making my face split in a painful grin.

This was nothing anyone I've ever met has ever seen.

This was New York, tearing itself to pieces over the team that just decimated us in the playoffs.

This was the Boston Red Sox, winning the World Series.

This was very cool.