My pops is basically a baseball wizard – he's so committed to the Yankees that he watches their games like it's a suspenseful soap opera (although, let's be real, the view is way better on TV). He's even into the vintage vibes, tuning in on the AM radio just to soak in the sweet sounds of play-by-play announcers. It's like he's trying to catch the home run calls in high-fidelity nostalgia!
Back in the day, my old man was on a mission – work, commute, and then warp speed back to the Bronx just to snag us some seats at the old stadium. And get this – on school nights! I guess school can wait when the Yankees are calling. Our spot? Third baseline, right above the visiting team dugout. We practically had season tickets for neck cramps.
Mattingly was doing his first base dance, Henderson and Winfield were giving the outfield a workout, and Randolf was doing infield ballet. Ah, 1988 – the year my baseball got its autograph from the mustache maestro himself. I swear, that 'stache had its own fan club.
Fast forward to 1996, and my sister was crushing on the team roster like it was a heartthrob calendar. Apparently, there was a shortstop who was the talk of the town. Baseball fever – it's genetic in our family.

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