My wife and I live in a cozy New England home with our daughter Livy and dachshund Tony.
We follow sporting events across the country, but mostly those that occur on Roosevelt Avenue in Queens, NY, between 7th and 8th avenue in midtown Manhattan, near the swamps in East Rutherford, New Jersey, and on Bay street in downtown Toronto, ON.
I was in elementary school and at a Mets game with my dad; something that was a repeated theme of my childhood. It was long enough ago that the Pittsburgh Pirates were in first place. The Doctor, Dwight Gooden, was on the mound. The Mets had taken a 7-0 lead on a Dave Magadan sacrifice fly when my dad turned to the guy sitting behind us and said, “Clear sailing for the Mets tonight! Like no traffic over the Whitestone!”
I decided to start this blog Over the Whitestone so I could put words to all of the great memories of the past and new ones created in the future. My life has always been defined by sports. I don’t know why, but it is. I can remember that Dave Magadan hit a sacrifice fly in an August baseball game in 1991. I can remember that my dad played the Beatles Abbey Road on the way home. I remember my brother’s wedding by the fact that Tony Gwynn was on the cover of Sports Illustrated that week during his chase for .400 and the Mets played in San Diego and lost on a Wally Joyner double in the 8th. Everything comes together in my mind with sports.
I always tell my wife, Emily, who somehow signed up for a life of incessant sports watching, that sports is my heaven. Some people live a life of sobriety to reach heaven’s gates. I just drive over the Whitestone Bridge to Citi Field.