World Series always flashes me back to September-into-October, 1954

A Clevelander, 11 years old. All those years of Yankee hatred (even the Sisters at St Colman School taught us that there was a "good hatred"--something we'd gotten with our mothers' milk, something to be nurtured, worked-up, passed around, promoted, shouted about. YANKEE HATRED.


So we'd creamed the hated Yankees and everybody else. And hunkered down for a series with a formidable--and, actually, respectable--group of New Yorkers.

The Giants.

Boom!
Boom! (helluva catch, unbelievable throw)
Boom!
What?  You're starting Lemon again? With Rapid Robert on the bench?
Boom!

The only question we had, as we threw our gloves on the ground, wandered about in shocked silence: "Should Al Lopez be allowed to continue living on this earth?"

Go, Giants!