The evening of Saturday, October 26, 1996, I was in New York and a group of my friends and I went to see the Broadway musical of Beauty and the Beast, which was playing at the Palace Theatre. The Palace was and is located smack-dab in the middle of Times Square and enjoyed the show tremendously and we also enjoyed going backstage afterwards.
Someone in my party knew the lady playing Belle and she talked with us for a while, introduced us to other cast members and took us on a tour of the place. I love old theaters so that was as fun as watching what all those skilled performers had done on that stage. That extracurricular add-on took maybe an half hour and then we said our goodbyes and walked outside into…
…absolute bedlam.
There was screaming and dancing and yelling and crying and cheering and hugging and groping and drinking (there was a lot of drinking) and singing and shoving and some women with their tops off and one guy with everything off and smoking (some of it apparently even tobacco) and hysteria and police trying and failing to control the crowds and more outrageous happiness than I have ever seen in my life.
The Yankees had just won the World Series. Their first in eighteen years, I believe.
Not long after, someone who knows a lot more about baseball than I do — which is only like four-fifths of this nation — explained to me that with any other team, eighteen years between World Series wins would be an acceptable interval. Most go a lot longer between 'em and the Chicago Cubs once went 108 years. But the Yankees, this fellow told me, expect to win it every year. "They regard it as their birthright," he said. "They feel they're disgraced if anyone else wins."
I have never been in Times Square for the big ball-drop on New Year's Eve but it could not possibly be louder and more crowded and more alcohol-driven than the crowd that evening. It took a long time for us to get through the throng to a few blocks away where we were able to flag down a couple of cabs and proceed to our next destination. I was amazed at what I was seeing and I still can't think of anything that could make me as deliriously happy as some of those people were that night.
If I suddenly won a billion dollars and the secret of Eternal Life and had every woman I've ever found attractive lined-up to service me and they finally rid the world of cole slaw, candy corn and Donald Trump and I suddenly had the power to make famine, poverty and disease disappear and I could bring a lot of people I miss back from the dead, I'd be happy. But maybe not that happy.
I mean not like that naked guy in Times Square who had climbed and was trying to dry-hump the statue of George M. Cohan.
And here's the thing: From my vantage point, most of those people partying there hadn't won anything.
The team they chose to follow had won. Those players got rings and trophies and World Series bonuses and probably better contracts and a helluva lot of bragging rights. Maybe some of the celebrants had wagered and therefore won money on the Series. But some of them were merely ecstatic that "their team won." I understand being pleased about that but not that pleased.
It's something I just don't "get" about sports. I admire athletes and their skills. I understand being excited about masterful performance. I even understand picking a team and being pleased that you picked the right one.
But I don't understand having so much of your personal happiness hanging on whether that team won. I just don't.