A Baseball Game 20 Years in the Making

I was three when the towers fell; Born into a world where I don’t know or remember a time before 9/11.

My twin sister and I celebrated our third birthday just five days prior. My father was supposed to be in the city that day, just blocks from the towers at 60 Centre Street.

Hundreds of times he had spent his morning on a bench across from the courthouse steps. Fortunately for my family that September morning he was in his office in Garden City while my mom corralled two toddlers.

I have no recollection of that day. I spent it doing arts and crafts projects in the backyard, looking up at clear blue skies. My mom kept us away from the televisions. Even if we watched, we’d be unable to comprehend.

It’s been 20 years since then. An entire generation has reached adulthood not knowing life before the attacks. We sat and listened to our parents try to explain the magnitude of that day. The scenes that they’ll never forget, but we’ll never know.

And what more could better represent the resiliency of New Yorkers than a baseball game between the Mets and Yankees.

Players of bitter rivals standing shoulder to shoulder as kids born after the event sing The Star Spangled Banner on a field littered with first responders and those who helped the recovery efforts. If anything, it shows how far we’ve come since that dreadful day.

New Yorkers responded and without the towers, it has still grown. The kids chorus and 17-year-old singer Anaïs Reno performing as a sign of hope to a crowd made up by a majority of those who remember when the towers fell.

The lasting legacy of Sept. 11 is to never forget. My dad remembers every detail of his day. He had a 4 p.m. appointment with Judge Ira Gammerman. Gammerman, unlike other judges, liked to hold trial in the morning and conference in the afternoon. Because of that, he avoided a trip to Manhattan. Despite his odd practices, he always liked Judge Gammerman because he grew dieffenbachia plants in his courtroom like my grandfather in his own house.

It’s unknown what would have happened that day. He could’ve ended up as part of the recovery efforts like some in that courthouse. Some are now memorialized for losing their lives for doing the right thing. The sacrifices made by others is why we remember.

My bar mitzvah was themed after New York City. We took photos for montages and centerpieces along various landmarks. We stopped at the Brooklyn Bridge, where people walked home with traffic halting in and out of the city. We went to the financial district and took photos on Wall Street in front of the iconic bull. We walked down the same streets my father did a few weeks after the attacks. When he looked up at the windows still intact covered in soot, leaving a trail of dusty footprints behind him, seeing walls of missing person posters stating what building and floor they worked on.

We finished the day at the top of the Empire State Building. The once-tallest building in New York had only been eclipsed by the North Tower–a title only reclaimed after its collapse. Only One World Trade Center, standing at 1,776 feet, could grow from the ashes and take the New York City skyline to new heights.

I’d end up celebrating my bar mitzvah one day before the 10th anniversary.

A decade later I founded myself unexpectedly sitting in section 311 surrounded by my parents. In front of us are a father and son wearing matching shirts of one of New York’s ladder companies. To our left and right were various flag wavers and Mets and Yankees fans galore.

The stadium was full. Yankees fans got into their quips after building a 5-0 lead in the second inning. Mets fans jawed back as they tacked on seven unanswered runs. Ultimately, the Yankee fans would get the last laugh. It felt normal.

Forty-three thousand fans gathered to watch a baseball game on Saturday. For it was on Sept. 21, 2001, that baseball returned to New York with Mike Piazza’s home run telling New Yorkers, and a country, things would be alright.

And on that 20th anniversary, we begin to see the end. The final US troops leaving Afghanistan getting to return home. As they carry the burden and scars of a pyrrhic effort.

Within the walls of Citi Field was a jingoistic crowd, set on chanting “USA” at every opportunity. A section to my left sat a man wearing a jersey of Pat Tillman, the former NFL player who enlisted after 9/11 and was later killed by friendly fire, a fact the military attempted to hide. His heavily politicized death only led to increased anger and frustration, used as a weapon to justify more hardship.

The attacks opened up the vulnerability of a nation that hadn’t fought on its own soil since the 19th century.

We remember and celebrate the selfless and heroic efforts of those 20 years ago. We now gather together to show our strength and hide our weaknesses. We never forget.

We must also teach and learn what has happened since. Begin to understand the lasting impact of the day on those too young to know or remember. Those that do remember and all affected must continue to carry on the legacy of the brave.

If it takes a baseball game, then so be it. Finally, the Mets and Yankees had a long-overdue chance to properly memorialize an event that changed a country forever. It might be odd to see baseball jerseys from Queens and the Bronx together but without them, they’re just like us hoping to never experience that pain and grief again.