The 70s: Rounding third, and heading for home

Oct. 11, 1977: Jimmy Carter was president (the first election I voted in), the number one song was the

Tickets? We didn't need no stinkin' tickets!

“Star Wars theme,” an all disco-ized abomination by someone named Meco.

And I attended my first, only, and probably last World Series game.

Watching Game Seven the other night between the Giants and Royals took me back, as often happens during the Fall Classic.

Baseball has certainly slipped on the national stage, and with me as well. It certainly doesn't mean as much as it did in 1977.

I lived and breathed New York Yankees, watched nearly every game, and it was oh-so-tempting when I heard a couple of buddies talking about making the 4-hour trip to the Bronx for Game One.

No tickets? No problem!

So, Dock McClintock, Buddy Haynes and I got in a car and headed out Route 80 East, arriving at 161^st and River Avenue a couple of hours before the first pitch. We parked in a stadium deck ($10 – a frighteningly high cost back then), and wandered around the stadium, talking to ticket sellers. Prices were hovering around $100 for tickets that had a face value of $15 at the most. Not doing that.

This went on until shortly after 8 p.m., and we could hear the National Anthem from inside.  I thought that hey, maybe we should head over to Stadium Lanes to watch the game on TV, ‘cause we aren't going to get in.

Then, I saw Haynesie talking to someone manning a gate; several other guys were also hanging around. Suddenly he motioned to us, and said, “give me 15 bucks.” We did, and then were hurriedly rushed through the gates. Yes, he had bribed a ticket taker to let us in.

But there was one issue: no tickets! And that meant no seats either. A problem for sure.

Haynesie explained that we could stand in the handicapped section and scour for the empty seats of some fans who didn’t show up. Yeah right, I thought. Three people are not going to show up to a freaking World Series game.

We went to the concourse behind the lower deck, found the handicapped section and crowded in behind about a dozen or so folks in wheelchairs. To say that is was uncomfortable, physically and mentally, was a massive stretch. We watched the end of the first inning, straining to see and trying not to block the views of anyone else; the Yankees were already losing 2-1. But at least we were inside.

Around the bottom of the second, Haynesie pointed at several empty seats behind the Dodgers’ dugout. We headed down the aisle, praying that an usher would not ask to see our tickets. No one did. We quickly moved in and took the seats. Three seats. About six rows from the field.

We (or at least I) spent the next five innings or so looking over our shoulders. I was positive someone would come and kick us out.

No one did.

It was overwhelming to be there: Yankee Stadium, the Yankees of Reggie, Munson, Catfish, Randolph, Dent. The Dodgers of Garvey, Lasorda, Lopes, Dusty Baker, Ron Cey. The World Series. Six rows from paradise.

As for the game itself, the Yankees won in the 12^th inning on a Paul Blair single. Sparky Lyle blew the save in the 9^th, but pitched the rest of the game to get the win. But the game itself paled to the rest of the story.

Of course, we have no ticket stub, no photos, only memories.

And they are plenty good enough.