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The day was brilliantly hot and surreal when I walked into the cathedral known as Yankee Stadium for the first and only time in my life. A mixed-up 16-year-old who was just beginning to party too much and flunk out of honors classes, I was in the midst of a family vacation - too cool to be away from friends for so long, too old and too selfish to enjoy spending time with my family. Looking back, I don't remember all that much about the vacation. There are bits and pieces about the one time I'd see the hallowed halls of Cooperstown, the elegance and smut that was all New York City and the only time I sat down to see my beloved Yankees in the stadium of all stadiums - it was the 13th of August, 1995, the day Mickey Mantle died. "Today, is a sad day for the Yankee family and Yankee fans everywhere," the legendary Bob Sheppard slowly echoed - and even as I write this I can't help but tear up. "Today we have lost one of our own, one of the greatest ballplayers in the history of baseball. Please join now in a few moments of silent prayer as we all remember Mickey Mantle."  Joe DiMaggio and heir apparent Mickey Mantle played one season together in 1951. There are no printed words that can truly do justice to how Sheppard's voice echoed through the stadium that day - they were haunting and stoic, painful, but beautiful. Standing next to me during the address and sitting next to me throughout the game was my Dad - his boyhood hero having just passed away. Through the years, there's little detail that I still recall. I never got to see Monument Park because the line was so long with fans wanting to pay tribute to the Mick that we would've missed the whole game. It was a game the Yankees won, I remember that - they had to. Some drunks kept yelling out, "Mickey, Mickey!" during the moment of silence. A few of them got kicked out for getting in a fight later on during the game as I sat amazed that people, Yankees fans in particular, could so routinely return to normal. I got to see Don Mattingly, my favorite ballplayer growing up as kid, play on the sacred grounds he called home for his entire playing career. I got to see my favorite player do what he did best, sitting next to my Dad on the day his hero had died. It was the season in which Derek Jeter, Mariano Rivera, Andy Pettitte and Jorge Posada made their Major League Baseball debuts in Pinstripes. David Cone pitched a complete-game gem, as New York beat a loaded Cleveland Indians squad bound for the World Series, 4-1. That's what looking up a box score tells me, anyhow. I recall none of that. It was, for me, my father and I'm sure many others, a day that simply transcended baseball. Born in Alaska, raised in Southern California, my allegiance to the Yankees was a direct result of my Dad's upbringing. A lifelong Yankees fan since his birth in upstate New York, it seemed only fitting that I was there with him that day. To him, like so many in his generation, Mickey Mantle was far more than a baseball player. He was the Mick. He was the Yankees centerfielder, No. 7 - magnificent as an almost mystical figure all the while just as appealing as an every man. Mickey Mantle was a father and a son, a hero of epic standing and an ordinary man with as many demons and flaws as anyone else. He was all the glamour and excess of the New York nightlife and all the Oklahoma grit of a man who limped onto a field on hobbled legs. He was unlimited potential and out-of-this-world talent. He was the ultimate teammate and the single most beloved Yankee of his time. To so many, he was so many things. To me growing up, Mickey Mantle was reruns of "Home Run Derby," baseball cards, my Dad's boyhood hero and an icon who hit 536 home runs - all for my Yankees. It didn't matter if I never saw him play, it didn't matter if black and white had turned to color. In my eyes, as my father's childhood champion, he was the symbol of what America's Pastime was and, perhaps, should always be.
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