Growing up 50 miles east of Manhattan, I took the city for granted Why would I ever need to plan a trip to the Empire State Building? The Statue of Liberty? Ellis Island? It was all a train ride away. During a sick day in fifth grade watching The Price is Right, the Showcase included a trip to New York City. “Seriously?” I thought. It has some skyscrapers. It has some museums. Some restaurants. Some zoos. But no big deal: the city was just where my Russian great-grandparents immigrated to and my grandparents grew up (before encompassing the American Dream and moving to archetypal suburban Long Island and raising a family.)
Now, thirteen years later, I’m 630 miles away, and that same city has become its own character thanks largely in part to Sex and the City and, oh, just every rocom ever. But to me, it’s still a bunch of buildings and attractions. Sure, the most brilliant buildings in the world, and the most awe-aspiring attractions. Yet, New York City is not significant to me because of this, but because of my family. I have the opportunity to visit streets where my grandmother had her first apartment, and my grandfather, his first business.
When I watch the Yankees, I am reminded of my elementary school book report on Mickey Mantle that my dad encouraged me to read. So tonight, when New York won its 27th World Series, I knew I was watching the same team for which both my parents root, and for which their own parents rooted. The Yankees may be a dynasty — but to me, they’re simply tradition.
4 days ago
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