I was especially wistful watching the Yankees and the Red Sox play this week, because I remember what it was like. I remember those two teams were Athens and Sparta (to borrow a line from the great Peter Gammons), when every game they played seemed to affect the balance of power in the whole sport. And how every moment seemed rife with the possibility of fireworks. And more. And it wasn’t only the players, wasn’t only the fans. Herewith a story. I’m not exactly proud of this story. But it happened. I have to own it. And all these years later … I have to say, I think it accurately reflects the way things were in those times. It’s Oct. 12, 2003. The day before, we’d all covered one of the truly epic collisions of the Yankees and the Red Sox. This was the game when Pedro Martinez nearly brained Karim Garcia, when Roger Clemens “retaliated” with a pitch that really never came close to Manny Ramirez’s head, but Ramirez thought it did, and the whole thing culminated with Pedro and Don Zimmer’s famous encounter. It was a surreal day, the apex of 80 some-odd years of hard feelings. Those of us who cover such things had delighted in describing every detail — and couldn’t wait to see what Game 4 might bring. But the morning brought rain, lots of it, buckets of it. All morning. Into the afternoon. A few of us took a cab over to Fenway Park, and just as we arrived it really started to come down. We arrived at the press gate and it was closed. We figured the security guys would have mercy on our souls. “It opens at 3,” we were told. Someone had a watch. It was 2:57. We urged him to please use logic as we were drowning in the torrential downpour. “Three o’clock,” he repeated. And as he did, we saw a curious sight just behind him. There was Dan Shaughnessy. There was Bob Ryan. There was Tony Massarotti. The Boston writers sure looked comfy and dry. We pointed that out. It fell on deaf ears. We continued to get soaked, and at 3 on the dot we were let in. We all hurried in because, as I may have mentioned, we were soaked. We were in matching foul moods. So it was that another security guard, who it turns out had a good 30 years on the BPD, decided to be “funny.” “Easy guys,” he said. “The free food will still be there for you when you get upstairs.” And, well, one of us (guilty) didn’t find that quite so funny and was tired of feeling like a drenched platypus. I may have suggested an anatomically impossible task. Colorfully. The guard didn’t like that. He answered in kind. A cool head named Joel Sherman got between. It was ugly, I immediately felt bad, but it was over. Soon enough we were drip-drying in the press box. That’s when an American League official approached me. “You need to follow me,” she said. “Why?” I asked. “You’ve been ejected from the stadium,” she said. “I’ve been what?” “We are told you assaulted a security guard.” Verbally, perhaps. And the brothers at Chaminade would’ve had me in detention for two months for what I’d said. But assault? “Come with me.” What could I do? I packed up. I went to the elevator. In those years the war between the Post and Daily News was still fiery hot, so the News sent a reporter with us to do a story. I left Fenway. I walked (in the rain, again) to Boston Beer Works, got a table, started watching a Giants-Patriots football game (with a roomful of Pats fans gleeful at Pats 17, Giants 6). And then I started to fret. How was I going to explain to my boss that I couldn’t cover the game? Was I going to be searching for work in the field of mixology by Monday? Then my flip phone rang. It was Greg Gallo, the Post’s executive sports editor. I braced for the bad news. “This is great!” he said in lieu of a greeting. “It is?” “I see the backpage now: ‘OUR GUY BANNED IN BOSTON!’ You can write the column from the bar! This is fabulous!” (Little did Gallo know, he — and I — had just invented a remote workplace 16 years ahead of his time.) I’m not sure he could’ve sounded any happier if I’d given him a winning tip for the sixth race at Aqueduct. So I pulled my laptop out of my bag. I prepared for my star turn on the back page of the paper. Then my phone rang again. It was Joel. “Two things: First, the game’s just been called off. Two, after thinking it over, the American League has said you can come back to work if you and the security guard can work it out.” We did. I apologized (and do so again, if he happens to be reading). He kind of apologized. Life went on. The Yanks-Sox rivalry survived. Thankfully, so did my career. Yeah. I miss those days. Vac’s whacks Ed Kranepool wasn’t just a fine ballplayer for parts of 18 years with the Mets, he was that rare athlete who understood most fans get one or two meetings in their lives with the players they root for — if that — and he was determined to make every one of those encounters something those fans would remember for a lifetime, and with a smile. Good ballplayer, great man. Godspeed. The only issue I have with Alex Gibney’s two-part documentary on “The Sopranos” on Max is that I wish it was an eight-parter. Baseball, man. Francisco Lindor’s home run Wednesday was as energizing a moment among the Mets fans I know as I’ve seen in years. And Aaron Judge’s granny Friday night had the same exact effect on my Yankees-fan friends. Baseball, man. Can second Mushnick’s suggestion last week: If you’re a Giants fan, do yourself a favor and pick up “The Pope of the NFL: The Andy Robustelli Story and the Family that Loved Him,” edited by Peter Golenbock. Well worth your time. Whack back at Vac Vito Pesche: Tua Tagovailoa is a tragedy waiting to happen. This has to be addressed, I hope Tua is smart enough to call it a day. Vac: The moment of impact when Tua collided with Damar Hamlin could be the most poignant PSA ever. Scott Wolinetz: Bill Belichick now being a football commentator is like Nurse Ratchet becoming a cheerleader. Vac: Only if she were cheering for like 17 different teams and schools at the same time. @LaurenComiteau: Dear @Giants. I was gifted tix to your Munich game with my daughter. After your opener, I not only don’t want to go but I think you shouldn’t either. You can’t afford the jet lag. Among other things. @MikeVacc: Although you have to love the German translation to “disaster”: “katastrophe.” JR Roberts: It’s 1977 and the Yankees have snuck in Jazz Chisholm for Mickey Rivers. Mickey is at the racetrack. Shhhh … Vac: I’m not sure I’m buying that comp 100 percent, but I’m down with anything that gets people talking about Mick the Quick again.
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