Dying to Live

Two outs now in the bottom of the eighth inning in Game Seven of the World Series between the New York Yankees and the St. Louis Cardinals. After forty-seven outs the score is now tied, 3-3, with Brendon Merullo stepping up to the plate for the Yanks. Merullo has had a fantastic series thus far, batting almost .400. Can he come through in the clutch once again for the Bronx Bombers? We are about to find out.

CRACK! It is hit deep and far to center field! Does it have the distance? Yes, it does! It is out of here! Brendon Merullo gives the Yankees the lead in the bottom of the eighth inning, with a solo home run right over the four O eight sign in dead center field, the deepest part of the ballpark.

The Cardinals bat in the top of the ninth inning. Only one out stands in the way of the New York Yankees winning another World Series championship and cementing Brendon Merullo’s place in the history books as the hero. The ball is hit deep to center field! I think this one may be out of here! Not so fast, says Brendon Merullo, as he climbs the center field wall to bring back a would-be home run, sealing the World Series championship for the New York Yankees! I do not think there is any doubt that Merullo is going to be named the Most Valuable Player of this series, especially after the performance he put forth tonight on the biggest of stages.

Timeout, Knicks. The New York Knicks trail the Utah Jazz, 92-90, with sixteen seconds to go in Game Seven of the NBA Finals here at Madison Square Garden. The ball is inbounded to point guard Brendon Merullo at center court. Quick cross-over dribble, now he pulls up for a jump shot at the corner of the free throw line. Nothing but net! That ties the score at 92 with only eight seconds left in regulation.

Utah calls a twenty-second timeout. The Jazz will now inbound the ball from center court. Oh, my goodness! Brendon Merullo steals the inbound pass and has no one in between him and the basket. Merullo slams it home right before time expires and the New York Knicks are champions after defeating the Utah Jazz, 94-92, in a thrilling Game Seven! After such a phenomenal performance, I would be utterly shocked if anyone not named Brendon Merullo was named the MVP of this here NBA Finals. Fifty-eight seconds left in the Super Bowl. The New York Jets take over at their own thirty-seven-yard line with two timeouts remaining for quarterback Brendon Merullo. Merullo has been money all year, but none of that will matter if he cannot lead an improbable touchdown drive to overcome a 24-20 deficit against the Green Bay Packers.

On first and ten from his own thirty-seven, Merullo fires a strike downfield to the forty-two of the Packers. Merullo hurries the team to the line to quickly clock the ball with thirty-four seconds left. Second and ten now from the Green Bay forty-two. Merullo rolls to his right, sheds a defender, and fires a rocket to the twenty-three. Timeout, Jets, with eighteen seconds remaining. First and ten now from the twenty-three. Merullo drops back and has no one open downfield. He sees a hole and decides to tuck and run with it, making it all the way down to the seven-yard line. The Jets will have to use their third and final timeout with just four seconds left on the clock. New York will only have enough time to run one more play.

Last play of the game from the seven. Merullo rolls right and, with no one open, spins off a defender and decides to tuck and run with it once again. With a full head of steam, he dives for the pylon and just makes it in! I can’t believe it! I cannot believe it! Brendon Merullo does it again. The New York Jets have won the Super Bowl. Without a doubt, after that amazing comeback drive Merullo will be driving off in a brand new car. I don’t know how they could consider anyone else the Most Valuable Player of this game.

This all took place in my grandmother’s backyard while she looked after me on Saturdays while my mom was at work. All I had was a tennis ball and the back of a brick apartment building, and I was able to lead the Yankees, Knicks, and Jets to world championships. Not to mention that I was named the most valuable player for each team. My home run was a big swing with a broomstick at air. I was tired of hitting the ball over the fence and having to ring Mrs. Johnson’s doorbell to ask for her permission to go get it out of her yard. She hated when I would hop the fence, always afraid that I would break it—or my neck. I’m certain she was more concerned about the fence. I did, however, take a risk throwing it up in the air over the fence to rob the would-be game-winning home run. I pictured myself looking a lot like Ken Griffey Jr., but the only thing we had in common was that we both liked to wear our baseball caps backward. As for sinking the shot at the corner of the free throw line, that was through the ladder of the fire escape. I could barely reach for my game-winning slam dunk; I got just high enough to get it through the bottom rung of the ladder.

Football was the easiest and my favorite to pretend, because I got to be both the quarterback and the wide receiver. My grandma’s garden was the end zone. She threw a fit a when I came into the house covered in dirt, and nearly killed me when she learned the reason for my soiled appearance was because I dove headfirst into her beloved garden. If there is one thing my grandmother loved just as much, or maybe even a little bit more, than me, it was her garden. She did not know what I was talking about when I told her about the garden being the end zone and how I scored the game-winning touchdown, and she sure as shit did not care. She cursed me in Italian—“che cattzo questo end zone”—and made me strip to my underwear before allowing me to come inside. She could not stay mad at me for long. Like a typical Italian grandmother, she made me something to eat. She was always feeding me even when I said I wasn’t hungry. Her reply was always “tu mangia!”

Back then I sure did have one hell of an imagination. I mean I had to. I was able to picture the Knicks and Jets both winning championships. That is the great thing about being eight years old—you can picture anything. At eight you truly believe everything is possible, especially in the so-far-away future. Remember when you used to think being twenty was really old? What about when you thought that a hundred bucks was a fortune? So precious and innocent at that age, yet most of us wished it away with our eagerness to grow older, mistakenly thinking life had more exciting things in store for us. When you really think about it, being eight is the best age. You are old enough to take care of your own basic needs like tying your shoelaces and wiping your own ass. But the best part is, you are young enough to have the beautiful imagination that comes with the innocence of being a child. If I were given the opportunity, I would hop in a time machine and go back to being eight years old in a heartbeat. I would not even think twice about it. At eight, I did not care about what name was on the tag of the clothes that I wore. I wore Yankees, Knicks, or Jets T-shirts every day to school. It did not matter to me what car my parents picked me up in, and I wasn’t yet thinking about what the hell I would drive one day. All I cared about was if it was three o’clock yet so I could get the heck out of school and go home to play with my friends. I remember counting down the days from spring break until my last day of second grade. The end of June could not come quickly enough. The summer when you are a kid seems to last forever. Just countless days of playing outside from the moment you wake up in the morning until the moment you went back to sleep at night. Only going inside when my mother would rudely interrupt me twice a day to come eat lunch and then later on when my father came home for dinner.