I grew up in the NY area and the first game I ever went to was at Shea. My father and I went alone to the game (as my little brother was too little) and I remember driving over the Whitestone Bridge and my father describing Shea Stadium as a "toilet" and then telling me about when he was a boy in Cincinnati and going to Crosley. He told me about the terrace in the OF and how a hot dog at the ballpark was better than filet mignon anywhere else. He also told me about how his uncle loved the Reds but he died the year before they got to the WS (I think '61?) and how he wished his uncle, who had taken him to games when he was a kid, had gotten to see the Reds win the pennant. Needless to say I was fired up about getting to the game. Shea was a toilet, but that served the experience--I walked through the sooty, neglected, mid 70's stadium, through the entryway to the field, and then all I can remember is seeing the blue,blue sky, the vast green field...and the Reds. I think my dad got a kick out of my reaction though I can't remember exactly what I did. The sight of the ball being thrown around, professional throws, shocked and hypnotized me. Pete Rose stuck out. He seemed to me as a boy (now get this) about a quarter-second ahead of everyone else in everything he did, from BP to the 9th inning. I cheered my heart out that day for the Reds and I think my good time was only matched by my father's. "Did you like the ballgame?" my father asked me as we walked through the parking lot after. "No," I said. "Why not?" my father asked, perplexed. "The Reds lost." My father smiled.