This is 2002, I think; no, wait, I know. It’s the day Roger Cedeno stole home at the Stadium, the day Vance Wilson was Mike Piazza (and Piazza wasn’t bad, either), the day Enrique Wilson dropped the Jay Payton ball in right field (hello, Mr. Mondesi), the day Mo Vaughn hit his only home run as a Met (well, the only one I remember).
Well before the game, the press elevator is headed downstairs. A woman passes out paychecks to her workers. One for this one, one for that one.
And from the back of the elevator, in the most familiar cadence possible, comes the Voice of God: “I hope you have a check there for me.”
Now the Voice of God has gone off to meet the real thing. In the exceedingly brief time I was nearby him, he seemed cut from the same cloth as my grandfather: dignified, genteel, witty. They were of the same era, after all, and not from all that far apart; they had similar builds, actually, didn’t look all that dissimilar. Born four months apart, they’ve departed two and a half months apart. RIP.
Certainly liked Mike Vaccaro’s sentiments.