How kind it was of Hideki Matsui and Mother Nature to conspire to give me a gift for my birthday, a grand salami. Here's yet another occurence that makes me think I'm the luckiest fan on the face of the Earth.

The Yankees' home opener was scheduled for April 7th. I had been planning to skip it this year. In 2001 I had gone, because I wanted to see the World Championship flag raised. The 2000 win was special (aren't they all?) for all the times it seemed like the team was out of it. The huge losing streak in September, the close call against the A's, the relentless attack of A-rod's Mariners... we could hardly believe the aging dynasty could pull it off one more time. So I wanted to be there to see that flag raised, to see the Tino Martinez-Paul O'Neill-Chuck Knoblauch Yankees still together for one final year. It turned out to be a perfect day, so cold that even the sun got a standing ovation for putting in an appearance, Chuck played his first game in left and got a standing o' for making a catch. And there were three home runs, a solo shot (Tino), a two run shot (Bernie), and a three run shot (Jorge), making for a crescendo of offense that sent everyone home happy. History was even made that day, as Roger Clemens surpassed Walter Johnson for the all-time American League lead in strikeouts (3509). A magical day in an innocent time.

The year 2001 turned dark, as we know, and after the tragic events in the city and the world of September, the October contests played in the stadium became part of our battles to regain our souls, to recover from the grief and come together. The ovations for Derek Jeter in Game 5 of the ALDS after he toppled into the stands to catch a pop foul. The "no game six" taunts in the ALCS. The thunderous cheers for Paul O'Neill in the World Series. The ninth inning "hail mary" homers from Brosius and Tino, Jeter as Mr. November, the unbelievably magic moments which ultimately led to the Game Seven loss. I cried for a week. But I was still proud of the battle the team had for the American League Championship, fiercely proud. So I was there in 2002 for the raising of the pennant, as well. Another freezing cold home opener. The first day we heard Jason Giambi booed. Not a perfect day, but an important day, as the city tried to get back to "business as usual." We didn't quite succeed, of course--there is a new mayor, a huge budget deficit, a hole in downtown, and the Yankees didn't make it past the first round in October, but I was still glad I was there.

And so to 2003. Last year turned out to be the year of the Angel, as the Anaheim Angels booted the Yankees out of the playoffs and went on to demolish the Twins and Giants in similar, contact-hitting fashion. So that meant no rings, no flag raising, for the 2003 home opener. I figured I would skip it this year.

But then a Columbia University student group invited me to come and speak "any Monday in April." The only Monday I had free was April 7th. And well, damn it, if I'm going to go to the city anyway, how could I not go to the game? Through the wonders of the World Wide Web and dedicated Yankees fans with extra tickets (*thanks, cdm and sandman!*), I was able to get a seat. And so my plans were set: drive down Sunday night, stay over with a friend, see the game Monday at one o'clock, and then deliver my speech that night before driving home.

That was before winter decided it wasn't over yet. The forecast was for snowy conditions on Monday, some estimates ranging as high as twelve inches. It was already the coldest winter on record in the northeast, and also the most snow in decades, why not make it the longest winter, too? By midday Sunday, team officials had already postponed the game to Tuesday afternoon. Large tarps were brought over from Giants Stadium in the Meadowlands to cover the outfield. And I decided to wait until Monday afternoon to drive down.

I didn't reach the snow line until Hartford, and even then it didn't start sticking to the road until I was well down the Merritt Parkway. I drove cautiously--which is to say, I didn't speed and I stayed mostly in the right lane. I passed several multi-car pile-ups as I approached the New York border. As I passed through the Bronx, the local radio said five inches had fallen, and now it would turn to freezing rain and sleet. Lovely. Fortunately the talk at Columbia was indoors.

I stayed over that night with my literary agent, who also turns out to be a great friend, not to mention a huge Yankees fan who lives in the Riverdale section of the Bronx. Now as if it wasn't enough of a happy coincidence that she and I get along tremendously and love the same team, it turns out we share our birthdate, as well. So I slept over at her apartment overlooking the Palisades, and the next day we celebrated. We had a nice breakfast, lazed about, watched a movie, and then headed over to the stadium for the 4:05 first pitch.

We drove to about 178th street, parked the car, and caught the train. We were amazed to find the subway not packed wall to wall with fans. With the rescheduling of the game, many people could not get there on a Tuesday, I guess. We went through the throng at Gate 2, had our bags searched, our tickets torn, and then headed to where Lori's seat was. Technically I was supposed to be sitting in the upper deck behind home plate, but when we saw the large swaths of unoccupied seats, we just settled in an area near the left field foul pole, a few rows from where her actual seat was. "If someone comes, I'll move," I said. But no one came, and it turned out left field was a fine place for hero worship that day.

The snow was gone from the field, but the weather was still gray and very cold. I wore my ski pants, six layers, and my long winter coat, earmuffs, scarf, and gloves. The ceremonial first pitch, delivered by Whitey Ford and Yogi Berra, was just being thrown as we got ourselves settled. Andy Pettitte was due to take the mound to start and I didn't think the cold would bother him, thinking back to how well he had pitched in the snow against Cleveland on Opening Day a few years back, and other cold openers he had excelled in.

This day was no different. Pettitte threw well, and quickly, and was helped by strong defense from the Yankees. A double play to end the first. A great play by Matsui in left to cut a ball off and save a run, just when the Twins looked like they had a rally going. A great DP started by Robin Ventura, who dove and threw from his knees to end the fifth. The Twins scratched some runs here and there. Pettitte held them down just enough. The drama in this game was going to come from the plate, not the mound.

You could feel the moment as it approached. Hideki Matsui had already had one standing ovation for his defense in the fourth, and the fans were ready to shower him with love. I had made a mental bet with myself as we had entered the stadium that we wouldn't see any home runs because of the cold, damp conditions. But Robin Ventura had shattered that conception with a two run shot in the fourth. So when Bernie Williams was walked intentionally to load the bases for Matsui in the fifth, you could feel something big might happen.

Of course, I reminded myself, how many times last year had Giambi come up in situations like that, and found himself falling a little bit short? We had to wait until May for that defining break-through moment, in the pouring rain, down three runs in extra, extra innings, bases loaded and... blammo. We always knew Giambi could be a hero, and would, once he got his groove back.

With Matsui, of course, no one was as sure if he would turn out to be the monster at the plate his nickname implies. But here it was, bases loaded, Matsui as calm and implacable-seeming as he has been since his arrival, through his immense press conference, his daily spring briefings with his press entourage, and so on.

The moment built gradually, as so many of the most magical ones do. It was a long at bat, and the count went full. The crowd anticipated something big and all were already standing and cheering throughout the entire at bat. We would have been happy with a walk, but not as happy as we would turn out to be.

You knew it as soon as he hit it. From where we were, we had a terrific view of the ball's arc as it flew deep into the bleachers. Everyone in the stands was leaping and cheering before it even came down.

Oh sure, there were other nice moments in the game, but that was the one worth sitting in the freezing cold all day for. Those four runs would be the difference in the game, 7-3 Yankees. When Matsui came out to left at the top of the next inning, our whole section gave him a standing ovation and bowed and scraped in the "we're not worthy" fashion. He tipped his cap to us. Several American fans with signs in Japanese waved them wildly throughout the game. One fellow had a toy Godzilla duct-taped to his jersey. The fans were ready to love him. And he did not make them wait.

My own appreciation I have decided might be best expressed with that Japanese style of poetry, the haiku. As I drove home that evening (after a delicious birthday prime rib dinner), I composed poems in my head about the day. Here is the one I decided to keep:

On a three-two pitch
A monster comes to New York
Go Go Godzilla