So long, Shea Stadium

Sometimes, it's the little things that make your stories special. Too often, reporters spend too much time looking at the big picture and not enough at the small details. Funny, when you look back, it always seems to be the little things that people remember.

Today, depending on how the Mets do, may be the last game ever played at Shea Stadium in New York. It is hard to believe it has been 44 years since my dad first took me to the park when it opened in conjunction with the 1964 World's Fair. Shea is the site of my best childhood memories. I got together with some old high school buddies this summer, and it brought back memories of the numerous times we'd spent in the upper deck at Shea. Back then you could go to a game for $1.30 (yes, one dollar and thirty cents) and bring a picnic basket. Or could could get a free ticket for ten coupons you clipped off milk cartons.

A few games have been burned into my brain, and apparently I was not alone. We went to a 14 inning game in 1969 in which Juan Marichal pitched the entire game for the Giants only to lose. Twenty years later I ran into Mets outfielder Cleon Jones, mentioned that game, and he recapped the entire thing for me, down to the smallest detail.

The Jets used to play at Shea in their early days, and I saw Kenny Stabler bring the Raiders back with 28 points in the fourth quarter. Years later I met the Snake, and he too was able to recap the game as if it had happened the day before. Down to the smallest detail.

In both cases these two sports guys told such rich stories, not just hitting the high points, but using every tiny detail to bring the story alive.

Shea Stadium has many such memories for me, all rich in details. I remember how my dad taught me to bribe the ticket seller with a folded up dollar bill so that we'd get better seats. I remember how the salted in the shell peanuts tasted, and how ice cream used to come in a wax cup. Ah, Breyers at the ballpark. We would peel the lids off the cups and try to scale them, like tiny frisbees, onto the field. If you could actually get one on the field and interrupt the game, the crowd would cheer. One night we were in the upper deck and my buddy Frank scaled his lid, only to have a gust of wind take it and plant it on the shoulder of a very scary looking man, who then peeled it off with disgust as he watched chocolate and vanilla ice cream run down his leather jacket. He then turned around, glared at us, and walked toward us only to sit behind us the rest of the game. Of all the classic sports moments I'd seen at Shea, Frank's lid incident ranks as my number one memory.

OK, I'm getting nostalgic here, but I want you to keep an eye out for those little things that make a story special. Sometimes they're lurking in the background, sometimes you have to dig for them. But keep your eyes open and prove that you don't miss a thing when telling a story. Every story has its main theme, but it is the little things, the bells and whistles, that make it different.

That bring a story alive.