An experience like no other ... sort of

So here is the truth, whole truth and nothing but the truth: New York during the World Series clincher is a tad overrated.

No, really. Come along and experience my Wednesday night in The City, the night when the Yankees got a step closer to 100 world championships.

It began, as so many timeless stories do, with an e-mail. It came Tuesday from a friend who shall be known to you as The Man With The Depleted Bank Account (TMWTDBA). You'll see why soon. TMWTDBA said a mutual friend of ours with ties to the Yankees had two tickets to Game Six.

Mrs. Columnist, Yankee fan who wouldn't be invited, heard the news and was not happy. She called me the inward portion of the part that goes over the fence last. (Or at least a more appropriate description of Curt Schilling).

Anyhoo, we learn later in the day (too late, as you'll discover) that the tickets have fallen through, leaving us with no other choice but the joyous task of scalping. So we plot on the train.

And so we get to Yankee Stadium about 5:30 for the 7:57 first pitch. Plenty of time. Babe Ruth Plaza is the mall two days before Christmas, only with people in better moods. Everybody else needs tickets, too. We ask a policeman about ticket purchasing. He says beware of counterfeit tickets. Thanks, pal. And you beware of coffee that's too hot.

The cop says the best chance is "near the bars."

"The bars," of course, are in and around River Ave., across the street from the bleachers at the old Stadium. If you've never been to Stan's or Billy's, your education has been sadly neglected.

We walk over. Holy welcoming committees. Mob scene. People everywhere. Singing, chanting, bartering. Anti-Phillies garb. A rattle and hum like you've never seen or heard, two hours before the first pitch in Gotham, where grand hopes and hand gropes live together in harmony.

We run into several people from our corner of the world. Kara Kochanski, the girls; cross country coach at NFA. Todd Major, former New London High baseball player. Jon Venditti, Fitch grad, teaching in the Bronx. Tom Odjakjian, the associate commissioner of the Big East Conference. Like old home week.

So after about 90 minutes, we come upon a man with two tickets. Depleted Bank Account works out a deal. Lots of cashola, but historic night. The tickets look legit, just like others we'd seen printed from StubHub, site of institutionalized plundering.

We make our way across River Ave., back to the apron of the Stadium, 7:30 now. Go through security, to the gate ... scan the bar code ... and the tickets are bogus.

Yes, somewhere a miscreant in New York City is having caviar and a Johnnie Walker Blue right now thanks to Depleted Bank Account and his trusty assistant.

Undaunted, we forge on. It's Game Six. Can't stop now. So Depleted comes upon another fine element of American free enterprise. Closer to game time, tickets go down in price. Still steep, but not Everest. This time, only an Alp.

I am not in the negotiation because I am not a negotiator. Besides, "does your mother know you're doing this?" wouldn't go over well.

We get the two new tickets and we're walking across River Ave. to the ballpark. The tickets, again, resemble others we'd seen.

Until I examine the fine print on one of them.

It reads, "Citizens Bank Pack" on it. No. 1, we're not at Citizens Bank Pack. No. 2, I don't even know what a Citizens Bank Pack is, unless you consider a group of tellers out for a smoke.

It's here that pieces of reality are dampening the promise of the tickets, kind of like the line in Ain't Misbehavin: I'm flying high, but I've got a feeling I'm falling.

Get to the gate ... frauds again. A painful 0-for-2.

Turns out that, according to a story in Thursday's New York Post, this has been rampant. Police are investigating a ring hawking counterfeit Series tickets on Craigslist. If the police find the perps (learned that word on Law & Order), they should send them by car to East Lyme. One locked room, one half hour.

OK. So it's after 8 now and at this point, I need to watch the ballgame. Don't care where.

So we take a cab to Grand Central, where we can at least get a train home later. On the ride over, we tell the sob story to the cabbie, who at least turns the game on the radio. We hear Matsui's homer and John Sterling's classic, "a thrilla by Godzilla."

First time I smiled in hours.

So we get our train tickets and dash over to the bar at the Grand Hyatt, next to Grand Central.

And we watch the game in the bar. At the adjoining table are guys from an insurance firm. One is from England, to whom we are explaining the rules of baseball. Delightful chap. His partner is from Tennessee and lives in Birmingham. We tell him our sob story.

"Figures that would happen in New York," he said. "That would never happen in the south because we're all armed."

(The writer in me thought that could be the best line ever and maybe this all happened for the sole reason of allowing me to quote him).

So the Yanks get the last out and all is right and holy in the world. We celebrate with our bar friends we'll never see again and walk next door to take the 12:17 home.

Yanks win. Emotional reserves high. Bank account reserves ... not so much.

This is the opinion of Day sports columnist Mike DiMauro.