My 9-11 Remembrance
I actually got a head start on recollecting memories of 9-11 on Sunday night. The Giants played Dallas in their NFL season opener on Sunday night. As I watched, all I could think about was Monday night, September 10, 2001. The Giants opened their season that night on Monday Night Football against the Denver Broncos. As we were wont to do, my friends and I gathered at a suitable watering hole to eat, drink, and cheer the Giants on. Five of us made it to Reservoir, down on University, that night. One of our gang was missing. It was Mark. I called him at home. "Where the hell are you? We're all here at the bar," I said. "I've got to be in early tomorrow, I gotta get a jump on a busy week," (or something to that effect) he told me. I think I might have joshingly questioned his manhood or something to that effect, but we promised to catch up soon and said goodbye. Those were the last words I would ever speak to the dearest of friends and in roughly eleven more hours I would witness his slaughter.
The Giants played Denver tough and were either leading or in the game well into the second half. Had they been getting blown out I might have gone home early and with fewer beers in me. But as it happened we all stayed, watched and drank. So I got to bed a little later than usual. That and the beers rendered me a little sluggish the next morning, so I didn't rush to get out of the apartment to be at my desk at 8 am like I normally was. Had I been on time I would have seen American Flight 11 slam into the North Tower from my office at the World Financial Center right across the street from the WTC. I'm glad I missed it, many of my former colleagues still have nightmares, particularly about the jumpers. As it happened, I walked right out of my apartment building at about 8:45 into the middle of Sixth Avenue where I joined hundreds of stunned NYers staring south at the burning North Tower. I thought of Mark, but I was relieved because I knew he worked in the South Tower. Obviously I had that thought sometime before 9:03 am. At 9:03 I saw it. I figured it was roughly two-thirds up the height of the Tower and I knew Mark worked somewhere up in the 80s. Quick, two-thirds of 105 floors is 69 or 70...my God! Standing in a daze in the middle of Sixth Avenue (in the middle of traffic) I wondered whether I just witnessed the slaughter of my friend or whether he got out of there when the first plane hit. I snapped out of it to formulate my own plan. The lovely Mrs. Baseball was 9 months pregnant with our first child and she had a doctor's appointment at 10 am that day on the Upper East Side. Let's just get moving toward that doctor's office, I thought. In the cab ride up I tried to call anybody who might have word of Mark, no luck, just voicemail. We went through our medical examination uneasily oblivious to what happened during that hour. As we left the doctor's office a bike messenger delivering stuff to the office told us that the two towers were down and that people had been jumping. I only half believed him. Fortunately my wife's dad had an apartment on the Upper East Side near our doctor, so we decided to ride out what was going to be a horrible day there. Aside from the brief period of time that I was paying attention to what the doctor said about the health of my unborn child, all I thought about was Mark. Did he make it out? If only he met us all out last night, would he have been running late like me? These thoughts dogged me. We got to my father-in-law's place and switched on the TV. I have no idea how long we watched, it could have been hours. And then it came, my most enduring memory of that day. Ashleigh Banfield, the MSNBC reporter, was standing in the middle of some street downtown reporting from the scene. She was covered in dust and she reached down to pick up a pile of debris from the street. She stood up with a handful of that debris and the camera zoomed in and there it was, as clear as day, and my heart dropped into my stomach. In Banfield's hand, unmistakable and still visibly burning was a sheet of Keefe, Bruyette & Woods letterhead. KBW was where Mark worked. Logically this told me nothing, but I felt at that very moment like it told me everything. I had been dogged since 9 am that morning with questions. That burning piece of paper clarified it all. I turned off the TV and wept.
The Giants played Denver tough and were either leading or in the game well into the second half. Had they been getting blown out I might have gone home early and with fewer beers in me. But as it happened we all stayed, watched and drank. So I got to bed a little later than usual. That and the beers rendered me a little sluggish the next morning, so I didn't rush to get out of the apartment to be at my desk at 8 am like I normally was. Had I been on time I would have seen American Flight 11 slam into the North Tower from my office at the World Financial Center right across the street from the WTC. I'm glad I missed it, many of my former colleagues still have nightmares, particularly about the jumpers. As it happened, I walked right out of my apartment building at about 8:45 into the middle of Sixth Avenue where I joined hundreds of stunned NYers staring south at the burning North Tower. I thought of Mark, but I was relieved because I knew he worked in the South Tower. Obviously I had that thought sometime before 9:03 am. At 9:03 I saw it. I figured it was roughly two-thirds up the height of the Tower and I knew Mark worked somewhere up in the 80s. Quick, two-thirds of 105 floors is 69 or 70...my God! Standing in a daze in the middle of Sixth Avenue (in the middle of traffic) I wondered whether I just witnessed the slaughter of my friend or whether he got out of there when the first plane hit. I snapped out of it to formulate my own plan. The lovely Mrs. Baseball was 9 months pregnant with our first child and she had a doctor's appointment at 10 am that day on the Upper East Side. Let's just get moving toward that doctor's office, I thought. In the cab ride up I tried to call anybody who might have word of Mark, no luck, just voicemail. We went through our medical examination uneasily oblivious to what happened during that hour. As we left the doctor's office a bike messenger delivering stuff to the office told us that the two towers were down and that people had been jumping. I only half believed him. Fortunately my wife's dad had an apartment on the Upper East Side near our doctor, so we decided to ride out what was going to be a horrible day there. Aside from the brief period of time that I was paying attention to what the doctor said about the health of my unborn child, all I thought about was Mark. Did he make it out? If only he met us all out last night, would he have been running late like me? These thoughts dogged me. We got to my father-in-law's place and switched on the TV. I have no idea how long we watched, it could have been hours. And then it came, my most enduring memory of that day. Ashleigh Banfield, the MSNBC reporter, was standing in the middle of some street downtown reporting from the scene. She was covered in dust and she reached down to pick up a pile of debris from the street. She stood up with a handful of that debris and the camera zoomed in and there it was, as clear as day, and my heart dropped into my stomach. In Banfield's hand, unmistakable and still visibly burning was a sheet of Keefe, Bruyette & Woods letterhead. KBW was where Mark worked. Logically this told me nothing, but I felt at that very moment like it told me everything. I had been dogged since 9 am that morning with questions. That burning piece of paper clarified it all. I turned off the TV and wept.
posted by Donny Baseball at 12:17 PM
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