That is, we tried. Or I did, anyway. My wife and I have an agreement on trips like this. I handle the tricky stuff (like actually the twist and turns of the city we're going to) and she handles the maps and the straight drives of the NYS Thruway/Northway/[fill in your favorite road here]. There are a few coffee stops and we try to build in time to get lost - which is becoming more of a thing now, you see.
I used to be able to drive for hours, get us there in good time, and whenever we returned to the destination, knew right what to do when, right into the parking space.
That's something that occurs more often now. Yousta.
I yousta drive better.
I yousta remember why I went into rooms.
I yousta remember what I did yesterday.
And, once, I could sit out in the bleachers on a beautiful warm sunny day.
We were in the fourth row. I lasted three innings. By the time we got to the main level, I could barely breath, sucking in air by the buckets, as I went down to my knees. Eventually I got up, and we stayed in, away from the sun. I must now live in the shadows. Oh, it got better. We had Nathan's burgers and fries, cold drinks, and watched the game at the standing bars around that level. We hit the Yankee stores and saw all the Yankee/Jeter let's-cash-in-on-this stuff. I picked up a t-shirt that hand the right color and print of the old Yankee road jerseys.
Nice. And all it took was a ride down the NYS Thruway to Poughkeepsie and grab the train there that would drop us off at Yankee Stadium. It only took a half hour driving around P-see, trying to recall landmarks and get us to the train station. But all that came to me was the I had to go near the river. So once we arrived in the city, my wife asked if I knew where I was going. "Sort of," I said. The directions provided by Apple Maps were somewhat looney, and I do apologize to Google for straying. But the instinct was dow to the water. As long as I was going downhill, no matter what street, I knew the station would be there. Sure enough there it was. We got on the train, and headed south, entertained by a group of five year old girls singing songs from "Frozen".
We were glad to see this:
Now we are not Yankee "fans". My heart is for the Boston Red Sox, and my soul is with the Mets, the two teams most bedeviled by the Bronx Bombers. I don't root for or against the Yanks (my wife is slightly more biased to the anti-). I just love baseball, and the Yankees have so much history that I enjoy watching them, at least since the Torre era. They are mostly guys who love the game and play it with a passion. They've won more of everything than my other two teams combined. Fine. We are not all winners in life. Like it says in the ballfield where the old Stadium was: