I was in seventh grade the day the world changed forever.
At that point in my life, I had never been to New York City and have still not been to Washington, but I watched the pain of those two cities (and of Pennsylvania and our nation as a whole) unfold along with the rest of the world that day as I moved from classroom to classroom.
I first realized something happened on a trip to the restroom, when I heard my principal talking to a teacher. I heard bits and pieces, just enough to know there was an “emergency” but not enough to know it was anything more than a pipe bursting. I legitimately thought (and hoped) it was a plumbing issue that would send us home for the day. Boy was I off.
Up until that point, my generation hadn’t really lived through a defining moment even remotely close to the magnitude of that Tuesday morning. We weren’t around for Pearl Harbor, the Cuban Missile Crisis or the JFK assassination. We were babies (if born yet at all) during the end of the Cold War. What we knew of evil, we knew mostly from history books or documentaries.
My classmates and I were still blissfully unaware throughout our first-period English class. We heard the news during our second-period computer class, and by third period, we were watching history happen in our U.S. history class.
We saw replay after replay of the planes hitting, the towers falling. We saw the first responders, the textbook definition of bravery. We saw one of the greatest cities in the world, vulnerable and bruised. We saw our nation’s capital being attacked. We saw reporters trying desperately to hold it together during the most emotional and significant story most of them ever covered.
Stunned, shocked, tearful, terrified, completely confused. That’s how I remember feeling, and 30-year-old me doesn’t feel much different thinking back about it now. It still makes absolutely zero sense that it happened, that it could happen, that anyone could do that or want to do that.
By the end of the day, I felt almost numb. Everyone was scared. Everyone was confused. No one really knew anything. Nothing made sense. I felt grateful for living in the middle of a gigantic country, but somehow, it still didn’t feel safe enough. If what happened that day could happen, it felt like anything could happen.
My dad had to go to Chicago that night. At least my house in the middle of the Illinois corn and bean fields didn’t feel like the most probable target, but the thought of going to a big city seemed terrifying.
The world stopped for a while. I don’t remember for how long. Time seemed to stand still, but in a bad way. Throughout that day and the rest of the week, I watched firefighters and police officers try to rescue innocent victims. Pretty much every television channel covered it all day every day, and I was glued to that television along with everyone else.
It was almost like someone had hit the pause button on regular life in the United States while we all watched and mourned together.
Patriotic signs dotted the streets around my tiny hometown (and I’m sure everywhere else throughout the country). Our entire nation was stunned and heartbroken, but it somehow bonded us a little more, brought us a little closer together, made us stop thinking about our arguments and differences.
Major League Baseball paused right along with the rest of the nation. America didn’t really have time for its pastime.
We were all too sad, scared, numb or somewhere in between to care about a seemingly meaningless competition.
But that next Monday, baseball came back, our first sense of something remotely normal.
In reality, it wasn’t “normal” at all. For that night and the rest of the season, baseball wasn’t just baseball. It was a symbol, a symbol that terrorism doesn’t get to win. America was still America and would recover. It wasn’t too soon to do something American. It was time to come together.
I don’t remember whether I watched it live or heard it later, but it stuck with me, and I now make sure to listen to the words of former Cardinals announcer Jack Buck when Sept. 11 rolls around each year.
Jack Buck passed away less than a year later, but along with a plethora of memorable baseball calls, he left us with that poem, confirmation that yes, we should be there. Life does go on.
Baseball ended up playing a small yet significant role in our recovery, and Buck’s poem is just one of the many stories from around the league that demonstrates that.
Mike Piazza’s home run in the Mets’ first game back after Sept. 11
Yankees’ first game back after Sept. 11
2001 World Series, Game 3 (Yankees vs. Diamondbacks)
Cubs’ Sammy Sosa carries American flag
(Yes, even a Cardinals fan can appreciate this Sammy Sosa home run.)
As baseball came back, life moved on, but I (and I’m sure my fellow Americans feel the same) never forgot the way those first days felt.
Thinking back about it now, it stings almost as much as it did then, and I’m sure for the families who were directly impacted, it stings even more than it does for me.
Sept. 11, 2001, may have been the day my generation was introduced to evil, but it was also the day we witnessed the work of real-life heroes and saw an entire nation come together. We learned to never take anything for granted and that nothing is promised.
One of the ways I still remember those lessons, those heroes and that togetherness each year is through the simple game of baseball, and it reminds me to be grateful for each day America has time for its pastime.
#NeverForget
