Life is full of moments.

Those moments become the memories we carry with us through our days. Some are big, some are small, and some don’t seem particularly important when they happen. But years later, you realize just how much they meant.

This weekend, I’ll be having one of those moments when I go to a Savannah Bananas baseball game. As a baseball purist—well, sort of—I’m not sure how I feel about the whole thing. But I already know this isn’t really going to be about what I’m watching. It’s going to be about who I’m enjoying the show with.

But hey… it’s baseball, right?

One of the most memorable baseball moments I’ve ever had happened in 1998.

My cousin called me up one day and said, “Hey, you want to go to Yankee Stadium and see if we can get World Series tickets?”

I was like, “Hell yeah. Let’s do this!”

The plan was simple. We’d get up there around 6:00 in the morning, get our tickets, and be back home by noon.

Or so we thought.

Remember, this was 1998. There were no online ticket sales. No tickets on your phone. No refreshing Ticketmaster and hoping you got lucky.

For the home games at Yankee Stadium, they were holding a lottery. You had to physically be there, stand in line, and hope your number was called.

Yankee Stadium held about 57,500 people.

Only 6,000 tickets were available to the public.

Six thousand.

So, yes, we got there at 5:55 in the morning and got in line.

And when I say “line,” I don’t mean a line like you see today.

They had the entire area around Yankee Stadium divided into these little metal pens. Each one was probably 10 feet by 6 feet, with metal barricades keeping everyone in place.

We got into one of the pens and stood there.

And stood there.

And stood there.

About four hours later, the line finally started moving.

Remember, I thought I’d be home by noon.

We weren’t at the beginning of the line, but we weren’t at the end either, so we figured our chances were pretty good.

The gate to our pen opened.

We moved into the next pen.

Then another.

Then another.

It was one of the strangest things I’ve ever experienced. For roughly three hours, the same thing kept happening. A gate would open, we’d move into the next pen, and then we’d wait again.

Finally, we made it to the front.

We were next.

We walked up, and a wristband with a number was put around each of our wrists.

That’s it.

After more than six hours of standing in line, we had a wristband.

I finally found someone and asked, “Okay… what exactly happens now?”

That’s when I learned how the lottery actually worked.

They had given out 6,000 wristbands. At some point, they would randomly call a number between 1 and 6,000.

That number would determine who was first in line.

So even if you had been the first person to get there and received wristband #1, you weren’t necessarily getting the first ticket.

They called the number.

I don’t remember exactly what it was. I just remember that I ended up near the end of the line.

My number was somewhere in the mid-2,000s.

They called 5,000, so the went from 5,000 to 6,000 and then back to 1!

And back into the pens we went.

This time, in numerical order.

Eventually, I made it through and walked out of the Bronx with two tickets to Game 2 of the 1998 World Series.

Eleven and a half hours after I had arrived.

Did I mention I still had a two-hour drive home?

The next day, I called my dad.

He was a lifelong Yankees fan, and I asked him if he wanted to go to the game.

He said no.

So now I had a decision to make.

Who do I take?

How do I decide?

And, honestly, why did I even ask my dad?

My love of the Yankees started because of him—and Dave Winfield. My dad and I had traveled to a bunch of stadiums together over the years. He had been my baseball coach for many years.

He was my mentor.

Who better to take?

The next day, he called me back.

“Hey, if you haven’t given that ticket away, I’ll go with you.”

And just like that, it was settled.

Me and my dad were going to Game 2 of the 1998 World Series.

We made a day of it. We spent time in Manhattan, walked around, enjoyed the atmosphere, and eventually made our way back to the 4 train and headed toward the 161st Street–Yankee Stadium stop.

The Yankees beat the Padres that night. Orlando Hernández pitched a gem, and my dad and I watched the game from the left-field bleachers.

It was my first of two World Series games.

The second one wasn’t nearly as memorable. I could probably dig out the ticket and tell you who the Yankees played, but honestly, I don’t remember much about it. I had gone up to watch the game at a bar and ended up buying a scalped ticket sometime during the first inning.

But Game 2 in 1998?

I’ll never forget that one.

Every time I go to my parents’ house, I see the ticket stub. It’s framed and sitting on the bookcase.

A little piece of paper from a day that started with my cousin asking, “Hey, you want to go to Yankee Stadium?”

Twenty-eight years later, I can still look at that ticket and remember standing in those metal pens, waiting for my number to be called.

I remember the train ride.

I remember parking at the stadium in an empty parking gargage.

I remember the stadium.

I remember the game.

Most importantly, I remember sitting in the left-field bleachers with my dad.

That’s what makes these moments special.

It’s not always the game. It’s not always the place.

Sometimes it’s the person sitting next to you.

And that’s what I’m looking forward to this weekend. The Savannah Bananas might not be the baseball I grew up with. But I’ll be there with family, making another memory.

And someday, that’s probably the part I’ll remember most.