By Bruce Hensel
Another October, Another Heartbreak
Another year. Another October heartbreak. Once again, the Yankees fall short — and few outside our tribe truly understand how frustrating, how quietly sad that is for lifelong fans like me.
I was born just a mile from Yankee Stadium. Most of my childhood friends were Dodger fans, and I sometimes tagged along with them to Ebbets Field. My memory of the place is faint — a child’s blur — but I can still picture the wooden stands, the open air, and how the ballpark seemed to spill directly onto the Brooklyn streets.
Few people today realize where the name “Dodgers” came from. Brooklyn’s roads were lined with trolley tracks, and fans literally had to dodge the cars to reach the gates. My friends loved that scrappy, neighborhood team. But my heart? My heart was never in Brooklyn.
Finding Home in the Bronx
My uncle and cousin used to take me to Yankee Stadium. We’d sit on the cold concrete outside, waiting to get in. Once through the turnstiles, I’d stare down at the field, breath held. The Mick — Mickey Mantle — was my hero, a living myth in pinstripes. Even then, I knew I belonged in the Bronx. I switched allegiances and never looked back.
Some of my earliest baseball memories now feel like a mix of truth and legend. I can’t tell anymore whether I actually remember Mantle breaking his leg in his first season — partly DiMaggio’s fault, as the story goes — or whether I’ve simply absorbed the story after reading it countless times. But by the time I turned eight, Mantle was back, winning the Triple Crown and saving Don Larsen’s perfect game in the World Series.
We had moved to Bayside, Queens by then, but geography couldn’t change loyalty. My heart stayed in the Bronx. I still remember the 1960 World Series vividly — the Yankees dominating the Pirates in blowout wins, only to lose the close ones, until Bill Mazeroski’s home run shattered us in the final game. I was devastated.
Growing Up with the Yankees
The following year, Mantle hit 54 home runs while Roger Maris hit 61. The Mick was injured with 100 fewer at-bats, yet still nearly matched him. I used to imagine what might have been if they had switched places in the lineup. Baseball fans live for those “what ifs.”
Then came the decline. The Yankees were swept by the Dodgers, and after that came an agonizing drought that lasted until 1976 — the longest championship gap in franchise history until the one we’re living through now.
Why the Heartbreak Still Stings
I know today’s game is different — deeper benches, advanced analytics, global talent pools. But I still don’t understand why the Yankees haven’t reclaimed their former glory. It’s been sixteen years since 2009.
This year’s loss to the Blue Jays in the Division Series hit hard. Toronto was the better team — I can admit that. But my heart ached for Aaron Judge, the best we’ve had since Mantle. The difference? Mantle’s teams won.
And though it sparks debate every time I say it, I’ll say it again: Mantle was better than Mays. Look at the stats adjusted for today’s numbers. That’s the beauty of baseball — there’s always another argument waiting.
I still see the old-timers in the stands — men in their eighties and nineties, some frail, some ill, still rising to cheer. They remind me that for some of us, this isn’t just a game. It’s a lifelong relationship. One that breaks your heart but never truly lets you go.
The Poetry of Baseball
No other sport compares. Hockey might be more electric in person, but its flow is shaped by a single offside rule. Soccer too. Baseball is different. It gives you space — space to breathe, think, hope, fear.
People say hitting a fastball is the hardest feat in sports. Just ask Michael Jordan, who couldn’t make it out of the minors. That challenge — that split-second impossibility — is part of what makes baseball beautiful.
For me, the game has always been poetry. Its rhythm and pauses. Its heartbreak and redemption. No matter what else I’m going through — and I’ve gone through plenty — baseball steadies me. Its patience calms me. Its language, its history, its silence between moments — all of it feels like home.
Hope Always Returns
Yes, I hated the way this season ended. But hope, like spring, always comes back.
Five months from now, the Yankees will take the field again. And I’ll be there — watching, hoping, believing.
Because that’s what true Yankee fans do.
