A night of freedom, pride, hot dogs.... David McDevitt

Last fall, my mother was able to snag four tickets to Game 7 of the 2001 World Series. The Arizona Diamondbacks, my home team, were taking on the New York Yankees. We had an extra ticket, and since my brother was studying in Europe, I invited my friend, Justin. As we stepped into section 318, I could smell beer on the breath of an already drunken fan. We climbed up what seemed like thousands of stairs, crushing peanut shells and popcorn under our feet and stepping into puddles of unknown sticky liquids. Beads of sweat began to run down my forehead as I got whacked in the face by random posters and banners. One rowdy fellow was even kind enough to share some of his Miller Lite with my favorite shorts. It was one of the best days of my life.

When we got to our seats and looked out into the stadium, we saw the most incredible sight. Every spectator had been given a white pom-pom upon entering the stadium, and nearly all of the 50,000 fans were cheering for the Diamondbacks. The crowd looked like a sea of white tentacles, rhythmically pulsating as if the stadium had its own heartbeat. The intensity in the stadium was a blend of excitement, anxiety and tension. When the national anthem began, a wave of pride began to swell up in my...