A Yankees-Dodgers World Series wakes ghosts of generations past
Brooklyn Dodgers pitcher Johnny Podres is lifted by catcher Roy Campanella (39) after the final out of the seventh and deciding game of the World Series at Yankee Stadium, Oct. 4, 1955, in New York. Credit: AP
This guest essay reflects the views of Scott D. Reich, a Port Washington resident, author and chief executive of Believe in a Cure, a rare disease nonprofit.
The first Yankees-Dodgers World Series in 43 years stirs a deep well of nostalgia. For baseball fans, especially those of us tied to these two storied franchises by family and tradition, this matchup is more than just a clash between the best teams in baseball — it’s a rekindling of history, a reunion with ghosts of a past that still haunts ballparks and living rooms alike, reminding us where we come from and the stories and people that have shaped us.
As a lifelong Mets fan, rooting for the Dodgers in this series feels like picking up an old story where my grandfather left off, one that has been passed down like a cherished heirloom, its pages worn from years of love, heartbreak, and a familiar refrain: "Wait till next year."
My grandfather was a loyal Brooklyn Dodgers fan. So was my grandmother on the other side, who grew up a block from Ebbets Field. They came from an era when the Dodgers and Yankees didn’t just share a city — they embodied two worlds, two ways of life. The Dodgers were the lovable losers from Brooklyn, the scrappy, blue-collar underdogs who always seemed to find themselves on the wrong side of history. The pinstripe-sporting Yankees were the glitzy champs up north in the Bronx. To root for the Dodgers back then was to root for the everyman, the dreamer who dared to believe that sometimes, just sometimes, David could beat Goliath. I realize now how much my Dodgers-Mets inheritance has defined my outlook on life, including my love for the underdog.
I recall hearing stories of that miraculous 1955 World Series when the Dodgers finally won their first title. My grandfather became a father in September 1955 when my mother was born, and "Dem Bums" won Game 7 behind Johnny Podres’ brilliant pitching just a few weeks later. His eyes twinkled with each remembrance, as if recalling a miracle. The Dodger victory was more than a win — it was vindication.
And then, just two years later, the heartbreak came. The Dodgers left Brooklyn for sunny Los Angeles, leaving behind a trail of broken hearts — and spurring resentment that led to my family’s Mets fanhood.
Growing up a Mets fan, I always felt a kinship with the Dodgers. Like Brooklyn fans of old, Mets fans have lived in the shadow of the Yankees' dominance. We’ve known the pain of being overlooked, of watching the Yankees win titles while we scrape and claw for our moments of glory.
Now, as the Dodgers and Yankees meet again, I have to pull for the Dodgers. It’s not merely because they defeated the Mets and I don’t root for the Yankees. It’s deeper — something tied to that old story my grandfather used to tell, the one about hope and heartbreak, about believing in a team that always seemed to come up short until one magical year when they didn’t.
As I prepare to watch this series unfold, I feel a connection not just to the game on the field, but to the history that surrounds it. I think of my grandparents. I ponder what 1955 must have felt like, and how I yearn to hear those stories told just one more time — reminding me that in baseball, as in life, the story of the underdog never really ends. It just keeps finding new ways to be told.
This guest essay reflects the views of Scott D. Reich, a Port Washington resident, author and chief executive of Believe in a Cure, a rare disease nonprofit.
