June 1, 1963. I’m 10 years old, closing in on 11; my dad takes me to Cleveland Stadium 
to see the Yankees and boyhood hero Mickey Mantle. We sit alone in the centerfield bleachers. At the bottom of every inning, Mantle trots out to centerfield to toss the ball around with Roger Maris and Tom Tresh. I keep hoping he’ll look our way, but he doesn’t. My dad tells me to yell out to him, but I’m too shy.
At some point, not sure what inning, Mantle is standing in centerfield; nothing is really going on. My dad encourages me yet again. This time, I stand. My arm is waving, and I’m repeatedly screaming as loud as possible, “Hey, Mickey!” Mantle turns to look. I stop yelling but keep waving. It wasn’t hard to find me. We’re sitting alone, me standing, my arm still waving. Mickey flashes his famous grin and waves back. It’s a moment I’ll remember forever. Heck, I’m writing this a little over 61 years later.
The game itself was slow. Maris breaks up a no-hitter in the top of the fifth with a solo homer. The Yankees will win 5-2. In the seventh, the Indians intentionally walk Clete Boyer to load the bases to pitch to pitcher Jim Bouton. At the time, Boyer was the only Yankee hitting over .300. Bouton cleared the bases with a double.
Four days later, in Baltimore, Mickey fractures a bone in his left foot and has ligament and cartilage damage to the left knee. He was chasing down a ball and ran into the chain link fence. Mantle missed the next 61 games.