General: Watching sports with mom

October has arrived. Fall is really here.

In recent days, autumn's chill has made its yearly entrance. Soon, New Yorkers will be bundled up from head to toe in scarves and boots trying to ward off Jack Frost's fury. But for now, the cool, sunny days are a welcome sign that the best time of year for New York sports fans is once again upon us.

For me, however, this time of year will also be forever linked to memories of my mother.

As a child, I was always emotionally torn as the pages of the calendar turned from August to September, and the days grew cooler. The carefree days of summer were near an end, and my child's mind would turn to thoughts of school and the inevitable anxieties that entailed. Still, I always was gladdened by the coming of fall, because, as a sports fan, untold excitement surely lay ahead.

Yes, fall was the time. Baseball's pennant races heating up and the World Series just around the corner. Football coming out of hibernation, and with it the deep, almost god-like voice of NFL Films' legendary announcer, John Facenda. My favorite sport, hockey, providing the giddy hope that this year would be the proverbial "next year," the year that my beloved Rangers would finally end the hex and raise Lord Stanley's chalice in triumph. Cool afternoons, with their ever earlier twilight, perfect for a quick game of touch football or street hockey after school. By October, having settled back into to the routine of school, every evening filled with strikeouts and singles, slap shots and saves, touchdowns and tackles, all brought to my home by the warm, somehow comforting, glow of television.

Today, of course, I am no longer a child, but a chill in the air brings these wonderful memories flooding back and a nostalgic warmth fills my heart. Yet, the feelings are not exactly those of my youth. Early October has taken on added significance in recent years. Seven years ago, on an early October evening, my mother passed away after a long battle with ovarian cancer. My associations with this time of year were forever changed, but the connection to sports, oddly enough, continues just the same.

The year of my mother's death, 1994, was a particularly notable year for sports in the New York metropolitan area. The Yankees were leading the American League East poised to get to the playoffs for the first time since 1981, until a late season strike caused the cancellation of the rest of the season, the playoffs, and World Series.

The New York Rangers, who had not tasted a championship in 54 years, finally got to lift hockey's holy grail, the Stanley Cup, following a thrilling game seven victory in the Finals at Madison Square Garden that June.

Throughout the summer, soccer's World Cup was being contested on American shores for the first time, and many memorable and important games in that tournament were played at Giants Stadium in New Jersey's Meadowlands.

As this year of wonderful and somewhat improbable events unfolded, my mother, who was often to ill to eat and to weak to do much else, was usually by my side watching the games on TV. From the Rangers' Cup run through the delightfully shocking success of the United States in the World Cup, my mother and I spent countless hours in front of the television watching the games and just enjoying each other's company. That year we watched sports together in a way, and with a frequency, we rarely had before.

That my mother was a sports fan had always been clear. She had been a big fan of the New York baseball Giants in the fifties; she loved to mention that she was in the centerfield bleachers in the Polo Grounds when Willie Mays made "the catch" off the bat of Vic Wertz during the 1954 World Series.

She always kept herself somewhat abreast of the goings on in the local sports scene. In reality though, she had long since stopped watching many games all the way through, or following the standings with a critical eye. Her rooting interests were now those of her sons: their dreams were her dreams. Her interest in men playing children's games had changed, from a personal love of the way Willie Mays played centerfield, to an expression of love for those she cherished most.

Two instances of this expression of love come immediately to mind. The first occurred long before 1994, and was not a show of support for my hopes and dreams, but rather those of my brother Andy. It happened during game six of the 1986 National League Championship Series, Mets versus Astros. I was attending college in New York City, and commuting to school from my family's home in New Jersey. I was a Yankee fan, but also a baseball nut and as such had a small portable television with me in the City. Game six of the 1986 NLCS has become the stuff of legend. It is called, by some, the greatest baseball game ever played. They just might be right. It will always hold a special place in my heart.

As this late afternoon epic moved into the early evening, I made my way home from upper Manhattan, catching as much of the game on the small black and white screen as I could. I moved from the classroom to the subway, subway to commuter train, amazed and excited by this game that wouldn't end. As I completed the short walk up the hill from the train station to our house, the game was still going on. I opened the front door to find my mother nervously pacing in the dining room, moving quickly between the kitchen and the den. The TV in the den was screaming out the result of each pitch. My mother and I began to discuss the incredible roller coaster of a game, as she tried to finish cooking dinner.

We discussed that the Mets had been trailing 3-0 entering the top of the ninth. I explained that although the Mets were leading the series three games to two, the seemingly unbeatable Mike Scott was to pitch game seven. Scott had easily beaten the Mets twice in the series, and game six was seen by me and most who followed baseball as almost a must win for the New Yorkers. We talked about the three runs the Mets scored in the top of the ninth to tie the game, now both of us pacing between the kitchen and den. I remember trying to set the table for dinner between innings, but finding it was a slow go. I explained my experiences on my way home from the City, as the only person on the streets and trains carrying a TV, giving updates to Met fans ravenous for any news on their favorites' fate.

As a Yankee fan, but not a Met hater, I had no real interest in the eventual winner of the game, but my brother, away at college in Pennsylvania and a die-hard Mets fan, did, and I could feel his passion for his team through my mother. As the Mets took a one run lead in the top of the 14th inning, I saw my mother visibly relax and go back to completing our evening meal, still listening to the television, which was blasting out the details in the next room. Her calm would soon end as the Astros put one run on the board in the bottom of the 14th to send the game on to a 15th inning. More pacing ensued, but now my mother was rarely entering the den to look at the TV, content to have me describe what was going on.

By the 16th inning she was back again watching much of the action. She watched as the Mets scored three runs in the top of the sixteenth to take a 7-4 lead. Comfortable with the three run lead, she hoped to finish making dinner without further delay. The Astros did not oblige. They scored twice in the bottom of the inning, forcing my frazzled mother to scurry anxiously about the kitchen once more. Finally, when Jesse Orosco struck out Kevin Bass with two on in the bottom of the 16th inning to seal the game, sending the Mets to their first World Series since 1973, my mother let out a scream of glee from the kitchen and I felt real joy. I knew at the time that her excitement could never be fully explained by any lingering loyalty to a National League team representing New York, but instead to the love she had for her son, miles away in Pennsylvania, and the happiness she felt in knowing that he was one step closer to having his dream of seeing the Mets win the Series fulfilled.

The other sports related moment with my mother that is seared into my memory occurred in 1994. Throughout the Rangers' playoff run, while I was at the games cheering on the Blueshirts at the Garden, my mother was watching and worrying, pulling for the Rangers, pulling for my childhood dream. As the Rangers and Devils squared off in game six of the NHL's Eastern Conference Finals in the Meadowlands, my spirits were high, although the Rangers trailed in the series three games to two. For the first half of the game, it seemed as though my worst fears were going to be realized. The Rangers were lethargic and the Devils had jumped out to a 2-0 lead.

As I sat in the den of my parents' house, I began to feel that "next year" might still have to wait. My mother had been watching some of the game upstairs in her bedroom. She came down to console me. Just minutes before she entered the den, the Rangers had begun to pick up their play. I wouldn't have admitted it, even if it had been true, but this game was not over, and I told her so somewhat angrily. Just as in 1986, we discussed the game in some detail. We talked about what the Rangers had to do. What they were doing right and what they were doing wrong. Then it happened. Alexei Kovalev had broken through. The Rangers were on the board, and once again I heard a cheer of glee from my now ailing mother. The same cheer I heard eight years before, during a happier, healthier time.

I was pumped up with the thoughts of Stanley Cup glory, once again within reach. In the third period, as Mark Messier made good on his guarantee and the Rangers prevailed, my mother and I cheered as one. Might she have been happier watching a mystery on A&E, or something other than hockey that night? Almost definitely, under ordinary circumstances, but these weren't ordinary circumstances. We both knew that. When the final buzzer sounded, I knew I had experienced one of the great moments in Ranger and hockey history, but I also knew that I had experienced much more. A personal memory of love between mother and son that will travel with me and comfort me forever.

I sit here now, indeed comforted by these sweet memories, and recall the night of October 3, 1994. The night my mother passed. Many other treasured memories are racing through my mind. Most are happy, some are not. My eyes are moist, but there is a small smile on my lips. I am both happy and sad. Mostly, however, I feel lucky. I feel lucky to be able to say I am her son.

I have one more sports related memory I would like to share. In a strange coincidence, the New York Rangers were supposed to raise their championship banner on the night of October 3, 1994, but a lockout of NHL players by the owners delayed the start of the hockey season. Of course, the players and management eventually ironed out their differences and hockey resumed that winter.

As I stood in Madison Square Garden, and watched and cheered as the Rangers raised the Stanley Cup Championship banner on a cold February night in 1995, I couldn't help but think back to October 3. While I thought back to October 3, I also couldn't help but think back to game six of the Conference Finals. With those memories firmly in mind, I smiled and cheered even louder, knowing I was cheering for two.

I love you Mom.

In Loving Memory of Kathleen Dolores Quigley May 19, 1931-October 3, 1994