The first time I covered a Yankee game as the main writer, my car was swiped. Or at least I thought it was stolen. After parking in midtown Manhattan to pick up a computer part at The New York Times, I bolted out of the building 10 minutes later and stared at a painfully empty parking spot.

On the subway to Yankee Stadium, I was equally worried about getting to the Bronx in time for pre-game interviews and about how I was going to eventually get home to New Jersey. Before Pascual Perez had gyrated his way through three innings, I learned that my car had been towed. After writing my story, a friend drove me to the impound lot to retrieve my car. It was around 2 a.m.

That incident had nothing and everything to do with covering baseball, and taught me a lesson that has shadowed