Well, Dave Barry usually isn't a sportswriter.But...Enjoy(from today's NY Daily News)*********************************************************************************Remembering '60 Series never gets old As we continue to follow yet another baseball season, what's left of my mind drifts back to the fall of 1960, when the big baseball story was the World Series between the New York Yankees and the Pittsburgh Pirates. Today, for sound TV viewership reasons, all World Series games are played after most people, including many of the players, have gone to bed. But in 1960, the games had to be played in the daytime, because the electric light had not been invented yet. Also, back then the players and owners had not yet discovered the marketing benefits of sporadically canceling entire seasons.The result was that in those days young people were interested in baseball, unlike today's young people, who are much more interested in basketball, football, soccer and downloading dirty pictures from the Internet. But in my youth, baseball ruled. Almost all of us boys played in Little League, a character-building experience that helped me develop a personal relationship with God."God," I would say, when I was standing in deep right field - the coach put me in right field only because it was against the rules to put me in Sweden, where I would have done less damage to the team - "please, please, please don't let the ball come to me." But, of course, God enjoys a good prank as much as the next infallible deity, which is why, when He heard me pleading with Him, He always took time out from His busy schedule to make sure the next batter hit a towering blast that would, upon reentering the Earth's atmosphere, come down where I would have been standing, if I had stood still, which I never did. I lunged around in frantic, random circles, so that the ball always landed a minimum of 40 feet from where I wound up standing, desperately thrusting out my glove, which was a Herb Score model I had treated with Neat's-foot oil so it would be supple.Even though I stunk at it, I was into baseball. My friends and I collected baseball cards, the kind that came in a little pack with a dusty, pale-pink rectangle of linoleum-textured World War II surplus bubble gum that was far less edible than the cards themselves. Like every other male my age who collected baseball cards as a boy, I now firmly believe that at one time I had the original rookie cards of Mickey Mantle, Jackie Robinson, Ty Cobb, Babe Ruth, Jim Thorpe, Daniel Boone, Goliath, etc., and that I'd be able to sell my collection for $163 million today except my mom threw it out.My point is that we cared deeply about baseball back then, which meant that we were passionate about the 1960 Pirates-Yankees World Series matchup. My class was evenly divided between those who were Pirates fans and those who were complete morons. (I never have cared for the Yankees, and for a very sound reason: The Yankees are evil.) We followed every pitch of every game. It wasn't easy, because the weekday games started when we were still in school, which for some idiot reason was not called off for the World Series.That series went seven games, and I remember how it ended. School was out and I was heading home, pushing my bike up a hill, listening to my cheapo little radio, my eyes staring vacantly, mind locked on the game. A delivery truck came by, and the driver stopped and asked if he could listen. Actually, he more or less told me he was going to listen - I said okay. He turned out to be a rabid Yankees fan. The game was very close, and we stood on opposite sides of my bike for the final two innings, rooting for opposite teams, he chain-smoking Lucky Strike cigarettes, both of us hanging on every word out of my tinny little speaker.And, of course, if you were around back then and did not live in Russia, you know what happened: God, in a sincere effort to make up for all those fly balls he directed toward me in Little League, had Bill Mazeroski - Bill Mazeroski! - hit a home run to win it for the Pirates.I was insane with joy. The truck driver was devastated. But I will never forget what he said to me. He looked me square in the eye, one baseball fan to another, after a tough but fair fight - and he said a seriously bad word. Several, in fact. Then he got in his truck and drove away. ****************************************************************************Later