“The New York Yankees are world champions!” I have waited my entire life to hear those fateful words. Okay, maybe not. Sure, it was only nine years since the previous Pinstripe parade through the Canyon of Heroes, but I was a mere lad of 13 years old. I thought the Yankees won every year. My first baseball memory is of my father waking me up on a school night to watch Charlie Hayes squeeze the final out of the 1996 World Series. Despite a bump in the road when the Yanks lost in the 1997 playoffs, it was not until a villainous Luis Gonzalez had the nerve to flare a hit up the middle in the 2001 World Series that I understood what it felt like to lose in October.

It’s a sensation unlike any other. Primordial in the way it overcomes and envelopes you; individual in its invocation of emotion, yet communal in its context. It’s physical in the way it stirs you, yet mental in the way it makes your mind race through memory and anecdote. It’s not fear, nor excitement; it’s not quite anxiety, nor happiness. It is truly unique. It’s a sort of recognition; a recognition of greatness. The sensation and anticipation that you are about to witness something great in front of your very eyes.

The opening lick of James Hetfield’s guitar. The quiet tapping of Lars Ulrich on the high-hat. Fifty-five thousand people rise to their feet as a steady roar fills the stadium. The rhythm builds as Kirk Hammett’s electric lead comes in.

Exit light; enter night.

Sitting in Libe Café pretty much every day of the week has given me some insight into the most efficient ways to forget about a paper, prelim or quiz. All you have to do is look around, notice the mass of people jamming away on their laptops, appearing to do serious work. Most are probably on Facebook, gossiping about those Victoria’s Secret angels at a Halloween bash this past weekend. Some will be trying to appear intellectual by reading The New York Times. A noble few might even be doing actual schoolwork, while also chatting with 10 other people on Gchat.

As I was making my daily trek up the Hill to my office at Helen Newman Hall I became distracted by a slight bulging apparent on my right moccasin. Slightly concerned, I removed my shoe (or “slipper,” as my boss prefers to call them) and was deeply chagrined to discover that the entire right half of the lovely faux-something (Leather? Suede? Very unclear) had separated from the sole. Truly tragic.

Because of exhibition and non-league games, it is too early to effectively break down most aspects of team play. Thus, our column today focuses on four different subjects many fans may have overlooked this weekend.

Delay Hurts Ivy Programs

Although Friday night’s game was the first of the season for Cornell, it was Niagara’s fifth. Teams like Denver and Miami-Ohio have now played eight games to Cornell’s one. Even in Cornell’s own conference, ECAC Hockey, the six non-Ivy teams have all played at least five games.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.

Okay, so maybe it was. Maybe I had predicted this would come about every year since 2005. But still, it was always an ideal –– much like a Kobe/LeBron NBA Finals. I never entertained the possibility that it would actually come to fruition, much less that I would have to choose a side.

Well, I must have clairvoyant tendencies to some degree, because as I am penning this column my two favorite teams –– the New York Yankees and the Philadelphia Phillies –– are preparing to take the field in what promises to be a World Series to remember. Sabathia vs. Lee. A-Rod vs. Howard. Pinstripes vs. ... pinstripes?

What does Halloween mean to you? If you’re reading the Sports section, it probably signifies the start of the NBA season. With that in mind, I’ve combined the best parts of fall into Halloween-based awards for the start of the 2010 NBA season.

This is my third and final column about the high risk, high yield option of wearing a sports-themed costume for Halloween. I hope that my ideas have served you well over the years, at least to entertain if not on a practical level.

What do Cornell Sports and Andy Warhol have in Common?

It must be said –– I’m all about making connections. And for the record, I’m not just talking about the connections that score me a summer internship with Comcast SportsNet (looking at you, Dan Baicker). Or the connections that result in 2009 World Series tickets for yours truly; oh wait, I have yet to actually establish that one (which is why I’m going to use this opportunity to solicit two tickets for one of the Series games in Philadelphia next week. One for me, and one for my friend, coworker and fellow Phillies devotee, Meredith Bennett-Smith. Please, email me if you can be of service! I guarantee a column shoutout).

Depression. That’s right, the D word. You know, I’ve got to hand it to Yankees fans, depression is tough. I think it’s something you learned from your counterparts in Boston, especially after that loss to the Marlins in 2004. That was the last time the pinstriped knights from the Bronx were even close to being World Champs. I can understand why you’ve been depressed.