The elimination of something as large of Shea Stadium reminds me of what a jarring experience it is when a building is suddenly just…gone.  When a person dies, it’s more painful.  But despite the initial shock, it’s something we all know is going to happen to each of us eventually.  Ultimately, I suppose, every man-made structure will fall.  At the very least, though, I instinctively expect a building to outlive me.

The obvious example is the World Trade Center.  A more personal example for me is an apartment where I once lived in a small town in western Massachusetts.  The apartment was in an addition that was attached to a two-century-old house.  The original house was made of stone.  The addition, close to a hundred years old itself, was made of wood and was in pretty horrible shape when I lived there (think: dangerously sloping floors, hurricane-force drafts, and an ever-present musty stench from the dirt-floor basement).  It used to be part of a restaurant that extended into the original portion of the house, so my kitchen was as large as many New York City apartments.  It had two sinks.

Years and several apartments later, I was driving through the area and naturally made a point of looking at the place where I once lived.  But it wasn’t there any more.  Just empty space.  The original house was still there, but the addition had been put out of its misery.

I had the sensation that the portion of my life that took place in that apartment was gone, too.  It felt more “gone” than it would have were the structure still standing.

Yankee Stadium means more to me than Shea, but since they’re selling off every fragment of the thing, I suppose I can hope that someday someone will collect all the fragments and put Yankee Stadium back together again.  A Resurrection…