Not to get all James Murphy on you or anything, but I was there. I was there, in 1996, at the first World Series that Andruw Jones ever played in. I told him, “Adjust your stance. You’ll never even tip it away.” OK, that didn't happen. I was six. But I was at Game Four in Atlanta, sitting in the nosebleeds with my parents. We’d driven all the way down to Atlanta from North Carolina in a 1992 Dodge Caravan to see the Braves play the Yankees, because we’d gone the year before to see Atlanta host the Indians and it seemed to have worked out well.
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