It's like my entire childhood was erased with the implosion of Veteran's Stadium on Sunday.

I would have liked to go home to South Philly this weekend to witness the ceremony, but it was painful enough watching the ESPN highlight reel as the stands collapsed like dominos into a pile of rubble.

After all, it was in fifth grade when the 1993 Phillies made a run at a World Series title, which led me in the direction of a journalism career. I wanted to work with sports and, being a female, I knew sports journalism is the closest I could get.

Attending my first Phillies game at the age of seven with my dad and brother is what really got me involved in the sport of baseball, which later developed into a softball career for me. Leaning over the gate during batting practice and snatching a ball along the foul line as my brother held onto my feet sent me running to my dad with my most prized possession.

Now, if I just could have caught a hot dog that the Phillie Phanatic shot out of his cool gun, or even gone for a ride on his red bike, my night would have been complete.

But I settled for watching from my seat as the drunken fools danced with the Phanatic on top of the Phillies dugout.

I lived for giveaway days because I was proud to be under-14 so I could claim my Mickey Morandini growth chart.

When I became eligible for the women's 16-and-over giveaways, I was allowed to attend a game without my parents and with my friends, although we failed to find the Rocky statue in front of the Spectrum -- where my parents were supposed to pick us up.

In my high school days, venturing into the basement of the Vet for batting practice with my softball team took up a large portion of my time.

Sneaking out of practice for a few minutes one night and walking onto the field that always seemed untouchable from the stands sent chills through my body. I stood on the same dirt that the Phillies played on in the 1993 World Series.

Unfortunately, that field didn't fit the softball dimensions, so I couldn't play my all-star game at the Vet like the baseball teams did. Instead, we were honored on the field before the game. Just standing on home plate, though, is something I'll never forget.

Every Philly fan can reminisce about the Vet. Maybe it was your first football or baseball game, when your dad introduced you to the sport.

Or maybe it was that game that was so remarkable that you went home and put the ticket on your bedroom wall, where it still hangs today. Or maybe it was just the fact that the player you always admired as a kid made his mark in that ballpark.

It was a sacred place that every Philly fan grew to love, despite the fact that it hosted a football team that lost three straight NFC Championship games.

To outsiders, the Vet was simply viewed as a dump with hard grass and leaky ceilings. But in what other stadium will the mayor of your city start a snowball fight in the middle of a football game?

Where else could you buy baseball tickets for $5?

Where else could you find a courtroom with Judge Seamus McCaffery, where accused offenders during Eagles games could plead their case immediately following the arrest.

Nowhere but the Vet.

The August before I left for college, I was on the field to accept a scholarship from the Phillies organization while the players were in the dugout.

That was the last time I was in the Vet, not knowing I wouldn't be back again.

Then came a time when talk of a new football stadium began to stir and that plan incorporated a new baseball stadium as well. Even then, the future of the Vet was unknown.

In the meantime, the Phillies held a commemorative ceremony that honored the greatest moments in Phillies history.

Tug McGraw jumped off the mound one last time. Four months later, he passed away.

Deaths come in three, they say. First it was the general manager of the 1980 Phillies, Paul Owens, who died in December following a lengthy illness. Then McGraw, who threw that World Series-winning pitch in 1980, succumbed to cancer in January. Lastly, it was the Vet.

The Vet may be gone, but the memories live on.