Yankee Stadium -- The Cathedral of Baseball -- hosted its final game last night, a 7-3 thumping of the hapless Orioles. I can't help but feel a little sad -- O.K., a LOT sad. It is as though I have seen an old friend for the last time. The Stadium was given a rousing send-off by the Yankee organization. Many of the legendary players were honored, their feats and heroics displayed on the giant video screen. Those still living were invited out onto the field, the honored dead in quite a few cases were represented by family members who came out in their stead.
No image, in my mind, is quite as touching as that of Yogi Berra standing solemnly, as if at attention, the faithful Old Guard hailing the Regent in a final sign of respect. The Yankee organization got it right, for the most part. I cannot help feel, though, that some were snubbed. It is no secret that the management has had acrimonious relationships with the field Managers, the men who led the team to great success over the years, and who have been fairly or unfairly born the brunt of the blame when Championships are not delivered every autumn, like clockwork. George Steinbrenner, the Principal Owner of The Franchise was notorious for finding the best and brightest baseball minds, second-guessing them and casting them away. But George also had a streak of humility that made him see the error of past transgressions and to make amends. It was sad that Joe Torre did not get due appreciation at this great event, though one suspects that this may be more the doing of Hal and Hank, the Sons of George, who have assumed the mantle of "The Boss." To be fair, not even the greatest of the Yankee skippers, namely Casey "The Ol' Perfesser" Stengel, got as much "face-time" as was his due.
It was thrilling to see Bernie Williams make a return to centerfield, if only as a guest. Ditto the return of his compatriots, such as Paul O'Neill, Scott Brosius, and Constantino Martinez who provided so many thrilling moments in the Championship runs of the late 1990s. Even moreso were the return of the legends of my childhood, Graig Nettles, Chris Chambliss, Reggie Jackson, Bucky Dent, Willie Randolph, "Goose" Gossage, and "The Gator" Ron Guidry. As each was introduced, I felt the same chills and thrills as I did when I was 13, and my boys were coming back from 14 and a half out to storm back and reclaim the World Championship.
Yankee Stadium was a place where magic happened. I recall the nights at summer camp in the Catskills, when we surreptitiously listened to the games on A.M. radios smuggled in -- living in an ecstatic combination of fear of getting "busted" by the counsellors for having such contraband and elation of being in touch with those great, great men playing a boy's game, and carrying the banner of my "home" city in a quest to become the Champions of the World.
To be truthful, I didn't start life out as a Yankee fan. In fact, I was practically born in the shadow of Shea Stadium in Queens. My mom, for whatever reason, was in her 9th month of pregnancy and decided to take the family to the 1965 World's Fair at Flushing Meadows. It was then that I decided to come into this world, and through an unusual set of circumstances I came into this world in the backseat of Uncle Jerry's '53 Mercury, as he was speeding down the Long Island Expressway enroute to the family doctor who was awaiting us at a hospital in Smithtown. I could just as easily have been born in Booth Memorial in Queens, save for my mom's stubborn insistence to make it back to Suffolk County. My elder siblings were not great baseball fans, but they were swayed by the New York Metropolitan Baseball Club -- most especially because of the 1969 "Miracle Mets." From them, I received the hand-me-down Mets shirts and memorabilia and slowly began to comprehend the nature of the game. We moved from the Island (what island? -- Long Island) to New Jersey. Fortunately, my family were not great baseball fans, and the sport (and the Mets) were sort of an abstract. I vaguely recall the "Ya Gotta Believe" from 1973, but my next real "contact" with Major League baseball would come from our trips to The Bronx.
For an immigrant family, contact with other Latvian nationals was very important. Although we lived in the sticks in Jersey, I recall that we would make several trips each week trips to the Bronx, where the Latvian community had a church and social hall. We attended services and went to Scouts. We weren't exactly well-off, and often took the Major Deegan Expressway to save the little bit of money the luxury of the Henry Hudson Parkway toll bridge exacted. Staring in 1975, we began encountering lots of traffic near the interchange with I-95. This traffic, we found out, coincided with when and how the Yankees were playing. So, we got into the habit of using Mr. Marconi's invention and tuning in to WINS 1010 to hear what the Yankees were doing on Sunday afternoons or Tuesday (and later Thursday and Friday) evenings. We found out that the charming and enigmatic Yogi Berra fellow had been unceremoniously dumped by the Mets, and was now with these Yankees. I remember the bewilderment I experienced when I discovered that Yogi was a long-time Yankee before his days with the Mets! And what a history lesson I learned listening to The Scooter, Phil Rizzuto, as he filled in quite a lot of the blanks. Alas, 1976 was The Turning Point -- armed with the knowledge and appreciation of the game, and the joy of listening to the exploits of the Bronx Bombers on the radio. It was then that I truly became a Yankee Fan. The Yankees and Yankee Stadium were no longer the nuisance that caused depressing traffic jams on the way home, but rather the source of interesting and suspenseful adventures. I know fondly recall the nights when we "raced" down the Deegan expressway, keeping tabs of the innings and score, desperately hoping to beat the crowds to the I-95 before the end of the game. They seem so majestic now, that were "blessed" to see the magnificent glow of the stadium lights in the autumn skies as we ascended the looping road up towards the Alexander Hamilton bridge that brought us across the Harlem River.
That was the Yankee Stadium of my childhood -- a bright shining place, abuzz with excitement, where these mythical men with nifty nicknames like "Catfish" and "Sparky" and "The Goose" performed astounding feats. "Holy Cow" and "You Huckleberry" became part of my jargon. I knew one day that I must go see this place for myself, to witness the wonder and to be a part of the great game. I was about 15 or so when my elders finally entrusted me to be able to take Mass Transit by myself from Jersey to the Bronx and back again, to participate in church and scout-oriented activity. Money was not easy to come by, but I got a paper route, delivering the Newark Star-Ledger, and saved and often was "gifted" tickets. So after Saturday folk dances, I was able to catch a few baseball games. I never had much money, but managed to get into the bleachers. I remember very much wanting to get out and about and to see the grand old ball-park, but us "bleacher-creatures" were a different class of citizen, we weren't allowed into the other areas of the ballpark. I remember one time my Grandmother sprung for good seats, and I relished just walking the concourse, stopping from section to section to see what the view was like from each, before being chased away by the ushers. These were the 1980s, some lean years for the club, but each visit was precious.
During my High School years, I had an opportunity to be part of the NBS radio network, a "proving ground" for beginners who wanted to break into broadcasting. We basically had studios in Manhattan where we recorded 30-minute weekly shows that would be re-broadcast to other parts of the country. Using my credentials, I was able to secure a press pass for Yankee Stadium for one day. Navigating the labyrinthine hallways, I was a cross between a kid in a candy store and a deer in headlights. I remember meeting a kindly old gent named Pete Sheehy, who took the time to show me the clubhouse. At the time, I was not aware of his deep connection to Yankee history, and only later did I realize what a great privilege I had been afforded. Pete Sheehy was the equipment manager for the New York Yankees from 1927 until his death in 1985. He shined Babe Ruth's shoes, when Lou Gehrig realized his career was over, he flipped his glove to Sheehy, who said "I'm done, Pete." Sheehy was the man who issued Mickey Mantle #7 after Mantle was recalled from Kansas City so he could get a new start rather than being pressed with number 6. Pete Sheehy gifted me with Yankee catcher Butch Wynegar's baseball jersey, it had this big stain on it that would not wash out. I remember wearing that #27 with pride for the longest time. My mom threw it out when I was away in college, not realizing its significance. After his death, the Yankee clubhouse was named in his honor. I will never forget the kindness and generosity of this gentleman who so embodied the Yankee spirit. I wonder if his "ghost" will follow the Yankees across the street.
I was proud to be able to afford "real" seats during the glory years in the 1990s, but for some reason it always seemed that going to a game was always destined to take a sizable chunk of change from my wallet, no matter how much I was earning. I have to admit I haven't been to a game at the Stadium in a long while now. Tickets of late have been scarce and super-expensive, this being the last season and all. I almost feel like I've let the Stadium down, like knowing a friend is in the hospital, and even though you've called, you should have made a visit nonetheless. Now the opportunity is gone. Yeah, I know that there will still be another send-off event, but it wouldn't feel right if there wasn't a game going on.
I am sure I will be taking in a game at the new stadium that nears completion on the other side of the street. I just don't know if the "tingle" will be there, if the hairs on the back of my neck will stand at attention, or if there will be the same feeling of awe. The Yankee Stadium that captivated me, the place that I fell in love with will soon be no more. The new place, I am sure, will be nice. I just don't know if the Old Ghosts will be there to haunt it. It will be a goodly piece of property; but next spring, will it strike fear into the heart of some Cleveland Indians rookie who plays there for the first time? Will opposing veterans still take the time after batting practice to walk the new monument park and reflect on the old legends? It is, I suppose, up to the likes of Derek Jeter, and A-Rod, and Mariano to make a bold statement in the crisp pages of the brand new journal that will now record the travails, tribulations and triumphs of the New York Yankees. I dearly hope that they do so with pride and glory, and do justice to the namesake of the great franchise that is the New York Yankees, and pay due respect to the dignity of the place that will now carry the name of Yankee Stadium.
As for the old place... you will be missed, old friend.
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