Preparing to Lose a Friend

Yankee fans have only one more season to pay tribute to “The House That Ruth Built.”

Normally, I cannot wait for the beginning of the baseball season. Typically, I spend my prep periods in February and March desperately wandering through ESPN.com, SI.com, and the Yahoo Fantasy Baseball sites looking for some new scrap of news, some bit of information that might tip the World Series one way or another. This year was different. Sure, I watched and thoroughly enjoyed the unveiling of Washington’s stunning new ballpark. Of course I paid careful attention to the scores throughout the day on March 31, especially loving Kosuke Fukudome’s (my late round fantasy pickup) three for three, three RBI, one HR performance. This year, though, a cloud hung over all of that.

Sitting in my classroom, as day one of sixth grade baseball was rained out, watching Looney Tunes with the disappointed young players, I finally put my finger on the concern. It had nagged me since I received my first set of tickets to an April 4 ^th game between the Yankees and Devil Rays. On those tickets, in big bold letters, reads the following: “YANKEE STADIUM FINAL YEAR.” I know I’m not the first to write on this subject, and I certainly will not be the last, but as a lifelong Yankee fan, I feel obligated to weigh in.

When Chien Ming-Wang delivers his first sinker of the year, the clock will effectively start to run down on this iconic ballpark. Although you could probably argue that the clock was set in 2004 when YES aired that ridiculous breaking ground ceremony for the “New Yankee Stadium,” I could still push it from my mind. It wasn’t yet real; wasn’t concrete. Last year, I could ignore the bumper to bumper traffic, I could look past the cranes starting to rise over the left field façade, but now, it is here; the final 81 games of a landmark. Just like a season of “24,” at 7:05:00 tonight, the red stopwatch with the ominous second-ticks is going to start counting towards some point in October, where (cue the crazy deep-voiced FOX announcer) nothing will ever be the same. Also, to carry the “24” analogy a little farther, the Yankee and MLB executives will surely carry this situation far beyond the limits of good taste. I’m not just talking about the sales of T-shirts and hats; we are looking at a full-on consumerist conflagration. To name a few moneymaking opportunities that the brass has promised the Yankees, we have All-Star Weekend complete with All-Star parties and memorabilia, jumps in ticket and concession prices, even the auctioning off of every brick and seat of the old park.

For most of my twenty-five years, Yankee Stadium was my baseball home. Like a well built house, it has housed multiple generations of my family. My mother was one of the paltry 23,000 or so people packed into the right field stands when Maris pulled a Tracy Stallard offering into those same seats to break an historic record. My father was in attendance on October 18, 1977, as Reggie Jackson launched his third home run of the night deep into the black colored bleachers comprising the batter’s eye in dead center field. As for me, I have spent many blustery spring nights, lazy summer afternoons, and electric fall evenings in the seats of my home away from home. From row V on the first base side of the upper deck to the left field bleachers to a Field Box down the third base line, I have observed the game that I love from every angle offered at the ballpark in the Bronx. I cheered and hugged total strangers in the left field upper deck as Bernie Williams hit an eleventh inning walk off against the Rangers. I bemoaned the fate of last years’ bullpen with friends in the upper deck as Kyle Farnsworth continued his career of mediocrity. I soaked up the energy of a Yankee rally off a hapless Arthur Rhodes as the stadium literally shook on an October night in 2000. I stood and clapped with every strike as Roger Clemens and Pedro Martinez matched up for eight scoreless, beautifully pitched innings, and sat stunned as Trot Nixon rounded the bases triumphantly in that fateful ninth inning.

For all intents and purposes, Yankee Stadium was my first baseball home. At the end of the season, I will be forced to relocate. Maybe the old park could use a few new concession stands, a nicer neighborhood in which to reside, wider passages in the upper deck, and a few new coats of paint, but to me and so many others it is so much more than grass, dirt, bricks, and concrete. Sitting there, waiting for the peanut guy, I can close my eyes, connect with the past. I can imagine the larger than life presence of Ruth, the steadfast constancy of Gehrig, the mammoth home runs of Mantle and Jackson, the smooth arrogance of Ford, the fierceness of Guidry, the tenacity of O’Neill, the competitiveness of Rivera, and the cool of Jeter. All of them, along with many others, occupied the same patch of green I presently observe.

Come November, the familiar smell of peanuts, beer, and dirt will be gone. There will be no physical connection to the past. All we will have are our fond memories, past emotions, and the occasional video clip. Currently, as if the baseball gods have responded to our bittersweet and conflicted welcome of this new season, it is raining in the Bronx. Opening Day in Yankee Stadium may well be delayed another night.

Eventually though, the sun will come out. The season will begin. Wang will throw that first sinker and the “24” clock will begin to tick. And we will start saying our goodbyes.