I Want to Be a Part of It…

The writer bids farewell to Yankee Stadium, his home away from home.

It’s the top of the ninth and the Orioles’ up-and-coming centerfielder Adam Jones stands at the plate.  Jones swings and sends a grounder towards the hole between third and short.  Then it happens.  As one, the people surrounding me rise in anticipation.  We all know what comes next.  We’ve seen it before.  Just as the ball crosses from the dust of the infield to the green of the outfield, a lithe figure enters the picture.  Ranging to his right, he stretches towards his backhand.  The white of the ball disappears into the black of the glove.  In one fluid motion, he leaps off his back foot, momentum still carrying him towards the seats along the third baseline, wheels in mid-air, and delivers a strike to the first baseman, now close to 150 feet away.  In perfect sequence, the ball settles into Cody Ransom’s glove, Jones crosses first base, and the umpire subtly pumps his fist.  The crowd erupts.  Incomprehensible vibrations pervade the Bronx.  Gradually, the din gives birth to something more orderly: De-rek Je-ter clap clap clapclapclap .

A few batters later, the incomparable Mariano Rivera causes Brian Roberts to pop straight up to Ivan Rodriguez to end the game.  Rodriguez turns and hugs Rivera before offering him the ball.  Police officers sprint towards predetermined positions along the foul lines.  Not one person sits.  Frank Sinatra belts out “New York, New York” over the loud speaker.  No one moves.  I glance to my left.  My father and sister, with whom I have shared the majority of my baseball memories, return my stare.  We say nothing and nothing needs to be said.

Since the New York Yankees broke ground on their new stadium, Yankee Stadium has become a tourist attraction on par with the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building.  Whether the tourist is a Japanese native hoping to catch a glimpse of Hideki Matsui, a family of four from rural Texas, or a group of college students from a rival city, 161 River Avenue stands out on the itinerary.  People traveling from around the world stop at the House that Ruth Built to immerse themselves in history.  They walk River Avenue, perusing the sports bars, delis, and souvenir shops.  They wait in line to catch a glimpse of plaques honoring players that require just one name to describe them: Gehrig, DiMaggio, Mantle…Babe.  They sit in the nose-bleeds, take pictures with expensive digital cameras equipped with high-powered zoom features, and hold up witty signs hoping to be spotted by the local TV broadcast.

For most of my life, I have been a Yankee Stadium native.  I know where to get the best hot dog, where to find the shortest bathroom line, and which peanut vendor has the strongest arm.  I snicker as strangers trip over a tricky step to the left of my seat.  I point out the crazy guy that wildly dances to Metallica’s “Enter Sandman” when Rivera enters a game.  However, on Friday night, as I attended my last game in Yankee Stadium, I was a tourist.

Upon arriving at the stadium, I perused the shops on River Avenue.  In fact, I came this close to buying a “The Final Season” T-Shirt.  I found my seat earlier than normal and drank in the environment.  I know the arguments.  Since its renovation in the ‘70s, Yankee Stadium does not hold the appeal of a Wrigley or a Fenway.  Nevertheless, the patch of dirt that surrounded first base once did so under the spikes of Lou Gehrig.  The batters boxes had once been toed at, kicked, and dug up by the likes of Berra, Maris, and Mattingly.  More importantly, this was my Yankee Stadium.  Just like a childhood home, I can’t walk far without bumping into a ghost or vivid image of some event now long past.  Would the new stadium provide a similar venue packed with memories and emotions, I wonder?

By the time I stepped off the 4 Train, I had resigned myself to the fact that life moves on.  What would be the point of howling at the wind?  The fate of this cathedral of baseball had been sealed years ago by those possessing far more influence and power than my own.  Friday’s game against the Orioles would be the last time I stepped inside my baseball home.  It was my chance to say good bye.

Just like a tourist, I took pictures.  For the first time in years, I kept score.  I’ll probably keep the scorecard and ticket.  Maybe frame them.  I wandered the concession stands, hunting for an elusive pretzel for my dad.  We snapped pictures of the game and captured candid moments for ourselves.  The best part?  We weren’t the only ones.  Everyone in Yankee Stadium was a tourist.  Much like a playoff game, the place felt alive, vibrant.

Any other time, the game—a surprisingly intense pitchers’ duel—would have been enough.  Despite shaky first and second innings, Carl Pavano ended up pitching five, allowing only two runs, and earning a win.  The game was punctuated by a flawless appearance by Joba Chamberlain, who struck out all three batters he faced, a homer by Robinson Cano, Rivera’s thirty-seventh save, and stellar defense.  Rookie Brett Gardner stood out, throwing out Nick Markakis at home plate in the first, taking a home run away from Luke Scott in the fifth, and driving a game tying double to left in the third.

Tonight, though, the true star of the evening was Yankee Stadium.  When Ivan Rodriguez recorded the final out, something odd happened.  No one left.  Nobody tried to beat traffic.  There was no hustle to the exits, no rush to the parking lots.  Everyone just stood there.  Sinatra sang, police guarded the field, and the Yankees celebrated a win.  We all stood, drinking in our last moments in Yankee Stadium, not wanting them to end.  In that instant, 50,000 people were connected.  We all wanted to spend just one more minute with the stadium that had sheltered us so lovingly for so many years.  If we left, it meant that it was over, our goodbyes complete.  If we lingered long enough, maybe we could will one more season out of the old ballpark.

Eventually, though, the moment ended.  We all turned and headed to the exits.  There was nothing more to do, nothing to say.  However, on a September night, in a meaningless game between fourth and fifth place teams, everyone in attendance witnessed something unique.  Those last few moments will remain with me forever.