I am not a writer until I start to write. I am not an emotional guy until I get emotional. And I am not a sentimental guy until I get sentimental. So When I turned on last night’s Yankee game I realized what a sentimental curmudgeon I really am. Not that it is a bad thing to be sentimental and a guy. Remember, this is coming from a guy who has the attention span of a blonde in a room filled with shiny objects.
I wasn’t all that interested in spring training. There were no real big interests or excitements for me in the off-season besides the hiring of Joe Girardi as manager. The Roger Clemens, Brian McNamee, “he said he said,” hearings were all about political affiliation. So I filed that one under: “the more you study, the more you know. The more you know, the more you forget. The more you forget, the less you know. So why study?” theory.
There is something about opening day (or night as in this case) at Yankee stadium. The weather is rarely accommodating. Some players are so nervous they probably feel like a pregnant nun in a confessional. After the first pitch the fans feel like the prolonged winter dreariness is coming to a screeching halt. The players feel absolved.
Even though this was the last opening day at the storied stadium in The Bronx I was not overly sentimental. After all there has been no world championship in seven years. The Boston Red Sox have two titles in the last four years. Joe Torre is gone. George Steinbrenner is no longer a present force to be recognized. Reggie Jackson threw out the first pitch. Joe Girardi is manager. The pitching staff is made up of young unproven talent.
Then the TV cameras started to take some unique shots from all over Yankee Stadium. I saw the courthouse and the subway from high above the Yankee façade. I saw angles of the playing field that I used to see as a kid roaming all around the upper decks of the stadium. I started to get sentimental. I started to get emotional. I started to write.
I heard Mel Allen and Red Barber. I heard Phil Rizzuto and Bill White. I heard Frank Messer. I heard Bob Shepard.
I had flashes of The Mick, Yogi, Whitey, Billy, Maris, Elston, Richardson, Bauer, Boyer, Kubek, Macdougal , Skowron, Tresh, Coleman, Stengel, Larsen, Sturdivant, Downing, Duren,, Reniff, Slaughter, Stafford, Terry, Turley, Blanchard, Houk. I saw a packed stadium. I saw world championships
Then there was a decade and a half of darkness.
I had another flash. I saw Munson, Guidry, Nettles, Randolph, Dent, Rivers, Pinniella, Chambliss, White, Murcer, Blair, Ellis, Figueroa, Holtzman, Tidrow, Alexander, Gullett, Dempsey, Stanley, Bloomberg, Gamble, Lyle, Hunter, Johnson, Spencer, Jackson, Lemon. I saw a packed stadium. I saw world championships.
Then there was another decade and a half of darkness.
Then there was an enormous bright flash. Like a flash not seen in decades. Like Haley’s Comet. I saw, Mattingly, Showalter, Torre, Jetter, Williams, Girardi, Posada, O’neill, Rivera, Gossage, , Pettitte, Gooden, Key, Rogers, Wetteland, Weathers, Wickman, Clemens, Cone, Hernandez, Lloyd, Mendoza, Stanton, Wells, Grimsley, Nelson, Brosius, Knoblauch, Leyritz, Martinez, Soriano, Boggs, Fielder, Duncan, Sojo, Vizcaino, Spencer, Curtis, Ledee, Strawberry, Justice, Raines, Davis. A quick flash, Canseco, Polonia, Kelly, Hill, Neagle, Lily. I saw a packed stadium. I saw world championships.
This storied stadium, The House that Ruth Built, The Great Cathedral in the Bronx, Baseballs Vatican, what ever you want to call it. Yankee Stadium, it is a baseball shrine. It makes men out of boys and it turns men back into boys. There are ghosts and there are spirits that linger there. That is if you believe in that sort of lore. I don’t usually until I think of it. Then I am a believer.
This is the first of the last go around in the Stadium. There will be a year long of first lasts progressing throughout the year. Try to embrace all of it as it is happening. It will be just a memory all too soon. Let’s hope it leads us back to the future. I see a packed stadium. I see world championships.
