Yankee Stadium

I submitted this for publication in the school newspaper, but they don't seem too interested. Oh well.

The Bronx Bombers will bid farewell to their venerable stadium this weekend, and how fitting the House that Ruth Built will host the Sultan of Swat’s hometown team for its final festivities.

There will be no playoffs for the Yankees this season, snapping a 13-year streak of October baseball in the Bronx. They will have to settle for three September dates against the only team behind them in the American League East standings, the Baltimore Orioles.

I made my first visit to the Stadium on its next to last weekend, and while the product on the field has consistently driven New Yorkers nuts this summer, I basked in the glory of one of the truly beautiful moments of my young life.

It was a father-son trip to the Ol’ Stadium, but on this day, the son was taking his father on his 50th birthday. We decided we needed to see the relic of a park before the Pinstripers moved across the street, and I cringed back in March when I purchased tickets against the Rays. But the Yanks are going home, and the upstarts from the Confederacy are on to the playoffs.

And while playoff optimism floated out to be replaced by oppressive humidity, I will not soon forget the day I went to Yankee Stadium with my dad. See, I’ve been a sports nut since I broke the womb like a running back breaking the line. My dad’s interest in mainstream sports has blossomed as I’ve aged, but he keeps his true love no secret when recalling how he simulated bike pedaling with my legs when I was a toddler. Many children got bedtime stories about baseball and football heroes, but instead, I heard of Eddie Merckx and Greg LeMond.

But as the blistering sun greeted us as we took our seats in the right field bleachers, our interests seemed to merge. We were both in awe of the history and tradition that is steeped in every corner and crevice of the great park. No sooner had we finished surveying the scene we had seen depicted so many times on television, than did the Bleacher Creachers begin to serenade the Yanks as Carl Pavano went into the wind-up to deliver the day’s first pitch.

“John-ny! John-ny! John-ny,” they all chanted.

“What are they doing?” I quizzically remarked to my father.

But Left Fielder Damon answered the query before it left my lips, squatting, grinning and pointing toward the right field stands. They continued, chanting each player’s name, and he in turn, turned, and saluted the fans. My father and I could not help but grin at this quirky but admirable habit that probably dates my years. These rough and tumble New Yorkers, who we so often snicker at during our trips to the Big Apple, still show respect and appreciate the game before them, something I could not help but attribute to the Ol’ Ball Field.

My father and I were treated first to a history lesson, second to a ball game this past Sunday, and how fitting that on this day, the Captain, Derek Jeter, tied Lou Gehrig’s all-time hits record at Yankee Stadium with a solo home run, the fourth of the day to land in those same right field bleachers we sat in. We filed out shortly there after, with the heat and a long commute home wearing down our will. But despite that, my Pops still managed to lean over to me, with a twinkle in his eye, and offer the wonderful words of a father.

“Thanks, Bud, that was fun.” Only the father of a journalist could be so succinct.