Despite the fact that I am an avid, and sometimes rabid, fan of the New York Yankees, I cannot remember the first time I ever sat in the legendary Yankee Stadium. There are some hazy snapshots which stand out in my mind—my father, teaching me what a double play was, or climbing to the top of my chair with my sister, raising my arms and dancing along with the Yankees grounds crew as they boogied to “YMCA” in the middle of the fifth inning. But these brief memories notwithstanding, I cannot remember my first Yankees game.
This early, early-senior moment never used to bother me. So what if I couldn’t remember my first game? I’ve been to plenty since then, and hopefully have many still ahead of me. But over the past year, my lackadaisical approach to baseball milestones has begun to fade, and last week, it vanished.
After an aborted attempt last Monday afternoon, on the evening of Tuesday, April 1, 2008, I witnessed the final opening day at the majestic, renowned, imposing yet familiar Yankee Stadium. Next season, the boys in pinstripes will relocate themselves and their fans across the street to the shiny, modern, new Yankee Stadium (same name—confusing, I know), and leave the House that Ruth Built and all of the nostalgia and history that goes with it behind.
I grew up in the heart of Manhattan, and from April to October (and, if I’m being honest, during the off-season as well), baseball and the Yankees have always been an integral part of my life. As often as I can, I don my Tino Martinez #24 crisp navy blue T-shirt and travel uptown to the big ballpark in the Bronx to cheer for my team, dressed to impress in classy pinstripes with the NY insignia emblazoned proudly upon their caps. Yet there are certain events, and one in particular, which stand out and exemplify my, and indeed New York’s, relationship with the Yankees.
Sept. 11, 2001 dealt a body blow to the people of New York. But one of the things, which I remember as clearly and starkly as possible, was the effect that the New York Yankees had on the citizens of New York following that terrible day. In the weeks succeeding the attacks on the World Trade Center, people began to rebuild the city, both physically and spiritually. One of the greatest and most effectual catalysts of this renaissance was the Yankees. A few days after the attacks, the team visited relief shelters at the Javits Center, the Park Avenue Armory, and St. Vincent’s Hospital, ostensibly to provide some form of comfort to the mourners. The players, unsure of what to expect and what was expected of them, were overcome by the intensely grateful reactions to their visits. “My role in the world seemed very insignificant. I hit a ball for a living,” then center-fielder Bernie Williams said. “There are people out there who have great jobs that impact people in a way I could never imagine, and it took this incident to realize what kind of impact I actually did have, just by playing for the Yankees.”
During those difficult September days, the Yankees and their stadium served as a balm for a wounded city, giving its members a few hours of solace and a lifetime of pride. Baseball games were postponed indefinitely following Sept. 11, 2001, and the team’s first rescheduled game was on the road, playing against the Chicago White Sox at U.S. Cellular Field. Before they began to play, then manager Joe Torre gathered his players for a speech in the locker room. Following the game, Torre explained, “I told them, ‘The NY on our hats represents the people of New York, not just the Yankees.’ We needed to help people get distracted from what they’ve gone through. We weren’t asking them to forget it. We just tried to give them a few hours of enjoyment.”
It is impossible for me to separate the Yankees from their stadium. While I have no doubts whatsoever that the new ballpark will be beautiful, I cannot help but be upset at the prospect of leaving a beloved personal, city, and even national landmark behind. For me, there are few experiences that compare to the thrill and excitement of walking slowly into Yankee Stadium on a chilly night in October, as the exhilarating Emerson, Lake & Palmer lyrics boom from the loudspeaker, singing: “Welcome back my friends, to the show that never ends. We’re so glad you could attend, come inside, come inside.” Each game, at this point, a chill travels through my body, as I gaze out onto the grassy playing field before me. I realize that I am looking over the baseball diamond where Babe Ruth broke the record with 60 home runs, Lou Gehrig retired, declaring himself “the luckiest man on the face of the Earth,” the team swept the Red Sox in the Boston Massacre of 1978, David Wells pitched a perfect game in the record-shattering 1998 season, and the most successful franchise in the history of sports won 26 World Series. Last week, when I made my way carefully to my seat, that same, familiar chill ran up my spine, but this time it was tinged with a bittersweet sadness. Who knows what next year and the new stadium will bring?
The author is a Columbia College first-year and associate editorial page editor.