Mourn With Me Brothers: The Death Of Yankee Stadium

Give me a megaphone...give me some platform where people will hear. Give me the power to unify the people into a single movement. Give me the friggin' power to actually change what is about to happen. They are tearing down Yankee Stadium. We need to stop it.

I am sick over it.

I watched a montage on ESPN the other night, and I was overwhelmed by this intangible feeling of gloom. I was sinking through the floor. It was a unique feeling. This is off the map in my realm of human experience.

I keep asking questions like, "Why is this happening?" and, "Can't some historical society save it." I don't have answers to those questions, and I feel trapped and powerless to do anything about it because I don't have billions of dollars. I can't turn the tide of the inevitable...my God, they are tearing down Yankee Stadium...

I talk with my friends about it over dinner. I talk with them about it over a few brews. I see the same sick feeling in their faces. I can't help but imagine all of the people in the Bronx doing the exact same thing...feeling the exact same way.

Some of these people have far more history at the storied ballpark...more personal memories that smell like hot dogs and dad's cologne...but being powerless to stop it is the worst. I swear that when I walk out of the bar after a game—when I walk out into that odd silence—I can hear some car radio playing "...they paved paradise and put up a parking lot" mixed with the wind.

I wish I had Davey Jones' power from Pirates of the Caribbean 3. Except I wish that instead of summoning the Kraken, I could summon Chuck Norris. I would send him to kick the freaking Steinbrenner's in their greedy faces. They are moles on a triumphant organization. They should be charged with baseball espionage. They don't love baseball; they love money. They are unfit to own the Yanks. They are full of greed.

Poll any real Yankee fan on earth. Ask them the following question: If it was your decision, would you have Yankee stadium torn down?

I don't have to hypothesize the answer for you. Ask any boy from the Bronx that has a broom handle in his hands where he dreamed of playing hardball and see what he answers.

Ask the men in pubs throughout the city to recount their favorite sports moments...what is in the background? Yankee Stadium's memories will run like a river as rich recollections of great men are recounted with increasing speed and volume. The old men can still here scratchy broadcasts and smell the cigar smoke.

The memories will run like water as she bleeds from the damage of the wrecking balls. The ghosts of Ruth, DiMaggio, Mantle, Gehrig, Maris, Ford, Stengel, and Rizzuto still get up and smile at each other when they hear "New York, New York" blaring at the end of a game...but not for long...and then never again.

"The House that Ruth Built" will be no more. Baseball's Colosseum, where its gladiators fought epic battles before the masses, won't make it for history's sake because Nero Steinbrenner will play his fiddle while Rome burns.

It appears that people like George Steinbrenner get to run America. The problem with this is that in a historically infant country, people like George Steinbrenner aren't thinking about what America's equivalent to the Parthenon will be. They aren't thinking about tour guides 500 years from now saying "In 1923, the Osborne Engineering Corp. finished Yankee Stadium for $2.5 million...This is section 39, home of the bleacher creatures. This is where the Big Bat was. This is what the Frieze looked like. Eddie Layton played the Hammond organ for years here...here is his rendition of 'Take Me Out to the Ball Game'. Here is Monument Park."

"There is home plate...where Ruth, DiMaggio, and Gehrig stood...here is where they thanked God for making them Yankees and expressed being "the luckiest men alive."

In mentioning the most storied baseball stadium that ever was and ever will be (ponder the truth in that statement), I feel it appropriate to quote James Earl Jones' (Terence Mann) rendition of "People Will Come". He captures my sentiment about the game.

"Ray. People will come, Ray. They'll come to Iowa for reasons they can't even fathom. They'll turn into your driveway, not knowing for sure why they're doing it. They'll arrive at your door, as innocent as children, longing for the past. Of course, we won't mind if you look around, you'll say.

It's only $20 per person. They'll pass over the money without even thinking about it: for it is money they have and peace they lack...And they'll walk off to the bleachers and sit in their short sleeves on a perfect afternoon. They'll find they have reserved seats somewhere along one of the baselines where they sat when they were children, and cheered their heroes.

And they'll watch the game, and it'll be as if they'd dipped themselves in magic waters. The memories will be so thick; they'll have to brush them away from their faces... People will come, Ray...The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers; it has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt, and erased again.

But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game, is a part of our past, Ray. It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again. Ohhhh, people will come, Ray. People will most definitely come..."Yankee Stadium is the historical cornerstone of baseball in America. It is the monument of a game that walked hand-in-hand with the tale of our great country. Tearing it down will be like defacing the Mona Lisa and marring the purity of our storied past.

Tearing it down will be like cutting a puzzle piece section out of Mona's face and trying to fit something else there as a replacement. What are people going to think when they drive by where Yankee Stadium used to be? Nothing else will work.

And Yankee stadium doesn't have to have a ballclub playing in it. Make it a museum, where people who love the game can come and close their eyes, breath deeply, and drink in years of the magic of roaring crowds during the cool of night while games were played under the lights. While the crack of the bat and dull thud of the mitt echo in the stands.

As I am about to stop writing, the gravity of the situation comes back and I realize: This doesn't matter, they are still going to demolish Yankee Stadium. In a world where the purity of a game is etched in my heart, the money that pays men to create magic still rules the day...and it doesn't matter anymore what the fans think.

We aren't going to betray our teams by not attending ballgames...we will attend games at new stadiums and they know that.

Rich men prey on that sort of purity. George Steinbrenner will...so will his minion children. As much as the fans love the team, they hate the Steinbrenners. They are detached from the game and the fans know it. They are the sort that never sat in a smoke-filled bar with blue-collared, diehard Yank fans or sat outside of a stadium waiting for a home-run ball.

They remind me of Al Pacino in The Devil's Advocate. They prey on the weak and miss the simple part of life. If George Steinbrenner had a soul, he would go to hell. But he doesn't, so screw him.