Pride, Power, and Pinstripes: What Yankee Stadium Means To Me

The Yankees would go on to win that day, by a score of 3-2.  As I rose from my seat to leave, I heard “New York, New York” for the first time in the stadium.  It’s a tune that I haven’t quite been able to get out of my head since.  As I watched the players exchange handshakes and congratulations with each other in the middle of the diamond, I realized exactly how much this place had won me over.  I couldn’t get enough.

As the years passed, I continued to go to Yankee Stadium as often as possible.  The games on TV just weren’t the same anymore.  I returned at first, with family and friends, usually on day trips on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon.  As I grew older, and became a junior in high school, the freedom of a license made me a frequent visitor to the ballpark in the Bronx.  My friends and I would take every chance we could get to head to the Stadium, whether it was a Sunday afternoon or a school night.  We got season ticket packages in the bleachers, taking every opportunity we could get to be noticed by Bald Vinny, shout on the top of our lungs during roll call, or hassle the opposing centerfielder.  We begged those we knew with access to season tickets to give us a game here or there.  We spent endless hours on eBay and Stub Hub trying to land the game we’d been waiting for.  We ate, slept, and lived Yankee baseball.  We’d arrive early, trying to snag a batting practice ball, or an autograph, and toured monument park whenever we weren’t in the bleachers.  We saw it all—Boston, Baltimore, Tampa Bay, Toronto, Kansas City, Texas, Chicago, Cleveland, Detroit, interleague games.  We made it to Old Timer’s Day.  We saw A-Rod’s first Yankee homerun.  We were there for the dog days of August, and sat through April rain delays.  The stadium was our home.

Looking back on my relationship with the Stadium, I don’t know if I could actually point out my favorite experience.  I’ve sat everywhere—from behind home plate, to the left field bleachers.  Each game brought something unique.  I’d been waited on in the box seating just beyond first base.  I’d talked to Freddy behind home plate.  I’d had A-Rod wave his glove at me when I shouted his name a few rows back of third base.  I'd caught a batting practice ball.  I’d felt the Stadium rock during playoff games, and I’d been there for numerous fights and ejections in the bleachers.  There was no favorite experience; I loved it all.

As game time approached Sunday evening, I couldn’t help but think of the Stadium.  I’d watched so many playoff games on TV in it.  I saw four World Championships in it.  I’d seen perfect games and no hitters.  I’d watched homeruns and web gems.  I’d even seen the ghosts come out, as they always do, and spark Aaron Boone’s bat to drive the Yanks to victory.  And most of all, I’d always seen a smile.

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