He didn’t say anything for what seemed like a long time while considering the challenge. “Ok,” he said with a pretty confident expression on his face, “if you know this, I’ll take you inside. Whose locker will be empty today in the Yankee Clubhouse?”
At that moment I heard the music from The Natural; I had goose bumps all over my body, I looked up toward center field, where the welders were preparing the framework for the video scoreboards and I could see sparks showering down like fireworks. I leveled my gaze at the guard, whose name was Frank, and prepared myself to speak; but there was a lump in my throat.
“Number 15’s” I said in a whisper. Tears formed in his bloodshot and aged eyes. “Thurmon Munson’s” I continued, my voice as somber as a preacher’s. “O Captain, my Captain,” I intoned. He was staring at the ground, remembering I suppose. Perhaps thinking of what might have been. “It’s been empty every day since 1979,” I added.
He looked up at me and we stared at each other. We were close now, cramped against the temporary fence that seals the construction site from the public, sharing a loss from almost 30 years ago.
Neither of us spoke as the crowd scurried past us on the sidewalk anxious to reach the stadium. In the muted light under the tracks, he reached out and touched me on the arm as the EL rumbled overhead.
He audibly cleared his throat then began to speak, “When we go in, I’m going to hand you a hard hat. Put it on. Take the clipboard I give you and follow me.” He increased his volume so that I could hear him over the train “Stay real close, we’re going to walk in, through a doorway and out where you can get a good look. We aren’t going to be in there long at all. Keep up.” He leaned in close to my ear as the train squealed its brakes.
“No one will say a word to you and don’t speak to anyone. If we meet anyone let me do the talking. Just act like you’ve been here before. When we get back to this gate, hand me the hat and clipboard, and get on the sidewalk before that young jerk gets back from lunch.”
“Thanks, Frank,” is all I can manage to say. My heart is pounding. I follow Frank into the dimly-lit space behind the wall unable to fully comprehend that I’m entering new Yankee Stadium. We bear right and I trail him for 30 seconds or so and suddenly we’re out and into the sun.
At first I was disoriented; I was expecting to walk out into the lower seating bowl along first-base line, but we’re in the right center field bleachers. I turn and stare toward home. The playing surface is below us, covered with dirt and gravel, trucks, vans and construction equipment. Nearby, cranes are hanging panels for the video display.
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