My beautiful wife is a Yankee (in other words, Derek Jeter) fan, so we planned another visit to the Big Ballpark in the Bronx, along with Marilyn and Joe—who, evidently, are our only friends—and our son, Sean. The only game I could find where five seats were available together was against Seattle, which a boyhood friend of mine used to pronounce Seat-uhl, but whatever.
Now, Yankee Stadium is majestic, sitting on a rise along 161st Street like a fortress –magnificent, ornate, imposing. Of all the modern features and unique characteristics that the stadium possesses, embodying tradition, rich history, and monumental success, by far the most striking is this: parking is $35.
I parked around the corner and saved ten bucks.
I remember the original stadium, with its distant, black walls and cavernous outfield, and then the re-modeled version, where I spent some time covering the Yankees in the 70s and 80s. As a rookie reporter, I wondered what players chatted about around the batting cage—were they discussing curveballs, double plays, hitting the cutoff man? And then I wandered on to the field to hear a player who shall remain nameless, although I will call him Lou Piniella, shouting to a member of that day’s opposing team, “Hey, Joe. Are you still dating that stewardess with the big knockers?” Only he didn’t say “dating.”
I also had the distinct pleasure of interviewing—or trying to—a journeyman first-baseman with stone hands and a personality to match. His name was Bill Sudakis. I ambled over to him to ask him one question or another, and he spit out a reply: “I don’t talk to the media.” That was okay with me, although I found it more than a little odd that when I looked up his bio in the press guide, he listed his college major as “journalism.”
Late one night, I walked out of the stadium after filing my story only to run into Billy Martin in the team’s parking lot, drinking from a bottle. I was always wary of Martin, the fiery manager whose quick temper always seemed to be simmering just below the surface. He waved me over.
“Have a beer.”
I stayed, and we talked, mostly about how bad the umpires were, with Billy doing most of the talking. I couldn’t pry myself away until about 2 am. The reason I mention this at all is because reporters, by design, have been disconnected from today’s players and managers through an insidious, diabolical scheme called “the mass press conference.” Years ago, you could stop at a player’s locker and talk about his slump, what he thought of that night’s pitcher, and where to get good deep-dish pizza in Chicago. Today, there are rows of folding chairs and a backdrop with sponsor logos plastered all over it, and careful responses that usually sound like, “We just have to play well and go from there.”
It’s harder to be a reporter than it used to be, and even harder to be a fan. Our tickets, in the second deck near the left field foul pole, cost $55 each, not including the handling fee, the mailing fee, the processing fee, the convenience fee and, I suspect, the “fee fee.” Three hot dogs and three Pepsis later, I was out another $35, for which I could have purchased a toaster oven, a bottle of good scotch whiskey, a designer necktie, or parking at Yankee Stadium.
At least the fans have devised ways to connect with the players. “Bald Vinny,” not yet a reality star, leads the bleachers in the “Roll Call”—chanting the name of each Yankee as they take the field in the first inning. So my beautiful wife was there in her pink Yankee cap and a blue T-shirt with YANKEES emblazoned across her chest (resisting a joke here), clapping her hands and screaming, “DER-EK JEET-UH.” She had a broad smile on her face.
And I can’t put a price tag on that.
Patrick Calabria is vice president for institutional advancement and an adjunct professor of sports writing at Farmingdale State College, and a former special writer in the sports department for Newsday. The views expressed here are his own.
