Fear and Loathing at Yankee Stadium

May 21 st, 2007

The Stadium is teetering, Mo's bridge burning down, Torre's magic touch dissolving. The boss blusters, Abreu is flustered... too many problems need solving. And while chaos ensued, and the denizens booed, there wasn't a game left to save. We are left with the ghost of memory, and whoever else decides to stay.

And I wonder:

What's the point of worrying again?

................

My brother and I sit upper deck, for the first of three games against the loathsome, despised, damn good Red Sox. They stand, in first place by 10 ½ games, without readily recognizable contributions from imports J.D. Drew and Julio Lugo, or Mr. Mercurial himself, Manny Ramirez. You had to give them credit, the jerks.
Josh Beckett rediscovered the precise location that had abandoned his curveball. Previously maligned General Manager Theo Epstein outplayed professional nemesis Brian Cashman in his acquisition of Daisuke Matsuzaka, wagering that an insane posting fee would be balanced by a bargain basement contractual agreement, staring down avenging agent Scott Boras in the process. Hideki Okajima, an unheralded Japanese reliever, has been lights out his first trip around the American League, which isn't entirely surprising, considering his beyond funky delivery.

Over a year ago, impossible as it is for me to believe, I composed my favorite column, entitled "Until the End of Time." The article interprets my experience at an early season Yankee-Red Sox contest, and all its accompanied trappings: the nauseating hype proliferated by deranged media entities such as ESPN, hostilities between different factions of fan, coordinated attacks involving flying beer, the basic experience was all there.

That is a documented day in my life, May 10th, 2006.

Flash forward.

May 21st, 2007.

What changed?

.............

I've been here before. Ever faithful familiarity is always calling us back, Bob Shepard beckoning, along with stale beer and a dull sense of tradition. I count on the wearied expression overcoming underpaid vendors by the middle innings, the overzealous security guards, intoxicated with power, shoving offending members of the audience, drunk on something else entirely, down tunnels and out of sight; the roll call from bleacher creatures, the light din following first pitch, time to settle in for a long night.............

Circumstance dictates situation. Alarm is peak priority, our team skidding, a disturbing malaise feeding mediocrity.
After salvaging a small slice of the Subway, we were praying for a positive carry over. The Ace took the hill, Chien-Ming Wang, opposing knuckleball specialist Tim Wakefield.

..........

Whack seats. We're jammed, within the middle of packed section, miles from home plate, elevated in the atmosphere.
My bro and I share a disgusting cough, gained during an ill-fated late night barbecue doubling as a birthday celebration for one of his friends. I got drunk on a powerful combination: homemade margaritas and straight shots of cheap tequila.

The fallout was severe. The treacherous cough struck us both 24 hours later, and hadn't departed by game time. There we were, locked in for a nine-inning Yankee-Red Sox throw down, intermittently expunging harrowing gasps and wadded saliva. Our exploits would have received ample attention if not for two reasons:

1. This was Yankee Stadium, and dry heaving hardly counts as an occurrence worthy of disdainful recognition, except, perhaps, for appalled tourists or frightened Long Islanders.

2. Nefarious lynch pins had already been revealed, a disheartening twist of events that enraged my entire section. Looking back, they probably didn't need the prompt, though, at the time, it was shocking to see two Red Sox fans, seated three or four rows away at best, preening and taunting with unmistakable glee in this, just the first inning. Usually the lynch pins, code for an individual or tag team duo who readily incite ill tempered hometown fans, wait at least an hour to work their magic, at the height of inebriation. But here were Lloyd and Harry, Dumb and Dumber without a doubt, doing a worthy imitation of early 90's Wrestling heels. All that was missing was their manager, Mr. Fuji.

So, as Greg and I exchanged cough drops, at a baseball game for Christ's
Sake, Wang started encouragingly enough, escaping the first without allowing a run.

............

The sun set, blazing a sky picturesque, hovering over the anxious souls of 50,000 plus.

The lynch pins are at the top of their game as Alex Rodriguez ambled to the plate, runner on second.

" Oh, A-Rod!" one of them crowed, sounding genuinely feminine. Heckling is a strange enterprise. In the testosterone fueled world of sports, here is an endeavor where it's considered noble to sound extremely gay, so long the activity is undertaken to insult an opposing team's players or fans. At a Subway Series game I happened to attend years ago, two fat, drunken Yankee devotees acted out dialogue between

Mike Piazza and Edgardo Alfonzo that didn't exactly earn points for subtly. You figure it out.

The second cog in the tag team, dubbed Sully and Sully by some wit one seat up, followed his friends' ill fated lead, turning his back on the field to verbally spar with anyone willing.

The opening inning blitz left us truly stumped. Sure, a few people issued late return fire, class one f-you rockets, but the moment had passed. The

Sullies had one over on us... or did they?

A-Rod demolished a hopelessly hanging Wakefield floater, and the Yanks suddenly took control, 2-0.

...................

The counter assault was vicious. Our new friends from Boston were roundly lampooned, well after Alex had finished cruising the base paths.

Aye, revenge is a dish best served with cold cuts.

And yet... something was off.

I realized. The crowd was caught in a chant:

" Red Sox suck! Red Sox suck!"

It was venomous, tribal and theatrical at the same time. The change amazed me. It used to be that we were a constant in Boston's consciousness, lurking, haunting. We were the dream destroyers, the bad guys worthy of Tony Montana's vision, taking what was wanted, at the cost of anyone foolish enough to pose opposition.

They fought and fell, a parade of Indians and Mariners, Braves and Mets, until the ultimate triumph in 2003, against the nemesis, our superiority a supposed eternal lock.

We used to have an unshakeable confidence, the power of Yankee
Stadium nearly a reckoning force in the 2001 World Series.
Things change. Vibrant leaves crumble into dust, as do empires.
2004 shouldn't have robbed Yankee fans of class, if they ever had any, or arrogance, if they happened to even misplace it. The team's weaknesses festered at the worst possible time, nary a break was found, and a better team rightfully won.

So why this twisted bitterness? This endless ocean of success hasn't endowed faith, hardly. It has emboldened the spoiled, legitimized the desperate, and burdened the rational.

Go ahead true fans… boo Mariano Rivera in April, Derek Jeter in May,

Jason Giambi in October, and Alex Rodriguez all the damn time.
I surveyed my surroundings, the two Sullies, still talking smack, their voices nullified by a wall of sound and fury, and realized, Yankee fans and
Red Sox fans never hated each other for their difference, it was for the similarity, when they saw themselves in each other.

When they had to boo.

..........

Wang wasn't up to his usual tricks, unmercifully pouring a ceaseless barrage of scintillating sinkers against frustrated hitters unable to solidly connect. He was mixing in sliders and change-ups, an artist dabbling in foreign palettes.

His performance turned Picasso, Wang running a maddeningly high pitch count, maintaining a semblance of effectiveness. He'd been gifted a four run lead, after Jason Giambi's bomb into the right field upper deck. I could see the sphere, careening peacefully on course, descending into a mess of sweaty palms.

The Sully aimed abuse was unrelenting.

Some kid, of similar age to mine, wouldn't quit.

" Hey buddy", he incessantly chirped, " Hey buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Buddy. Sully buddy, look at me, look at me... look over here man!"
Sully # 1, face ashen, appearing defeated, finally stared up.
The kid cleared his throat. I readied for a well thought out, impassioned put down, worthy enough to put the Sully situation to rest, for good.

"F*ck Boston!"

And our section cheered, even joined in.

On it went, as I sunk into my seat, trying to focus on the game.

.........

Somewhere around the seventh, as the Yankees seized the evening, those seeking perverse entertainment had ample avenues opened for amusement.

There was the insanely drunk chick, alone in her intoxication, but determined, nonetheless, to present a stand-alone show worthy of ticket admission.

As Wang danced around the Boston nine, she paraded on the concourses, shaking her assets in a vain attention grab.

It worked, of course, and the band played on.

.............

Meanwhile, fight night had unexpectedly broken out. The under-card boasted a battle between Sox fan and Yankee fan, smack in the middle of a crowded aisle. The Sox fan, a southpaw, sneaked in an excellent jab, which may have earned him a win on the scorecards, but led to his free fall from Row J to C. The Yankee fan, clearly stunned, sought retribution against, well, anyone really, and clocked the nearest partisan in range. A legitimate pier six broke out, yet fight fans had their attention immediately diverted to another impassioned scrum on the concourse. The upper deck’s official mascot, our inebriated private dancer, personally dubbed as "my ex-girlfriend", was bleeding from the mouth, caught by an errant haymaker. For one fleeting second, disgust filtered throughout the crowd, an emotional revolt against the debauchery and decadence. The moment quickly passed however, a fleeting curiosity, before fingers were pointed.

...............

After an unavoidable sojourn to the bathroom, where, we'd heard from a prior patron "Shit hit the fan around the fifth inning" [not literally, thankfully] we jacked a couple of unoccupied seats at the end of our row. When pressed on the whereabouts of the previous owners, a dude behind us claimed, "I don't know where those people went. It was the third inning... and they just disappeared." Ah, the mysteries of life.

But was this fate?

For, in the eighth, contest winding to a serene finish, Sully #1 appeared in our midst, expression bewildered, the unmistakable stench of barley and hops on his breath.

His accent was thick.

"Hey, do you guys remember where I was sitting?"

Greg eyed me. You take this one.

"No, man. Sorry."

Sully # 1 wearily exhaled, and than smiled.

"I've seen you two guys all night, just sitting back and watching the show."

"You did it to yourself," I replied, flatly.

Sully # 1's attention wondered.

"We're standing on three decks ... know that? It's really incredible. I've had a blast, I really have."

"Are you crazy?" I angrily responded, almost insulted. "You've had drunks talking smack to you all night, your team's getting lit..."

"It's part of the experience," Sully said, searching for the right words.

He found them.

"We're the bad guys."

He started away, but I called him back.

"What's your name, man?"

"Derek," he said. "Like Jeter, right?"

I'm not sure if Derek ever found his seat.
................
As we departed the stadium, the Yankees victorious, I searched for signs of hope. I'm equal parts optimistic and pessimistic about this team, but could never part from at least being interested. I figure if Hughes is back by the All Star break, or immediately after it, and Clemens can be counted on for six quality innings a night, they have a chance to make an improbable run at the division, lest they scramble for the wild card.
I can't quit, because for all the stupidity and negativity entailed with being a fan, there will always exist a sense of wonderment, an ode to the unknown within me.


It's in all us.


After all, we're standing on three decks.