I've been thinking a lot lately about a woman who I saw crap her pants in the bleachers at Yankee Stadium many years ago.
It was funny at the time, I guess. And they didn't kick her out.
She had dirty blond dreadlocks and that sun-beaten darkness in her face
that the homeless always do. Her boyfriend - black-bearded and
similarly beaten-looking - gazed on her with teary eyes that spoke of
love, desperation and, yes, embarrassment that she had visibly soiled
her grey sweatpants in a very public place.
Security guards escorted them to the rear of the bleachers, beyond
sniffing-distance of anybody else in the half-full section. And the
game went on.
And the Yankees won.
This was 1996. Which is a long time ago, though it doesn't seem so. Yankee Stadium-wise, though, it was a different era.
You could walk up to the teller in those days and buy a $6 bleacher
ticket, then watch the team of Jeter, Rivera and Posada that would
become a dynasty. In those bleachers a kid could learn to curse, to
fistfight, to cheer.
The notorious Bleacher Creatures of the Bronx have a tradition of
chanting the name of every Yankee player on the field in the first
inning. They chant, syllable by syllable, until the player acknowledges
them with a tip of his hat or a raise of his glove. "De-rek-Je-ter,
De-rek-Jet-er, De-rek-Je-ter. . ."
They also fight a lot. If you disparage the Yanks, or wear anything but
Yankee blue out there, you are subject to a merciless head-stomping, or
worse. During a playoff game, I once saw a guy light an Orioles cap on
fire and toss it into a fracas - an act that was met with no surprise
or outrage.
Responding to the general lawlessness of the section, Yankee Stadium
banned beer sales in the bleachers a few years back, which calmed
things down some. Maybe that was the end to that Wild West of the
Bronx. Or maybe the end was when they doubled ticket prices.
Sports folks have long argued about the Yankee soul - or lack thereof - and their vaunted coliseum.
This week, the bitching is justified for once.
Yankee Stadium is the center of the current sportsworld, as The House
That Ruth Built is hosting the MLB All-Star Game. And the place is due
to be bulldozed this winter.
The 1923-constructed building (renovated in the 1970s) will be replaced
next season by a state-of-the-art facility that has the luxury boxes
that Yankees owner George Steinbrenner has always longed for.
I trust it will be a good place to watch a game, but I doubt any homeless people will go there to shit their pants.
Those days are long gone. A walk-up bleacher ticket currently runs $14,
which is not a horrible price for a ballgame, but is a substantial
mark-up. (I should point out that a seat at the Coors Field equivalent
- a bleacher section half-lovingly called "The Rockpile" - is still
just four bucks.)
My buddy Andrés told me the other day that he dropped $700 on a Yankee
Stadium All-Star Game ticket. He is a lifelong friend of mine, and a
serious baseball devotee who, like most Yankee fans, has a good sense
of history and often quotes decades-old batting averages in casual
conversation.
But, like a lot of sports fans, he is apathetic about the new stadium.
Yes, they are demolishing the place where Babe Ruth hit his 714th
homerun, where Joe Dimaggio hit in 56 straight games, where Reggie
Jackson earned his "Mr. October" nickname. And where, not so long ago,
the homeless came for shelter.
There is a theory out there that the Yankee brand and its halo of
purity and greatness were irrevocably soiled when their rival Red Sox
came down from Boston and beat them down in the 2004 League
Championship Series for the first time. The Yanks choked that year,
dropping four straight games to the Sox and - some would argue -
nullifying 28 championships and a century of dominance.
And, others would argue, paving the way for the new stadium. Or at least fan sympathy for a new stadium.
Last summer I caught my last game in the Yankee Stadium bleachers, on a
roundabout road trip from New Orleans to Aspen. The place blew me away,
as it always does, with its impossibly green grass, its majestic
flagpoles and its sense of timeless greatness that makes you feel
insignificant and unaccomplished, no matter who you are.
So boo-hoo. You can't go home again.
Despite the typically cynical preening of this column, I am, at heart,
a romantic; one who longs for broken, disappearing places and a past
that may or may not have been better than the present. I never thought
Yankee Stadium or its bleachers would be added to my list of lost
loves, but here we are.
If you must crap your pants in the Bronx, I guess there are more appropriate places to do it now.
Andrew Travers needs a Kleenex. Send it to him at andrew@aspendailynews.com.
