Some of the most thrilling moments of my life have been spent up at Yankee Stadium. My first vague sports memory is of attending a Yankee/Red Sox game back in the late 1970s with dad and grandpa. I was there for the opener of the 1981 World Series (the van ride to the game, in which I heard from a friend’s older sister about the terrors that awaited me in middle school, left the larger impression); for the 15-inning ALCS marathon in 1995 (the shower of beer and batteries right after Mattingly’s homer was considerably more impressive in person); for the clincher against Atlanta in 1999 (outside of forfeiting, the Braves couldn’t have done more to mail that one in); for game one against the Mets in 2000 (dad and I said about three words to each other all night, such was our terror at the possibility of losing to the Metsies); for game three in 2001 (I’ll leave the Bush eulogies to the historians, but nobody, not even Sandy Koufax or Bob Gibson, has ever thrown a better ceremonial first pitch); and for game five in 2001 (Paul O’Neill clap clap clapclapclap, the game-tying Brosius dinger and the subsequent fan explosion that made the cement beneath my feet tremble). I’ve seen the Stadium with four generations of family members, with friends from grade school, high school, college, law school, camp and work. I’ve seen it in the throes of winter slumber, during a morning visit last December. I’ve seen it from the detached perspective (riiiight) of a guy who writes about sports for a living. I’ve seen it in a state of great, uh, sensory enhancement, during which I started to believe the words flashed on the screens during U2’s performance of The Fly (“everything you know is wrong”). All that said: It’s time to tear the old broad down. It was a great place to see a ballgame… in 1985. In recent years, as the yahoo fans have taken over the place and expectations have spiraled to a point where anything less than 100 wins and a World Series title is a massive disappointment, the place has surrendered a lot of its appeal. On the right day, it is every bit the shrine that we’ve been hearing so much about. On most days, it’s just another place to congregate with a lot of people, many of whom feel the need to document every moment with a cell-phone camera. I’m most nostalgic, somehow, for the late ’80s/early ’90s. Then, the who’s-in? call would go out at 5:30 and next thing you know you’d be careening down Jerome Ave. You’d buy a cheap bleacher ticket - the Bleacher Creatures hadn’t yet marked their turf - and get tanked in full view of the security guard who was a dead ringer for Dave Winfield. You and your friends would have the place mostly to yourself. You’d delight in the rare Yankee successes. You’d lose your shit when a diapers-and-training-wheels Ken Griffey Jr. hit a ball 30 feet over your head, as he did during one of his first Stadium visits. That’s all gone, and that’s okay. Opening Day is on April 16, 2009.

Some of the most thrilling moments of my life have been spent up at Yankee Stadium. My first vague sports memory is of attending a Yankee/Red Sox game back in the late 1970s with dad and grandpa. I was there for the opener of the 1981 World Series (the van ride to the game, in which I heard from a friend’s older sister about the terrors that awaited me in middle school, left the larger impression); for the 15-inning ALCS marathon in 1995 (the shower of beer and batteries right after Mattingly’s homer was considerably more impressive in person); for the clincher against Atlanta in 1999 (outside of forfeiting, the Braves couldn’t have done more to mail that one in); for game one against the Mets in 2000 (dad and I said about three words to each other all night, such was our terror at the possibility of losing to the Metsies); for game three in 2001 (I’ll leave the Bush eulogies to the historians, but nobody, not even Sandy Koufax or Bob Gibson, has ever thrown a better ceremonial first pitch); and for game five in 2001 (Paul O’Neill clap clap clapclapclap, the game-tying Brosius dinger and the subsequent fan explosion that made the cement beneath my feet tremble).

I’ve seen the Stadium with four generations of family members, with friends from grade school, high school, college, law school, camp and work. I’ve seen it in the throes of winter slumber, during a morning visit last December. I’ve seen it from the detached perspective (riiiight) of a guy who writes about sports for a living. I’ve seen it in a state of great, uh, sensory enhancement, during which I started to believe the words flashed on the screens during U2’s performance of The Fly (“everything you know is wrong”).

All that said: It’s time to tear the old broad down. It was a great place to see a ballgame… in 1985. In recent years, as the yahoo fans have taken over the place and expectations have spiraled to a point where anything less than 100 wins and a World Series title is a massive disappointment, the place has surrendered a lot of its appeal. On the right day, it is every bit the shrine that we’ve been hearing so much about. On most days, it’s just another place to congregate with a lot of people, many of whom feel the need to document every moment with a cell-phone camera.

I’m most nostalgic, somehow, for the late ’80s/early ’90s. Then, the who’s-in? call would go out at 5:30 and next thing you know you’d be careening down Jerome Ave. You’d buy a cheap bleacher ticket - the Bleacher Creatures hadn’t yet marked their turf - and get tanked in full view of the security guard who was a dead ringer for Dave Winfield. You and your friends would have the place mostly to yourself. You’d delight in the rare Yankee successes. You’d lose your shit when a diapers-and-training-wheels Ken Griffey Jr. hit a ball 30 feet over your head, as he did during one of his first Stadium visits.

That’s all gone, and that’s okay. Opening Day is on April 16, 2009.

Sep 21 2008

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