Black Armbands

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Yankee Stadium." -- Bob Sheppard

Whenever a Yankees legend dies, the team -- and its diehard fans -- wear black armbands to commemorate the loss. This would certainly be a black armband occasion if I still practiced the tradition, since the greatest legend of them all passed into eternal rest just a few minutes ago.

Baseball history was my religion for years, and rightly so, Yankee Stadium was my cathedral. However, unlike my attitude towards normal cathedrals, I'm more interested in the spirituality than the structure in this case. Sure, I'm attached to the architecture of the Stadium and the dimensions of the playing field and the quirks of the design, but the atmosphere, the uncanny sense of years past... they mean more to me than I can possibly describe. Every time I entered the Stadium and moved through one of the tunnels into daylight, into the open expanse of the field, I was always keenly aware that I'd happened upon something majestic.

You could say that I grew up on 161st Street and River Avenue in the South Bronx, in a blue plastic seat in Section 9 with so little leg room that I had to stand every time someone tried to walk past me. I first sat there on a warm day thirteen years ago; I was fitted for braces a few days beforehand and requested blue and white rubber bands to mark the occasion. I first realized that I needed glasses in that seat, when all of a sudden I had to squint to see the scoreboard. I experienced my very first PMS cramps while sitting there -- during the World Series, no less. A man hit on me for the first time in my life as I sat in that seat, and I tasted my first beer in that seat. I spent no fewer than ten birthdays there. I celebrated getting into my chosen high school there, wrote half of my college essay there, celebrated getting into my chosen college there, celebrated getting my first full-time job there.

And because I'd always arrive at the Stadium a good two hours before the first pitch to beat the traffic, I always had time to sit quietly, think about the great game, and enjoy the ambiance. Section 9 was my home for about fifteen games a season for thirteen years, and I've been lucky enough to witness a few pretty great moments from the last row -- Tino Martinez's grand slam in Game 1 of the '98 World Series, the clincher in the '99 Series when my favorite player, Mariano Rivera, was named MVP, ten consecutive Old Timer's Day ceremonies, the ceremonies to retire Don Mattingly's and Ron Guidry's numbers, Roger Clemens' 300th win, others I'm ashamed to have forgotten.

Thus, I am -- and always have been -- fiercely protective of Yankee Stadium. Sure, it's one thing to watch Paul O'Neill, Bernie Williams, and Johnny Damon prowl around the outfield, but to watch them with the knowledge that they're standing exactly where Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, and Mickey Mantle once stood is something else entirely. (I've always maintained that the only way I'd ever agree with plans for a new Yankee Stadium is if the builders carted every square inch of dirt from the old field to the new one, just so the ghosts of yesteryear wouldn't feel misplaced.)

When rumors flew about moving the team to the West Side railyards back in '97, I took Mayor Giuliani's efforts as a personal affront and wrote a protest song to convey my feelings. (Yes, I was a peculiar eleven year-old.) My song borrowed the sentiments, the tune, and more than a few lyrics from Billy Joel's "Miami 2017," and because I wasn't an especially talented lyricist in the fifth grade, I'll spare you the first two-thirds of the song. I'll share the ending though, because, more than a decade later, I still feel the same sadness that sparked me to originally put these words to paper.

They made a tribute to the Legends and named the park for players past.
I knew it would not pay. Their home was blown away.
The magic ran out pretty fast.

You know those lights were bright in the Bronx, but that was so many years ago.
Before the game was ruled by money, before the death of Joe DiMaggio.

There are not many who remember; only a few of us survive
Who have the nerve to tell 'bout the way the rafters fell
And keep the history alive...