A friend's six-year-old daughter Alice recently asked him
precociously, "Daddy, why does the baseball manager wear a
uniform when other sports' coaches don't hafta?" He posed the
question to me and I suppose that question is a tough one on
several levels. Why do grown men wear polyester at all, Alice?
Stirrups? Wad chewing tobaccy in their cheeks and dribble on one
another?
A professional basketball coach has to order twelve sweaty
guys around but at least he does it in style; Armani all the way.
You rarely see a pro hockey coach break a sweat even while his
players are breaking skulls. Yep, Alice, you sure stumbled upon
one for the ages. Is the feel of hard plastic against your groin
motive enough? The comfort of a broken-in back pocket to warm
your hand or place a well-worn lineup card?
I have seen many a manager, Alice, lose their cool and kick
dirt on an umpire or hit balls to players in batting practice.
The equipment man need only throw the permanent press invention
into a community hamper for washing later. You couldn't do that
with a suit, Alice, could you?
As my brother Mike and I sped down the highway on a sunny
Sunday morning, such questions were not under consideration. But
seeing how our destination was Yankee Stadium in the Bronx any
protection afforded the managers would be understandable and
indeed necessary. It was four hot, muggy hours on 95 and the
Bruckner with weekend road work and puke-green bridge painting on
the state to-do list. There were a host of people I would have
preferred to dribble tobaccy juice on while my brother threatened
to shoot himself rather than withstand any more WFAN talk radio
("Oh, sure, of course Don Mattingly will make the Hall of Fame."
Right. And soon after that unlikely event my sole purpose in
life will be to get my name eligible for the year 2002 ballot.),
leaving serial-murderer Pintos in his wake.
Five minutes before the first pitch we arrive in our
overpriced Tier Box left field seats, pushing past men and women
in clear violation of the Code Blue signs (or whatever code
moniker it goes by): "Tickets may not be resold by an unlicensed
vendor within 1,000 ft. from the physical structure of this place
of entertainment under penalty of law. State of New York."
"Cold kyan of beah!" shouts arise from the din. I pull off my
shirt to blend in with the sea of fleshy bodies and the Yankees
take the field to the largest, non-opening day Yankee Stadium
crowd in three years. The speaker system nearly knocks us on our
collective ass as it booms the national anthem.
One of the things I love about Yankee Stadium is that is is
not your typical white middle-class crowd at the games. Every
shape and size of Yankees fan is represented and each are
prepared to scream sweet nothings into the Cleveland Indians'
ears in a dozen dialects. Just as I reflect on this notion the
announcer asks the collected cornucopia to SHOW ME YOUR BATS!
Sweet Jesus, it is Bat Day in the Bronx and every hooligan 14 and
under owns a Louisville Slugger and a demented smile. My eyes
dart for the closest exit. I try to picture the meeting that
transpired in the off-season that allowed some PR whiz to prove
to his bosses that weapons in the hands of children on a 95
degree day in one of the toughest sections of New York City was a
boffo idea. I get up for a drink of water and quickly price any
and all large, blunt and heavy Yankee memorabilia.
Cracker Jacks, Dove Bars and flat beer in Dixie cups are
among the staples available to me. Instead of these obviously
wonderful choices, every inning my brother and I alternate on
water runs and practice fanciful karate moves. Dennis Martinez,
"El Presidente", is on the mound for the dastardly Tribe,
insultingly carrying an 0-10 lifetime Yankee Stadium record into
the Bronx. My hunch is that this Sunday afternoon will be a
hometeam slaughter. It does my heart good to know that my
limited jujitsu repertoire gleaned from too many Terry Bradshaw
movies can remain safely in storage. The Bronx Bombers jump out
to a 2-0 and then 3-0 lead while I take in the scenery of
Monument Park in left field where all the old history and statues
and flowers are stored. Before these were moved behind the
fences, hit balls used to bounce around and knock over likenesses
of Thurman Munson and Whitey Ford like so many pinball games.
The seats and stadium are a baby blue shade with wear and tear.
Tenement structures leap up beyond the outfield bleachers.
The Yankees are the only team to win the World Series in six
different decades (1920's through the '70's). Presumably during
that run they never once resorted to cranking "Copacabana" or
"Doin' Da Butt" whilst an opposing pitching coach sauntered out
to the pitching mound. "Zorba the Greek" was never on the
playlist. After practically every pitch the impersonal screen
and speakers egg us on to clap and cheer. No one tells us,
though, to yell impatiently to the ice cream man but it happens
nonetheless. No one asks Freddie to carry around a large sign
with every color of the rainbow represented stating, "ALBERT IS
NOT A BELL. HE IS A DING DONG!" Of his own volition Freddie
hands this to unsuspecting fans and requests that they ring the
pot attached therewith.
I try to take a can of water to my seat and am stopped by
the drill instructor/security guard. I describe the inanity of
disallowing cans and bottles to the inebriated city-dweller when
stacked against the certain wisdom of supplying wooden implements
to these same folks. He would not budge from his clearly
stronger position. Upon taking my seat, I amuse myself by taking
several pictures of the bouncy bundle of blondeness passing our
way.
Albert "Don't Call Me Joey" Belle strikes out in the third
inning with two men on and the place practically caves in on
itself. Yankee pitcher Andy Pettite chugs along until the fifth
inning when Julio Franco and Belle smoke singles. On a 1-2
count, Manny Ramirez deposits a baseball into the left-center
bleachers to cut the Yankee lead to 5-3.
In the middle of the fifth inning, some woman named Sandy is
proposed to on the fanavision. The collected throng call out
"Yes! Yes!" Rebecca is next up and their advice to her is a
resounding "No! No!" Why on God's green earth would a man put
himself through that kind of humiliation? Humiliation is not in
short supply as the grounds crew enters the field after five
innings, music is piped in, crew fists are pumped animatedly into
the air with the beat, "Young man, there's no need to feel down."
OK, with you so far. "I said, young man, 'cause you're in a new
town there's nooo - need - to - be - un - happy." Uh, big
finish: "It's fun to stay at the Y - M - C - A." Hit me with a
goddamned brick already. Please just do it. You are doing me a
favor. (Later on in the season I hear that George Steinbrenner,
Yankees owner, will not allow these folks to make personal
appearances, cut an album or in any way cash in on their newfound
fame. And the gods smiled.)
Yankees fans belt out "Take me out to the ballgame" with
verve in the seventh. With the same panache they mightily boo
drug-addled P Steve Howe in the eighth when he comes in for the
lone purpose of serving up a one-pitch single to Kenny Lofton
right up the middle of the field. "Twist & Shout" and "Tequila"
are the drone-pickmeup of choice during pitching changes and
"Wooly Bully" gives the women behind me such a thrill that their
foamy beer jumps their cups and finds a home on the small of my
back.
The scoreboard reads: Yankees 5, Indians 4. For tens of
thousands today is one big party start to finish; very few leave
the building early. Mike and I enjoy the vendor show upon
leaving the park. To wit: "I got the Ice Cold Buds heah." We
shovel hot dogs and kraut down our parched frames and wait for
traffic to thin before heading to the Jersey Turnpike to share
stories with Spring Dew.
