My first Yankees Game

If someone were to offer me the chance to guarantee World Series’ victories for the New York Yankees by taking years off my life, I would immediately begin living the healthiest lifestyle known to man, in the hopes that I could extend my life, providing more years with which to trade. I spend more time concerned with the Yankees than any other single topic in my life. I know Robinson Cano’s walk rates going back to his rookie year. I know Babe Ruth’s wins above replacement and weighted on base in the year 1923. I have watched hundreds of games on TV. The ones I couldn’t watch, I followed on ESPN Gamecast or MLB Gameday. When that was impossible, I pored over recaps and box scores until I could retell the game as if I had been there. But the funny thing is that, in 21 years, 3 months and 2 weeks, I had never actually been there.

Huntington, West Virginia has many virtues. Proximity to civilization is not exactly one of them. The closest baseball team is three hours away, but the Reds are in the National League. When I moved to Pittsburgh for college, matters were unimproved, with the Pirates also playing in the NL. For that matter, even in the rare interleague series they might play against the Yankees, I would be home for the summer.

You would think that with all of the family I have living in the New York area, at some point a Yankees game would have happened. Particularly since this is not only a personal obsession. My entire family treats the Yankees like something between a sacred heritage and a second religion. But alas, while my parents have seen Yankee games, and my sisters have seen Yankee games, I never had seen one.

Then, on September 13th, 2010, I got a text message from a friend of mine. “Tell me you can skip all of your classes on Friday,” it read. “I don’t have any classes on Friday,” I responded. Now, my friend James has a lot of crazy ideas. Model rockets on bicycles—that’s his forte. So when he tells you to keep a day open, it could be something as benign as flying kites with LED lights attached to them. Or, it could be a seminal, life changing, mind-blowing event. “Keep it that way,” he said. “I’ll let you know why in a few minutes.”

So I went to my basketball class, my art class and my labor econ class completely oblivious as to the fact that my life had irrevocably changed and I just hadn’t been told yet. Then I got a text relating the details of the plan: James, myself and another friend, Steve, would travel to Washington on Thursday night, stay over at Steve’s house, and then travel to Baltimore on Friday evening to watch the Yankees play the Orioles at Camden Yards.

The text I sent in response was equal parts stupefied and skeptical. I had been waiting for this opportunity for so long that I did not have any reason to believe that it might actually happen. On top of that, James’ plans are often, shall we say, incomplete. “Okay. We have tickets?” I responded.

Of course, such calm, reasonable, pragmatic details were the furthest thing from my mind at that particular moment. I was burning up like a Mac on top of a pillow, my heart was going faster than Mike Portnoy’s double bass pedal, and I was almost afraid to smile, as if smiling would tempt fate. I didn’t tell anyone because I didn’t want to have to deal with the crushing blow of informing them that it had fallen through. So I sleep-walked through Tuesday and much of Wednesday, day-dreaming in a surreal world where I was going to see the New York Yankees play baseball. In person. With my own eyes.

As the confirmations began to come through—yes, there were seats available, yes they were reasonably priced, yes, Steve did need to get home for an evaluation before entering the priesthood—this stupendous other reality began to collide with the world, until finally it was Thursday afternoon, and I had the printed tickets in my hand, staring at them like they were orders to go to the Moon. I had vicariously experienced thousands of Yankee games. But these tickets were as tangible as the fingers grasping them, and they meant it was going to be vicarious no longer.

The car ride to Virginia was mostly uneventful, outside of James gashing his head open, the check engine light coming on, and the Sheetz having no pepperoni rolls. Looking back on it now, it was an atrocious car ride. It is a testament to my state of mind that I was stupidly grinning throughout the entire trip. When we finally arrived at Steve’s house, it was late. But I didn’t sleep. Ambien couldn’t have gotten me to sleep; watching Glenn Beck couldn’t have put me to sleep; reading James Joyce wouldn’t have done it.

That morning, we took Steve to his psychological evaluation, and did some stuff the rest of the day that seems to be fading from memory as I write. This is not inconsequential; Washington D.C. houses the Air and Space Museum, quite possibly my favorite building in the world. To overcome such a memory, the rest of the day had to be quite something.



After waiting for 21 years, 3 months and 2 weeks, I was running out of patience. So, of course, the car ride to Baltimore took three times as long as it should have, due to gridlock and hair-pulling traffic. If there was a theme to this trip, it had to be patience. 21 years of patience. 3 hours of patience. 9 innings of patience.

After the three hours of tortuously slow driving, Steve and I jumped out of the car and walked—okay, we more or less ran—to the stadium while James and his friend Bryan parked the car. I was in a daze as I handed my ticket to the—and then there were people—passing concession stands—weaving in and out of crowds—section 56, section 76, section 83—

Boom. Shock. Awe.

Unwavering, unfaltering, unexplainable awe.

It wasn’t the first time I had come out of the tunnel to see the green grass of a baseball diamond. It wasn’t even the first time I had done so at Camden Yards. But this time, Derek Jeter was perambulating the infield. Curtis Granderson was patrolling the outfield. Alex Rodriguez was making the throw from third to first look like it was no longer than a bowling alley. Brett Gardner was tossing with someone from the bullpen, and Robinson Cano was practicing the double play catch and flick to Mark Teixeira.

Never again could I watch this team on TV, the internet, or on any other device we invent, without knowing that I saw them. I saw Nick Swisher. I saw Jorge Posada. I saw A.J. Burnett. They were real. They weren’t just highly accurate representations created by pixilation on an LCD screen.

Somewhere in all of this Steve and I found our seats, where I was shaking with so much nervous energy I think Steve was worried I might be having an epileptic seizure. A.J. got through a perfect inning before A-Rod came to bat in the second. Pitch one: ball. Pitch two: deposited in the seats. 1-0 Yankees.

Of course I made a lot of noise, but the next thing I did was call my dad. Yankees’ triumphs are meant to be celebrated with as many people as possible. Enjoying a victory without other people around is like being proud that you are the last man on Earth. Sure, you survived, but who cares? That’s right, nobody. They’re all dead.

“When A-Rod breaks the home run record someday, I’ll be able to say I saw one of them,” I said. What my dad said in return is up for debate. It was loud at Camden Yards, shaking from the stentorian collective voice of thousands of Yankee fans (Baltimore should really be appalled that it let Yankee fans outnumber Orioles fans). But it didn’t matter. He was on the phone, my mom was listening somehow, my siblings were all either watching or at least paying attention to the score.

Family being part of the equation is essential. Rooting for a baseball team alone is like trying to get into Heaven alone. You can’t do it. Imagine sitting in a completely empty baseball stadium; forlornness, solitude, other such things come to mind. But sitting in a stadium full of screaming fans, united in their attempt to will a team to victory, is like the angels looking down on the Earth, praying for souls to find their way to the Pearly Gates.

Of course, as the innings crept by, this outcome appeared unlikely. The bats had gone cold, and while A.J. was pitching well, the Orioles pushed three runs across on a couple of solo shots and a hit-by-pitch that got around the base paths. Derek Jeter was freezing while strikes went by, Teixeira was not getting out of the infield…

Top of the ninth. I dare not hope, but of course I was hoping. The stadium seemed lifeless, but then a strange thing happened: Jorge Posada worked a ten pitch at-bat before singling to left center field. Even James, a devout Pirates fan, was rooting for a Yankee rally after this. If it had been a first pitch dribbler through the right side of the infield, I don’t think it would have meant anything. But Jorge had gotten down in the count and fought his way back. This guy was hittable.

And Curtis Granderson hit him, singling to left in between two futile Jeter/Teixeira at bats. And then, with two outs, two on, and the whole stadium standing, Alex Rodriguez came to the plate.



Game 2 of the 2009 American League Divisional Series—during a postseason where the Yankees would eventually win the title—seemed like an important game. The Yankees had not proceeded past the first round for years. They were up in the series but if they lost this one, they would be heading to Minnesota with the Twins having a chance to close out the series at home. They were almost visibly burdened by a decade of lost seasons and missed expectations. And then, all of the sudden, they were losing 3-1 in the ninth, with two outs and nobody on. Mark Teixeira drew a walk, and Alex Rodriguez was at the plate.

A-Rod was purportedly terrible in the postseason—and there was some evidence to support this—being consistently lambasted for his inability to deliver when it “counts.” But as he walked into the batter’s box, I knew he would do one of two things: walk, if they didn’t pitch to him, or hit a home run to tie the game. When the latter happened, I nearly fell over. And I was sitting down. I immediately called my mom, dad, sister, brother, other sister, other brother, and just about anyone else to whom I am slightly related. The Petranys were screaming and hollering and joyfully jumping around the whole night, capped off by Teixeira’s game-winning home-run a few innings later.

The 2009 postseason was like that. Sometimes, when A-Rod came to the plate, or Robertson came into pitch, you knew what they were going to do. You knew a home run, a strikeout, a double down the line or a double play was on its way.

Up to this point, the 2010 season never had one of those moments. There was never a point where the air was tangibly heavy with hope and possibilities. The Yankees have played well. And they have had their walk-offs and their dramatic come from behind wins, and so on. But it was not magical, because they haven’t needed magic. They have been steady, good, professional. But A-Rod has never been the consummate professional.



Crack. I experienced A-Rod’s swing almost out-of-body. I remember it happening but it doesn’t seem like I was the one watching it. As he swung, it occurred to me that he should hit a home run. And then as the ball hung in the air, there was the briefest fraction of a second where tens of thousands of standing fans breathed in, before the ball dropped into the seats and I think I lost an organ or two whilst screaming.

Mariano came in and locked it down; getting to witness Rivera the Great in my first Yankee game was another boon of A-Rod’s majestic blast. And then I sat with James, Steve and James’ friend Bryan, watching forty-five minutes of fireworks, stupidly grinning, yet again. I was imagining watching the recap on ESPN. I was imagining reading the game details on River Avenue Blues. I was hoarse, exhausted, and in actual physical pain due to an aggravation of a surgical wound. And I am not sure if I ever been happier in my life.

None of this matters if my parents and family don’t inculcate in me a righteous appreciation for the game of baseball and for the Yankees. None of it matters if I get to go to a game when I am eleven, enjoying it but not appreciating its grandeur and uniqueness. None of it matters if I lose hope in the traffic on the way there or in the eight innings leading up to the ninth inning. None of it even happens for me if I don’t have a spectacular friend, who not only went out of his way to get me to a Yankees game, but who, in a moment of pure virtue, seemed genuinely—genuinely—happy to see how ecstatic I was as A-Rod’s bomb landed beyond the fence.

Family. Friends. Baseball. The New York Yankees. Moments like this make life worth living. All 21 years, 3 months, and 2 weeks of it.

Hughsie

http://sports.espn.go.com/new-york/mlb/news/story?id=5546778

Come on, people. Hughsie?!

~The Sports Maunderer~