The End of an Era - September, 2008

I woke up sad yesterday and I wasn’t sure why. Then I remembered – Yankee Stadium closes today.

In 1959, when I wasn’t playing with my Dinah Shore or Lennon Sisters paper dolls, you could find me outside, having a catch with Henry Watkin or Stevie Rice. I discovered baseball that year or the year before during a two-week stint in day camp where the game was played every day. I soon found out that you could learn about the players by collecting their baseball cards, which featured handsome pictures of them on one side and all their stats on the back. The nearly tasteless gum was far less important than amassing a collection of baseball cards. You could trade them or, if you had doubles of Norm Seibern or someone who just didn’t matter, you could put them in the spokes of your bike and make that cool noise. You just would never do that with a Yankees card. Yankees were to be collected and savored.

We were a New York Post house, and the sports section started on the back cover of the paper. Coverage of the Yankees appeared every day, with little mention of the National League (the Mets wouldn’t exist for another three years). I read voraciously about the exploits of the Yankees, with Mickey and Yogi and Whitey and Casey Stengel. 1959 was my first year following the team, and the first time in years the Yankees led the league in nothing and failed to reach the World Series. There were no playoffs then; you either won the American League pennant and went to the World Series or you went home.

Late that year, my father took me to my first game. We sat in the right field bleachers, within spitting distance of the bullpen. Seeing that vast expanse of green grass for the first time was thrilling. How did Mickey cover that huge centerfield? Why were those monuments right on the field, where a ball might reach them? I remember it being Yogi Berra night, and they gave Yogi a color TV and drove him around in a car. Wow! That was it for me. I fell in love that night with that team and that place, and though we have broken up a few times in the nearly 50 ensuing years, neither of us ever cheated on the other. Today I love Derek Jeter the way I used to love Mickey Mantle. There has never been another team for me. And there never will be.

So now Yankee Stadium is closing, being replaced by the new Yankee Stadium, which, thankfully, will not be called the Acme Airlines Mopar Lestoil Stadium. The House That Ruth Built will be no more. The new Yankee Stadium will open across the street, and the old Yankee Stadium – which was renovated in the 1970s so it isn’t exactly the original – will be swept clean of souvenirs and ultimately demolished. The tradition, the heritage, the team, will migrate across the street to the new House That Steinbrenner Built, but the dirt where Babe Ruth stood, the grass where Mickey Mantle first injured his knee, and the short right field porch where Roger Maris powered his 61st home run will be no more.

I’ve been to Yankee Stadium many times. I’ve attended Old Timers Day (I cry every year) and Opening Day and even saw one-handed Jim Abbott pitch a no-hitter. I’ve found typographical errors in the monuments of sainted players and have written to George Steinbrenner himself to point them out (no response). I’ve sweated through sun drenched games and I have wrapped my scarf around me tightly to stave off the cold temperatures of the early spring. And I’ll no doubt go to see the Yankees again, and check out the new stadium, with its wide walkways, sparkling bathrooms and huge video replay screens. But make no mistake – it is the end of an era.