From The Sports Desk...(Yes, Baierman already wrote about the new Yankee Stadium. I know. We agreed we could both write about it. Think of the two posts as a YBNBY box set.)
Many, including myself, have had reservations about the new Yankee Stadium. The idea of abandoning the most historical building in all of sport to move 40 yards to the north so the suits can profit more from the luxury boxes is hard to stomach.
Nevertheless, I knew that in order to make a proper judgment I had to attend the joint myself. When Baierman rang up on the morning of the second game ever at the new venue and offered a ticket, I immediately accepted.
With some reservation, I am sorry to report that my preconceptions of the place were nearly right on the money. Lavish praise has heaped on the new Stadium. It's a monument to baseball, it's perfect, beautiful, awe inspiring. I heard one columnist wrote passionately about receiving a "sports boner" from being there. Okay, I may have made that up.
Anyhoo, after some subway malfunctions, a public transportation audible, a train switch and a brief hike across the Macombs Dam Bridge, I met Baierman outside Gate 8. Right after walking through a cloud of marijuana smoke. Seriously. It was pungent. Someone needed to burn one down before the first pitch.
With a small contact high under our belts, we entered the place. With trepidation.
Baier and I sat in the bleachers. (We're salt of the earth, baby.) A land where you hear "Welcome to the Jungle" in your head as you head to the $12 dollars-a-pop seats. I love it out there. Chaos personified. These are the folks that aren't there to network and collect business cards. They're here for baseball. That is the problem with the new Yankee Stadium. The building caters to the wrong person. The focus seems to be on the cats that have company seats and attend two games a summer with clients than those that can name the Yankee starting lineup since the Hoover administration.
Case in point; the freaking Mohegan Sun Sports Bar. She rests in centerfield, jutting out to the warning track. So, if you are in the section directly to the left or right of where stock brokers are sucking down $9 dollar beers in a climate controlled saloon and talking about the new secretaries' gams and not watching the game, half the field is obstructed. You can't see a damn thing. We stood at the top of the section and shook our heads. You're half bat out there. Part of Yankee Stadium is the "short porch to right." Dingers fly out at great rates into right field off left-handed batters. How do you think Roger Maris legitimately broke the Babe's record? If you paid to sit next to the sports bar, you'll miss those. You can crane your neck and check the amazing Jumbo-Tron replay behind you, but you won't see it live.
Now, Steinbrenner's, for a billion and a half clams, you couldn't design a park without "obstructed views?" Really? You couldn't have avoided the Hard Rock Café and the damn martini bar? You couldn't have figured that you put so many way-too-expensive-for-anyone-not-named-Trump-or-Diddy seats that they would sit two-thirds empty? Nobody did a bit of common sense math?
(SIDENOTE #1: I've written this before, I've said it countless times, and I stand by it. If you go to the Yankee Stadium martini bar, you are a douchebag. Bar none. I hate you. I asked Baier if we could go mock the guys going in there, maybe take a few swings, but he said the score was 5-5 and I should remember why we're here.)
The Yanks are going to make money. Like rain in a thunderstorm, it's gonna happen. So why the over-the-top greed? The new park should not be designed for the jerk-off stock broker in loafers with tassels on them who goes to the game for the social atmosphere. It should be a Mecca to the family of four from Kew Gardens. Those that saved a few bucks to go to the ballpark because they love baseball. That's why the new stadium underwhelmed. It felt soulless.
The game itself is the most important event at the stadium. It's why we're there. However, it's the beasts that sit out in the bleachers that provide the real show. Snarling and foaming at the mouth. Their mood's swing to and fro like Ed Norton in Primal Fear. One minute you're toasted and beloved, an error later, you're reviled. A dude can be wearing a Joba Chamberlain jersey and scream that Joba is a bum. If I was wearing my Iggy & The Stooges t-shirt, then "Search and Destroy" popped up on the iTunes shuffle and I screamed "You suck Iggy! You stink on hot ice!" it wouldn't make much sense. Thus is the enigma that is the Yankee Stadium bleachers. Language that would make Bernie Mac blush is screamed in the ears of children. Live are threatened. Man it's great out there.
The bleachers were nuts before, but now they have their alcohol privileges restored. The beer flows once again in the cheap seats. You thought it was rowdy as a dry county, wait till you see it with a little social lubricant. It's Tombstone.
Case in point: Johnny Damon hits a bomb to right and is cheered wildly. The next inning a tough fly ball goes over his head and caroms off the wall. Boos descend like vultures on a fresh carcass. One ruffian chucked half a warm beer onto the field. "You suck Damon! Go back to Boston!" The suds-tossing offender was booted and told to go back to Brooklyn.
That leads us to this question: How long until the booze is yanked again? Are we taking bets? If this was an over/under in Vegas, I'll set the line at June 10th. All it take is one drunken gin blossom to jump into the visitors bullpen and it's gone. Let's keep an eye on this.
(SIDENOTE #2: While we're giving odds for inappropriate stuff, here's one more betting line. C.C. Sabathia's weight after August 1st. I have It at 277½ . Anyone have the under?)
In the bleachers you find local characters. It's people watching at the highest level. In front of Baier and myself was a father and his three sons. The nine and ten-year-old had a computer printout and were keeping score with a #2 pencil. They knew more stats than we did combined. The five-year-old's tiny Yankee hat was dusted with cotton candy. It was everywhere. And the dad dutifully ordered more peanuts and soda. Now that's a father. Those kids were in heaven. My rumpled fedora was doffed to you, sir.
Across the isle from us was a weedy, wiry little rascal. Size 27 jeans, Don Mattingly jersey over a Mariano Rivera shirt and stringy blonde hair creeping out from the saltiest Yankees hat we had ever seen. The lid had somehow evolved from navy blue to burnt sienna. Only a few lonely patches of the original color remained. The proud remnants of a former hat. I didn't know that felt could decompose. Was it dripping? It looks like it's dripping. It was barely still a cap. More like a halo of salty garbage on his head. Salty, as we came to call him, had the most incredible vocabulary. Some people don't know that you can squeeze six F-bombs into one sentence. It can done. Once I thought I heard seven, but Salty's verbal punctuation was a little muddled. Probably two sentences. Seven can't happen, can it?
When a boisterous joker with a Red Sox jersey on (What are you doing, you schmuck?) was ejected for causing a ruckus, Salty belted out, "You'd walk f@#&in' faster without the f@#&in' dick in yer ass, faggot!!!" Good one Salty. That kid one row in front of you? Yeah, he's nine.
However, Salty was not my favorite Bleacher Creature of the afternoon. There was another.
In the top of the second inning, an amazing specimen sauntered down the aisle. Tight Diesel jeans, all white immaculate K-Swiss kicks, wife beater tucked in, A-Rod jersey draped over his creatine-aided shoulders that was held on by one button, thick gold chain and crucifix, double diamond earrings, tight high-top fade and $200 dollar designer sunglasses. Wow. I looked for the tribal armband tat but didn't see one. It was there, I'm sure. If all those accessories weren't enough, had added another. A surgically-enhanced broad with her stomach showing and jewels embedded on her fingernails. Huge stripperized high heels. She was classy.
We'll called her Mary-Terese.
Looking at this chap, I theorized that his name was Dino. Watching him was really entertaining. Flexing his muscles to Mary-Terese, nonstop chatting on his Blackberry, giving directions to the closest GNC and quoting Dane Cook.
In the fourth, Mary-Terese called him Nicky. "Nicky! Get me another bee-ah!" Perfect. We imagined that Nicky was "this close" to being an extra on The Sopranos.
(Yep, to the left there, that's our boy Nicky.)
We were benefitted by a good game. The Yanks were down, then a barrage of solo shots into the obscured right field seats brought them back tied. "Come on guys, Nicky shaved his arms for this," I said. Right after that, Jeter hit the go-ahead bomb. Mo Rivera came in to close it out. 6-5, Bombers. However, at the new stadium, Mo's entrance to Metallica's "Enter Sandman" was barely audible. Kind of defeats the purpose. The AV crew is still working out the bugs. They'll have the levels right next week.
What really matters about the reincarnated Yankee Stadium, with it's minor design flaws and questionable focus on the rich and Johnny Rocket's burgers that are not Johnny Rocket's burgers and seats that are so overpriced they are vacant and that bloody martini bar is this; the people of New York City still fill the seats. That amazing, passionate, diverse cross-section of society breathes life into The House That Greed Built.
That's what matters...
Selah.
Case in point; the freaking Mohegan Sun Sports Bar. She rests in centerfield, jutting out to the warning track. So, if you are in the section directly to the left or right of where stock brokers are sucking down $9 dollar beers in a climate controlled saloon and talking about the new secretaries' gams and not watching the game, half the field is obstructed. You can't see a damn thing. We stood at the top of the section and shook our heads. You're half bat out there. Part of Yankee Stadium is the "short porch to right." Dingers fly out at great rates into right field off left-handed batters. How do you think Roger Maris legitimately broke the Babe's record? If you paid to sit next to the sports bar, you'll miss those. You can crane your neck and check the amazing Jumbo-Tron replay behind you, but you won't see it live.
Now, Steinbrenner's, for a billion and a half clams, you couldn't design a park without "obstructed views?" Really? You couldn't have avoided the Hard Rock Café and the damn martini bar? You couldn't have figured that you put so many way-too-expensive-for-anyone-not-named-Trump-or-Diddy seats that they would sit two-thirds empty? Nobody did a bit of common sense math? (SIDENOTE #1: I've written this before, I've said it countless times, and I stand by it. If you go to the Yankee Stadium martini bar, you are a douchebag. Bar none. I hate you. I asked Baier if we could go mock the guys going in there, maybe take a few swings, but he said the score was 5-5 and I should remember why we're here.)
The Yanks are going to make money. Like rain in a thunderstorm, it's gonna happen. So why the over-the-top greed? The new park should not be designed for the jerk-off stock broker in loafers with tassels on them who goes to the game for the social atmosphere. It should be a Mecca to the family of four from Kew Gardens. Those that saved a few bucks to go to the ballpark because they love baseball. That's why the new stadium underwhelmed. It felt soulless.
The game itself is the most important event at the stadium. It's why we're there. However, it's the beasts that sit out in the bleachers that provide the real show. Snarling and foaming at the mouth. Their mood's swing to and fro like Ed Norton in Primal Fear. One minute you're toasted and beloved, an error later, you're reviled. A dude can be wearing a Joba Chamberlain jersey and scream that Joba is a bum. If I was wearing my Iggy & The Stooges t-shirt, then "Search and Destroy" popped up on the iTunes shuffle and I screamed "You suck Iggy! You stink on hot ice!" it wouldn't make much sense. Thus is the enigma that is the Yankee Stadium bleachers. Language that would make Bernie Mac blush is screamed in the ears of children. Live are threatened. Man it's great out there.
The bleachers were nuts before, but now they have their alcohol privileges restored. The beer flows once again in the cheap seats. You thought it was rowdy as a dry county, wait till you see it with a little social lubricant. It's Tombstone. Case in point: Johnny Damon hits a bomb to right and is cheered wildly. The next inning a tough fly ball goes over his head and caroms off the wall. Boos descend like vultures on a fresh carcass. One ruffian chucked half a warm beer onto the field. "You suck Damon! Go back to Boston!" The suds-tossing offender was booted and told to go back to Brooklyn.
That leads us to this question: How long until the booze is yanked again? Are we taking bets? If this was an over/under in Vegas, I'll set the line at June 10th. All it take is one drunken gin blossom to jump into the visitors bullpen and it's gone. Let's keep an eye on this.
(SIDENOTE #2: While we're giving odds for inappropriate stuff, here's one more betting line. C.C. Sabathia's weight after August 1st. I have It at 277½ . Anyone have the under?)
In the bleachers you find local characters. It's people watching at the highest level. In front of Baier and myself was a father and his three sons. The nine and ten-year-old had a computer printout and were keeping score with a #2 pencil. They knew more stats than we did combined. The five-year-old's tiny Yankee hat was dusted with cotton candy. It was everywhere. And the dad dutifully ordered more peanuts and soda. Now that's a father. Those kids were in heaven. My rumpled fedora was doffed to you, sir.
Across the isle from us was a weedy, wiry little rascal. Size 27 jeans, Don Mattingly jersey over a Mariano Rivera shirt and stringy blonde hair creeping out from the saltiest Yankees hat we had ever seen. The lid had somehow evolved from navy blue to burnt sienna. Only a few lonely patches of the original color remained. The proud remnants of a former hat. I didn't know that felt could decompose. Was it dripping? It looks like it's dripping. It was barely still a cap. More like a halo of salty garbage on his head. Salty, as we came to call him, had the most incredible vocabulary. Some people don't know that you can squeeze six F-bombs into one sentence. It can done. Once I thought I heard seven, but Salty's verbal punctuation was a little muddled. Probably two sentences. Seven can't happen, can it?
When a boisterous joker with a Red Sox jersey on (What are you doing, you schmuck?) was ejected for causing a ruckus, Salty belted out, "You'd walk f@#&in' faster without the f@#&in' dick in yer ass, faggot!!!" Good one Salty. That kid one row in front of you? Yeah, he's nine.
However, Salty was not my favorite Bleacher Creature of the afternoon. There was another.
In the top of the second inning, an amazing specimen sauntered down the aisle. Tight Diesel jeans, all white immaculate K-Swiss kicks, wife beater tucked in, A-Rod jersey draped over his creatine-aided shoulders that was held on by one button, thick gold chain and crucifix, double diamond earrings, tight high-top fade and $200 dollar designer sunglasses. Wow. I looked for the tribal armband tat but didn't see one. It was there, I'm sure. If all those accessories weren't enough, had added another. A surgically-enhanced broad with her stomach showing and jewels embedded on her fingernails. Huge stripperized high heels. She was classy.
We'll called her Mary-Terese.
Looking at this chap, I theorized that his name was Dino. Watching him was really entertaining. Flexing his muscles to Mary-Terese, nonstop chatting on his Blackberry, giving directions to the closest GNC and quoting Dane Cook. In the fourth, Mary-Terese called him Nicky. "Nicky! Get me another bee-ah!" Perfect. We imagined that Nicky was "this close" to being an extra on The Sopranos.
(Yep, to the left there, that's our boy Nicky.)
We were benefitted by a good game. The Yanks were down, then a barrage of solo shots into the obscured right field seats brought them back tied. "Come on guys, Nicky shaved his arms for this," I said. Right after that, Jeter hit the go-ahead bomb. Mo Rivera came in to close it out. 6-5, Bombers. However, at the new stadium, Mo's entrance to Metallica's "Enter Sandman" was barely audible. Kind of defeats the purpose. The AV crew is still working out the bugs. They'll have the levels right next week.
What really matters about the reincarnated Yankee Stadium, with it's minor design flaws and questionable focus on the rich and Johnny Rocket's burgers that are not Johnny Rocket's burgers and seats that are so overpriced they are vacant and that bloody martini bar is this; the people of New York City still fill the seats. That amazing, passionate, diverse cross-section of society breathes life into The House That Greed Built.
That's what matters...
Selah.
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Folks don't forget to stop at the family dollar on your way to the bleachers! Or your luxury boxes.
Side note: my friend Dom was in some luxury on Friday. He said the game was great...they had bartenders in their box and and whole wheat marble hot dog rolls!
Fuckin a
I can see keeping a bartender in a box, but what the hell is a whole wheat marble hot dog roll?
JW--just to clarify---this sentence:
"Thus is the enima that is the Yankee Stadium bleachers."
Enigma, or enema? just wanted to see if it was a typo or misspelled Freudian slip....
Otherwise...loved the piece...and saw that same girl on Nicky's dad's arm at a pro basketball game recently...
Animus - basic attitude or governing spirit?
Actually, it looks pretty cool. Sounds like a colorful crowd, for sure.
Sporting events used to be for kids and working folk. Not sure when it made it to the martini bar crowd. From the Mohegan link:
"DRESS CODE: Appropriate attire is required at all times. Attire will be deemed appropriate at the sole discretion of the New York Yankees."
Whoa. Guess I'm not going there.
It's the Rockies year everybody. You heard it here first!
Is it just me or does anyone else think johnny looks surprisingly like Ricky Gervais in this photo?
Tim - I have no idea. just another excess fu-fu thing to show people their $10,000 a game luxury box was worth it.
I fixed the typo SO. Good eye. Thanks.
JW
So Frank, what you're saying is that's NOT Ricky Gervais?
Come on, does my face look that fat, guys? Dammit...
Oh yeah. Sadly, Echo and I had dinner with friends last weekend and a girl I'd never met not said "I thought you were going to have a British accent before you spoke." Don't know what that meant. Then she later said I look like Ricky.
I see a modern-day beatnik.
(That's a compliment in my book.)
It's the shadowing/angle of the camera.
Plus you should smile! (it works for chattering Tim)
Well, I do love Jack Kerouac, Tim.
I'm currently enjoying On The Road for the third time. Gotta re-read it every 10 years or so.
I need to expand my literary horizon. I haven't read much Hemingway. I know you're a fan. Do you have an introductory recommendation for me?
Papa is my favorite writer. It's easy to start with "The Old Man and the Sea" and "Snows of Kilimanjaro" to get a short taste of his style.
Reading further, I would suggest "A Farewell To Arms" or "The Sun Also Rises." One of my favorites is the non-fiction "Green Hills of Africa."
JW
Thanks, man. I'll queue it up.