MY Stadium
NOTE:
The original version of this post was written in 2008, the last season of the “true” Yankee Stadium.
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183rd Street…Burnside Avenue…176th Street…Mt Eden Avenue…
170th Street…167th Street…161st Street-Yankee Stadium
Just seven stops on the Number 4 train.
That’s all it took for me to get to MY stadium.
Oh yes, I do believe I have the right to claim Yankee Stadium as MY stadium.
Sure season after season, hundreds of thousands of fans attend the Stadium…
but I seriously doubt if any other fan could match the adventures that I had at…
MY Stadium.
Heading to 161st St. & River Avenue
As an alternate to taking the subway,
back in the day, I could opt to save the 15 cents, for a token…
and walk about 30 blocks.
And that’s what I did just about every Saturday morning in the early ‘60’s.
I had turned 10 in 1959…
and in my mind, being in the double-digits,
earned me the right to walk the “mean streets” of the Bronx to MY stadium.
I’d leave my house early, about 9 A.M.
That would usually allow me to reach MY stadium before 10,
just as the players were starting to arrive.
They’d come walking randomly down from the Grand Concourse, heading towards the Press Gate.
There would be a handful of kids (growing as the hour grew later)
awaiting the chance to score the elusive autograph.
I was usually the youngest.
But all the signature-seekers turned to me,
for I had the rare and valuable talent
of recognizing the Yankee heroes in their “civvies”, without their numbered uniforms.
Oh sure, most could recognize Mickey and Roger and Yogi
(I mean, c’mon…who couldn’t recognize Yogi!).
But it was only the truly erudite student of Topps trading cards, like myself,
who could recognize the faces of Kent Hadley, Elmer Valo and Eli Grba.
I got ‘em all…all the autographs. Many times over.
I mean I was there EVERY Saturday.
After all it was MY stadium.
I rarely stayed for the actual game. Too expensive.
Bleacher seats were 75 cents.
That’s 15 packs of baseball cards (chalky pink gum included)!
I usually took the long return walk home…
although occasionally I would tell a policeman I lost my money…
and twice they drove me home
(I made sure to exit the patrol car a safe distance from my parents’ view).
Perhaps, it’s because of my many years of my walking to my stadium…
that these days I have admittedly become a “travel snob” when coming to MY Stadium
(nowadays arriving from the OTHER direction – downtown Manhattan).
I either drive, and park directly across from my stadium,
(where the attendants know me and greet me with hugs),
or I take a cab.
But I do take the subway once a year – Opening Day.
It's one more tradition.
One that holds much metaphorical meaning for me.
Coming up from 86th Street, there is something special about being surrounded
by New Yorkers of all ethnicities, all ages, all genders, all income levels…
completely decked out in their Yankee paraphernalia…
all eagerly anticipating the beginning of a new season.
As the packed subway car makes its way through the underground tunnel…
just as it approaches MY stadium,
it emerges from the darkness into the daylight…
mirroring the onset of spring and eternal hope.
In a thrilling moment we all get our first glimpse of the stadium.
MY stadium
MY Stadium Commandments
As a kid, there were those times I did actually enter MY stadium.
They say you never forget your first time…and it’s true.
We went as a family - my Mom, Dad and older sister Ellen
(Bobby Richardson was her favorite…she said he was “cute”).
From the outside it seemed colossal, like some Roman Coliseum .
I figured it could hold all of New York inside, or at least all of the Bronx.
We bought a 25-cent program and made our way through the entranceway in right field,
last section 31-35.
That was the first time I ever saw MY stadium’s field in person.
After just viewing it on my black & white TV,
there it was in all it’s technicolor grandeur…
…The perfectly manicured, greenest of green field,
the sea of blue seats,
and those magnificent iconic pinstripes.
It was a beautiful sight to behold.
To this day, hundreds and hundreds of games later…
no matter where my seats may be,
I will always enter the field through the last section in right .
There are several other “commandments” that I (and my game companions)
must adhere to in MY stadium.
First and most critical is touching the right field foul pole before going to our seats.
Many who know me will mockingly contend that I always kiss the pole…
(but that’s only for big games).
There is also NO eating of any kind before the Yankees score.
And NO ice cream before a Yankee home run.
A Yankee shutout is no fun for starving kids.
Also, when the crowd rises in rhythmic clapping hoping for a third strike…
stay seated!
It is bad karma to get up.
And… of course. never do “the wave”!!!
That might be fine for Shea (the one-time home of the NY Mutts) , but not in MY stadium.
And finally….
Never, ever…
no matter what the score or the weather,
leave a game early!
What if , (God forbid), Yanks are down 12-0,
and you miss an amazing comeback, or…
they lose 12-1, BUT…,
the lone run comes from the first ball ever hit out of MY Yankee Stadium!?!
It's all in the family
While most of my early visits to my stadium were with friends or my entire family,
I do vividly recall one unforgettable time when it was just my Dad and I going to a game.
That was special.
My dad owned a linoleum store in the Bronx and worked almost every day…and night.
It was rare that we got to spend any private time together, let alone a visit to MY stadium.
But someone had given him tickets to see the Red Sox play the Yanks in a night game.
And it would be just the two of us boys, two serious Yankee fans.
I had been obsessed with this major event for weeks.
Finally the night arrived and my Dad actually closed the store on time.
As we got onto the subway (no walking 30 blocks when you’re with your dad),
I could barely contain my excitement.
Only thing was…it was raining.
Pretty hard.
We got to MY stadium, walked through our mandatory right field entranceway,
and found the field covered with that dreadful, dreary, death-like tarpaulin.
The usher showed us to our seats and wiped them dry
(yes, they actually used to do that).
We waited and watched. Nothing much happened.
Except the rain and more rain forming puddles on the tarp and the field.
I tried not to think the unthinkable, but then the voice came.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, we regret to inform you that tonight’s game
between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox has been postponed”.
Sadder words were never heard in MY stadium.
As my tears mixed with the rain,
I suggested to my Dad, with all the hope that comes with youth,
“Maybe they’ll change their minds??”.
My Dad’s perfect response was
“Maybe they will.”
We sat there and watched the rain pelt the tarp.
And we sat. And we sat.
Finally, after about 45 minutes,
I left MY stadium…holding hands with MY Dad.
My Mom made appearances at MY stadium as well.
In fact, as a young lady, she used to semi-regularly attend
(the now politically incorrect) “Ladies Days”,
where for half-price, she could go to a game and ogle her crush, “Scooter” Rizzuto.
I have my own personal recollection of a game with my Mom.
It was “Mickey Mantle Day”. June 8th, 1969.
A day when one of the most popular players in Yankee history would be showered
with gifts ranging from convertible cars to hunting dogs to washing machines.
He would also be showered with thunderous applause and affection
from a packed stadium crowd.
And at some point during the 10-minute ovation,
my always-overly-enthusiastic Mom clapped her hands with such intense fervor…
that she jarred the diamond from her wedding ring out of its setting!
It wasn’t until an inning or two into the game, that she noticed the loss.
At which point, my Dad, my sister, myself and half of section 25
began a furious “treasure hunt”.
After a few frantic moments of digging through
Ballantine Beer cups, Crackerjack boxes and assorted ballpark flotsam,
my Dad emerged triumphantly with the diamond in the rough…
or in this case, the mustard.
In later years, I was often accompanied to MY Stadium by my girlfriend and future wife,
(once she was forced to convert from being a hometown Detroit Tiger fan).
After dating her for 10 years!?...
I finally decided to make the commitment in 1979.
(A year after I had promised her we’d get engaged if the Yanks won the World Series).
After that rather lengthy courtship, I figured the proposal had to be something special.
I had just the thing.
(NOT…an actual JumboTron message!)
I called the office at MY stadium and asked if there was any way
that I could propose on the JumboTron.
In 1979, the answer was a swift,
“Sorry. If we do it for you, we’d have to do it for everybody”.
Hmmm, I guess they’ve had a change of heart…
now in-game proposals are as much a part of the festivities
as “Disco Stu” and the ground crew doing their YMCA routine.
On Old Timers Day several years ago,
my son Adam was featured prominently on that same JumboTron holding a sign that read
“Scooter, my Grandpa thinks you’re great”.
He made his return to the big screen a year later holding signs that read
“StAy- Rod” (pleading for Alex NOT to opt out)
For an encore, the TBS network once zoomed in on one more of his signs:
“Torre Better Stay “.
(In fact this sign was used as the final video visual at the end of the game…
and later featured on the Yankees website.)
Several years ago, when Adam was searching for a topic for his college application essay…
it didn’t take him long.
He wrote about three generations of men - my Dad, myself and my son -
finding a way to bridge the ages and communicate.
He wrote a touching story about three men sharing time and memories
as they sat at a ballgame in MY stadium.
“I got tickets!”
I’ve never had season tickets, but I attend about 30 games a year.
Plus since 1975,
I’ve only missed one post-season game.
Where I sit when attending my games…could be anywhere.
During the days of my Bronx youth, the Bleachers were my usual home.
More times than not I would be waiting at the front of the line to get my 75 cent tickets.
As a rule, I’ve tried to stay out of the Upper Deck (not crazy about heights)…
although I did make my “greatest catch” there.
Leaning over an exit-way and bare-handing a hard foul ball
brought me a large and vigorous ovation…
(which I must say I handled rather coolly,
as befits someone who has caught nearly a dozen balls at the stadium!)
In contrast to the far-reaches of the Bleachers…
I have also sat in what are ostensibly “the best seats in the house”:
Those belonging to a fellow named George Steinbrenner, you may have heard of him.
How’d that happen??
One weekday afternoon in the late ‘70’s, I decided to call in sick and head to MY stadium.
To abet me in my “crime”,
I recruited my girlfriend (soon to be wife) and her girl friend.
Both ladies were rather attractive ,
and when decked out in their somewhat-too-tight Yankee T-Shirts,
always served as good “bait” to attract the ballplayers…
(to whom I would immediately introduce myself) .
Anyway, as we stood by the players’ parking lot, awaiting the players’ arrival…
I spotted a familiar turtle-necked figure hurriedly walking towards the Executive Offices.
While I myself would never be so bold as to approach him…
I did send “the girls” over to remind him that
we “met” him during Spring Training in Fort Lauderdale
(along with thousands of others I’m sure).
The Boss, assured the ladies that “of course” he remembered them (sure…),
and inquired if we had tickets for the game.
When my girlfriend responded that we were just about to purchase them,
he insisted that WE (I was immediately added to the equation)
accept his complimentary tickets.
Moments later his chauffeur, cum man-servant, handed us three tickets,
which I immediately identified as “pretty good seats”.
We entered MY stadium
(through the right field entrance of course),
touched the foul pole
(of course)
and headed towards the designated seats.
As we got closer and closer to home plate and closer and closer to the field itself,
the seats began to look better and better.
Finally we went where few mortals have gone before…
stopped only by a linked metal chain and an imposing security guard.
When I told him that we, in fact, had tickets for the secured area…
he smirked and smugly informed us that
“No one has those tickets”.
Politely, I presented him with the ducats I held in my hand…
and suddenly his demeanor changed.
“I’m very sorry Sir.”
(Sir??? Me???)…
he showed us to the three seats directly adjacent to the Yankee dugout,
(You know the ones where Mayor Rudy or Bruce Springstein used to sit).
During the game, Yankee player after player checked out the VIP’s
(or maybe just the T-Shirts)
who were sitting in the Boss’ box.
Pretty cool.
I don’t always get to sit in the Boss’ seats.
But truth be told, I have always been able to get extremely good seats
for the 30something games I attend each year.
How?
Customarily, I select my games a few months before the season begins
(it’s amazing how many “memorable games” I am able to select randomly).
About 30 years ago, I anxiously ripped open the envelope containing my season’s allotment…
and I was disappointed.
They were merely “OK seats”.
So I figured it wouldn’t hurt to write a note to the Director of Ticket Sales
to see if he could do any better.
And, oh yeah…
I copied my “new buddy” George S.
I guess I wrote a pretty persuasive letter
because in a matter of days I got a phone call from a Mr. Dick Kraft…
from Mr. Steinbrenner’s office.
He apologized.
(To me???? A 27 year old nobody????) .
He told me he would personally speak to the Head of Ticket Sales on my behalf.
A few hours later I received my second call.
“Hello Mr. Skollar…this is Frank Swaine, Head of Ticket Sales for the New York Yankees.
I have been asked to call you by Mr. Steinbrenner. I’m very sorry that you are unhappy
with your tickets for this season. If you would like to come up to the Stadium,
I’m sure we will be able to accommodate your requests”.
WHAT? WOW!
I immediately went up to MY stadium.
Got tickets in the first row in short right field…
plus…Mr. Swaine said,
“Next time call me before the season and we’ll take care of you”.
Double WOW!!
Obviously Mr. Swaine thought I was somebody who “counted” with the Boss.
Fast forward: For the past thirty years I have contacted the gracious Mr. Swaine
and have gotten excellent seats.
Moral of the story…you don’t ask, you don’t get.
(Note: Mr. Swaine retired this year…uh oh).
MY seats
One of the original wooden seats from MY Stadium…
now happens to be currently located in my den!
How?
I won it in 1977 at a Sports Illustrated party where there was a Yankee trivia contest.
I tied with two other people for the best score …
my wife and my friend
(who both copied my answers!).
It came down to a playoff with each of us on stage.
Ha! No copying now.
When they asked the number of games in Lou Gehrig’s consecutive streak
I easily answered…2130.
I won the chair…
AND…
a prized photo with several of the ’77 Yanks
(I magnanimously let my wife join me in the photo).
Can you name them?
Sad memories of MY Stadium
But not all of my memories from MY stadium were filled with joy…
One of my best friends, Sam, called me one afternoon.
After many years of sadness and angst, he decided to end his marriage.
He had told his wife just that very morning and now, while relieved, he was feeling very down.
I told him I had the remedy…
let’s get together some of the boys and head up to MY stadium.
I was certain the Bombers, a few sausages and a beer or four
could take one’s mind off of anything.
We even scored a great parking spot,
across from the Bronx County Courthouse just two blocks from MY stadium!!
But still, at first, my theory proved wrong.
Try as we might, the boys couldn’t get Sam going.
But then some “gallows humor”,
a couple of hot female fans in the row in front of us
and a stirring Yankee comeback…
had Sam back to his old self as the outrageous center of attention.
As we exited MY stadium and walked towards Sam’s car…
we were laughing and cheering and far away from any marital discord.
But then…as we walked up and down the rows of cars,
we couldn’t find Sam’s.
Up and down the same block, maybe 20 times.
But no Sam-mobile.
It was stolen.
The police came.
Sam filled out lengthy reports.
We took the subway home.
Talk about blowing a game….
Anyone who worked for me over the years knew that the results of a Yankees game
would be a big part of how they would be treated the next day at work.
Thus, soon they all became pretty big Yankee fans.
Every summer, we would have a group outing to…
MY stadium, of course.
This one night in 1995, our entire group was there.
We were even welcomed on the scoreboard.
Some of my guys and gals, who hadn’t ever attended a game in their lives
were now screaming their heads off like the most ardent of fanatics.
And…we won.
When I arrived home, I was on a high. Good game, good group.
I opened the door and my wife met me with an ashen face.
She said…
“I tried to reach you at the stadium. Your mom had a heart attack”.
( My parents were vacationing in San Francisco).
I took 5 minutes to pack.
I boarded the plane in less than an hour.
And endured the longest flight of my life.
When I got there, the doctor told me they didn’t think she would make it through the night.
SHE DID!
She survived a coma.
And the “miracle woman” lived for 3 more years.
But she was never the same.
Random Stadium stories NO ONE ELSE can tell.
There were also those times when MY stadium actually welcomed me onto its field.
Me and my advertising Art Director Joe V. (Of course I was batting lefty aiming for the short porch!)
Being an advertising guy,
I tried to incorporate baseball into as many commercials as made sense
(and some even that didn’t).
So one time I shot a print ad for Fruit of The Loom underwear on the field and in the locker room.
Another time, I presented an over-sized check on behalf of Barilla pasta to “Player of the Month”, Wade Boggs.
And finally, I was on the field with my son, as Joe Torre “pitched” for American General insurance
Several years ago my friends threw me a surprise birthday party at my office.
It warmed my heart to enter the room and see all the familiar faces.
Work friends, school friends, family.
And as I scanned all these faces…there was one more familiar one.
He held a strangely familiar-looking painted sign and an old dented pan.
It was “Freddy Sez” (Shulman) !!...
the omnipresent , pan-clanging denizen of MY stadium.
He presented me with an unforgettable one-of-a-kind gift.
Seeing MY stadium has always had a strange and powerful emotional effect on me.
I believe it also imbues me with “special powers”.
Case in point:
The year was 1970.
And like many, many others of my generation…I was in the lottery.
(The one conducted by Selective Service System).
156 was my number.
Not good. Not “safe”.
Along with many terrified 18 year-olds, I began exploring “ways out”.
After many somewhat bizarre considerations,
I decided on applying for Conscientious Objector status.
This precious and rare designation was customarily reserved
for Quakers or sons of clergymen.
Being a nice Jewish boy from the Bronx and son of a floor covering man…
the odds were greatly stacked against me.
But after months of applications and letters of recommendation
about my peace-loving self…
I found myself being interviewed by the members of my local draft board.
Like a bad joke, my board was comprised of
a priest, an army lieutenant and a local councilman.
And there I was … a trembling teen.
As they fired questions at me…questioning my ethics, my principles, my sincerity…
as they tried to arouse my temper and dug deep to determine if I was indeed non-violent
by asking things like …what would I do if someone tried to rape my grandmother
(I was thinking…you’ve never seen my Grandma)…
I stared out the window of my SS office on Gerard Avenue and miraculously…
I was able to look upon MY stadium!!
To this day I believe that I was somehow granted my CO status
because I was inspired by “the Great Ballpark in the South Bronx”.
And finally,
to celebrate one of the most important days of my young life,
my Bar Mitzvah…
my parents and I found a most-fitting venue for the party…
The Park Terrace!!
Located (of course) directly across the street from …
MY Stadium.
To this day, just seeing MY stadium always raises my spirits
…and being inside is my nirvana.
Perhaps it’s because I am back home in the Bronx,
sitting outdoors on a balmy summer evening or hot, sweaty afternoon
and I immediately feel like I’m 10 years old again.
Goodbye old friend
And soon MY Stadium will be gone.
While there will be countless stories, tributes, paeons, homages, recollections
written about the farewell to the “true” Yankee Stadium…
I contend no one has the personal life-inspiring, mood-affecting, memory-filling
chronicle of MY stadium.
I will miss MY stadium terribly…
and for the record,
I am not happy about the new state-of-the art doppleganger stadium set to open across the street.
Will I be there next year on opening day? For sure.
Will I touch the right field foul pole? Of course (if I am able to reach it).
Will I still make my 30-40 games a year? Yes (as long as I can afford the kings ransom). *
Will it become MY new stadium?
Only time will tell…
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*OK, I guess sentimentality can only take one so far.
For this first season in MY NEW Stadium…
I finally got season tickets.
Would love to hear YOUR Stadium memories.
