by Jane Heller
Wang is pitching,and once again there are rows full of Taiwanese people waving Taiwanese flags. I also notice that there are several groups of women sitting together. They are laughing and drinking and having a carefree night out with the girls. Has the ballpark replaced the singles bar? Is beer the new Cosmo?
Wang looks sharp tonight, his sinker making suckers out of the Royals batters. In the bottom of the sixth, the Yankees areup5–1 and the bases are loaded for A-Rod. It is sheer bedlam. Flashbulbs. Cheers. Stomping. Is this his moment? Will he finally hit number 500? He doubled in the third. Does he have his stroke back? No. He flies out.
Lizzie calls in the top of the seventh from the Loge section, where she and Aaron are sitting. She says there are plenty of empty seats and we should come and join them. We are only too happy to move down.
“Nice seats,” I tell her. “You can actually make out the players’ faces from here. How much did you pay for them?”
“Sixty apiece on StubHub.” Like her mother, she has a calm, nurturing demeanor. She is a Yankee fan but takes their winning and losing as part of the natural order of things. I am the freakish She-Fan of this family. I wonder if I was adopted.
It is 7–1 in the bottom of the eighth when A-Rod steps in. A loud clap of thunder erupts and everyone jumps. If he hits number 500 now, with all the sound effects, it will be really dramatic. He flies out.
In the top of the ninth, the speakers blare Mo’s theme song, “Enter Sandman.” As he finishes off the Royals, there are bolts of lightning in the sky. The crowd hurries out of the Stadium to avoid the sudden storm.
Lizzie, Aaron, Michael, and I head down the ramps along with 55,000 others. I have never experienced such a crush of hot, sweaty bodies. The ramps are totally backed up, and once we inch down to the main level I see why. It is now pouring outside, with ferocious thunder and lightning. Nobody wants to go out in such a violent storm, including us. We are not worried about getting wet; we are afraid of getting electrocuted.
“Everybody out!” yell the security people in their yellow shirts and menacing voices as they literally try to herd us out the doors. “You have to leave now!”
We are not budging. The four of us huddle together with hundreds of others who refuse to be thrown out. We have rights. We are not living in a police state. We are united in our refusal to be bullied.
“You people have to leave!” one of the security guys screams, as another Yankee Stadium employee actually shoves a woman outside and does nothing when she slips and falls on the wet pavement.
Small children cry hysterically, which is enough to rouse the normally mild-mannered Michael. He gets in the security guy’s face: “It’ll be your ass if somebody is hurt!”
He is not alone in his anger. But as if to show who’s boss, the security guy grabs the handles on a man’s wheelchair and pushes him out the door.
Our collective rage explodes. We are on the verge of an actual riot, and the security people don’t have a clue what to do. There is no crowd control, no one in charge—until a big, burly guy with a shaved head yells at us through a megaphone.
“Everybody quiet down!” He glares at his own employees. “No one’s going anywhere until I say it’s okay to leave!”
“I hate this place,” I say to Lizzie.
“Welcome to Yankee Stadium,” she replies.
After about 30 minutes, the guy with the megaphone announces that the storm is supposed to continue for the rest of the night, so we do have to leave. He instructs the security people to hand out large garbage bags to everyone in the crowd. The idea is for us to poke a hole in the bags for our heads and wear them as raincoats. I am amazed they don’t make us pay for the bags.
Saturday is another day game after a night game. And since the night game was such a bummer, I am not in a rush to drive back to the Stadium. But we do. We take the escalators to Tier 27, row M. The section is not quite as high up as last night’s, but it is farther away from the action—in right-field foul territory. I can’t see the scoreboard, which really irritates me.
Phil Hughes is making his return to the team since coming off the DL. He is throwing strikes in the top of the first and sets the Royals down in order. When A-Rod comes up in the bottom half, 55,000 people stand and scream, “Let’s go, A-Rod!”
“God, I hope he does it already,” I say to Michael, who is giving the hot dogs at Yankee Stadium another try.
Here is the first pitch from someone named Kyle Davies. A-Rod golfs the ball toward left field. It is not one of his towering bombs, but it could be long enough. The question is will it stay fair? Will it? Will it? YES!!!
The Stadium literally shakes as A-Rod rounds the bases. We are on our feet clapping, chanting, waving our arms in a kind of delirium. Now the entire Yankees team spills out onto the field waiting to congratulate A-Rod. On his way toward home plate, he looks up into the stands and blows a kiss to someone. His wife? The stripper? Scott Boras? After he is mobbed by his teammates, he joins them back in the dugout, then comes out for a curtain call. But it is not the usual doffing of the cap. His arms are outstretched in appreciation of the crowd—and probably with relief that the whole ordeal is over. He is the third player, after the Babe and the Mick, to hit 500 homers in pinstripes. What is more, the Yankees trounce Kansas City 16–8.
We listen to A-Rod’s press conference in the car on the way back to my mother’s. He sounds awed both by his feat and by the fans’ support. “To wear this uniform and do it here, that is so special,” he says. “I’ve had some good times and had some rough times, and a day like today brings it full circle, and maybe there’s a happy ending for me somewhere.”
“What do you think?” I ask Michael as we pull into Mom’s driveway. “Will he opt out of his contract and leave New York?”
“I could care less,” he says.“I wouldn’t mind taking a night off from baseball.”
I pat his arm. “We’ll have dinner and focus on other things.”
When we get inside the house, we see that my mother has set up tray tables in front of the TV in her bedroom. “I heard about A-Rod’s homer on the news!” she says, her face flushed with excitement. “I missed the game this afternoon, so I was hoping we could eat dinner and watch the rerun of it tonight. You don’t mind, do you?”
Sunday is getaway day. There is a 1:05 game in the Bronx, the finale against Kansas City, but we will not make our flight to Toronto if we go. So we watch it on TV with Mom. Mussina is sharp over six-plus innings, and Matsui and Melky homer. The Yankees win 8–5 and sweep the Royals.
We finish packing, load up the car, and say good-bye to my mother.
“Thanks for having us.” I hug her. She is so small, and I feel a lump in my throat the way I always do when I leave her. At 90, every visit with her is a gift. But I will be back in New York for the next home stands.
I hug her again. We endured the usual mother-daughter power struggles over the years, but now we are much more than mother and daughter; we are friends, too. In fact, she is probably my best friend other than Michael. I know with absolute certainty that she would do anything for me; that I could tell her anything; that she is always in my corner. There is only one lingering issue between us: She insists that Bernie Williams should still be on the Yankees. I try to explain that his numbers suggest otherwise, but she will not yield on this point.
When Michael and I arrive at the Air Canada terminal for our 6:30 flight to Toronto, I ask the agent about the flight’s equipment, our seats, my usual routine. She says the equipment is an Embraer 175. I gasp, having only heard of Boeings and Airbuses.
“You don’t like small planes?” she asks.
I tell Michael I will meet him at the gate and go in search of the bar.
I sit between two overweight guys downing scotches and order a glass of Pinot Grigio. Facing me is a bank of TV screens, one of which is tuned to the YES Network. YES is showing one of their “classics,” and it happens to be the game the Yankees played right after Thurman Munson was
killed in a small plane crash. All I need now is a retrospective on the career of Cory Lidle, who was also killed in a small plane crash. I polish off my glass of wine, then race back through security to the gate. Michael is standing there, pissed. People have already begun to board. I am not getting on this piece of equipment. But then I see Michael Kay boarding the plane.
“Maybe I can interview him during the flight,” I whisper to Michael.
“I thought you were worried about dying.”
“It would be great to get his take on the Yankees before we all go down.”
Unfortunately, this dinky plane has an even dinkier first-class cabin, and Michael Kay sits in it; we are banished to coach.
After we land in Toronto we go through customs,then on to our baggage-claim carousel. There is Michael Kay waiting for his suitcase.
I put on some lipstick, fluff my hair, and hope to God I don’t stink of Pinot Grigio.
“Michael?”
He turns to face me.
“Hi. I’m Jane Heller.” I stick out my hand to shake his. He is tall and has an extremely large head. “I’m writing a book about the Yankees and following them for the rest of the season.”
“Really?”
I notice another man approaching him. Oh, wow. It is Al Leiter.
“Hi, Al.”
He is quite handsome but seems less than thrilled to be accosted by me at the Toronto airport. I refocus on Michael Kay.
“Are you staying at the Park Hyatt?”
“Yes.”
“Me too! John Sterling says it’s the place to stay in Toronto.” I must stop dragging poor John into every conversation.
“Yes, it’s a great hotel.” He starts looking for his suitcase.
I follow him. “I was really touched by the way you took the time to sign autographs for the kids outside the Renaissance in Baltimore.”
“The ballplayers are so busy,” he says with an air of modesty. “Signing autographs is the least I can do.” He laughs. “Maybe you’ll write in your book
that I’m a nice guy.”
“Absolutely!”
I am about to suggest we get together, when Al points to their bags. They hurry over to retrieve them, and before I know it they are out of the terminal.
We take our own cab to the Park Hyatt, which is a swanky establishment in Toronto’s swanky Yorkville neighborhood. A battalion of foot soldiers rushes to greet us. I spot Cano, Melky, and Betemit in the lobby. They are all dressed up for a night on the town. I overhear Cano asking the concierge for dance club suggestions.
While I am at the front desk requesting a quiet room,Michael Kay is speaking to another front desk clerk. I catch his eye and wave. He does not wave back.
“We have a package for you, Ms. Heller,” the front desk person says and hands me a delivery from Mike, the broker. I open the package. Inside are all the tickets to the games at the Rogers Centre, along with a couple of Fila shirts and a box of chocolate candy. Who needs StubHub?
Our quiet room at the Park Hyatt is, in fact, a lavish suite that Marty’s friend Lisa somehow managed to finagle at a reasonable rate. On the coffee table is a plate of scones with blueberries and cream along with a “Welcome” card from the hotel management. This is more like it.
AL EAST STANDINGS/AUGUST 5
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 68 43 .613 —
NEW YORK 61 50 .550 7.0
TORONTO 56 54 .509 11.5
BALTIMORE 52 58 .473 15.5
TAMPA BAY 42 68 .382 25.5
Week 19 August 6, 2007
Clemens was pitching a two-hitter when he hit Rios. But that’s what being a teammate is all about. You don’t care about your numbers. You care about taking care of your guy. The average fan will never understand the magnitude of what he brought us.
I wake up on Monday morning from an odd dream. I was trying to solve a mystery, and the person who was helping me was Eric Berson, my college boyfriend from the University of Rochester. Since I believe in signs and portents and omens, I took Eric’s presence in the dream as my cue to track him down. Never mind that I have not seen or spoken to him in years. He once told me he had a part ownership in some pro sports team. Maybe he can get me access to the Yankees.
I Google him and find his Web site. I e-mail him and he calls me!
“Holy shit!” he says. “This is a surprise.”
“How are you?”
He reels off all his successful business ventures, including Greeniacs, an international organization that educates the public about environmental issues. In college he was the kid who never studied, never even bought the textbooks, and still ended up with a 4.0 average. It is not a shock that he has done well in his life.
I explain about the book and ask if he has any influence with the Yankees.
“I’m still semi-involved with the 49ers, but it gets me restaurant reservations and not much else.”
“Too bad. The Yankees won’t give me press passes to the games.”
“Oh, kid,” he says as if he is my much smarter, older brother. “Don’t torture yourself. Just buy the tickets.”
At noon, Michael and I take a cab to the Rogers Centre, where the first pitch is scheduled for 1:07 p.m. We gaze up at the mammoth domed stadium, which is directly behind one of the world’s tallest structures, the CN Tower. We follow the crowd up the stairs and around and around in search of our gate. We pass a panhandler wearing a wool plaid kilt and playing the bagpipes. The temperature is in the 90s.
Inside the stadium, whose roof is open for the sunny day game, we find a food court and buy lunch. Our cashier charges us $120 for a couple of subs. We point out his mistake.
“I had a brain cramp, eh?” he says, changing our tab to $20.
We find our seats, which are excellent. We are right on the field, on the third base side, about 20 rows back. After being in the up-up-up there section for so many days, I am in heaven.
The Rogers Centre is hardly charming like Camden Yards. It is a functional dome with a retractable roof, not an old-timey-looking ballpark, and there is artificial turf where real grass is supposed to be. But it is comfortable and easy to navigate, and the scoreboard is a technological wonder, as sleek as a plasma TV monitor with perfect resolution. And there are glass-enclosed restaurants overlooking center field that I put on my list of places to try.
David Beckham and some of his Galaxy teammates throw out the first pitch, since they are in town to play the Toronto team. Becks gets booed. He is the A-Rod of soccer.
Next up: two national anthems are sung—ours and “O Canada.”
This is the first game in Toronto since A-Rod yelled something in May that made Howie Clark drop the ball, and the Jays waste no time in retaliating. Jesse Kitsch throws his first pitch behind A-Rod.
Toronto scores three runs off Pettitte, who gets lifted in the sixth for someone named Jim Brower. Apparently,Myers has been designated for assignment—his punishment for not getting lefties out—and Brower is his replacement. Mo comes on in the ninth and strikes out the side: Rios, Wells, and the Big Hurt. Impressive, even for Mo. The Yankees win 5–4 and are only a half game behind Detroit for the wild card.
Back at the Park Hyatt, I leave a message for John Sterling inviting him to join us for dinner at Spuntini, the Italian place the concierge recommended.
He calls right back. “The bad news is I’m busy for dinner tonight. The good news I’m going to Spuntini. It’s one of Joe Torre’s favorite restaurants, and he’s having a team dinner in a private room. So I’ll come out and say hello.”
I pump my fist.
“What’s going on?” Michael asks.
“The Yankees are having dinner in a private room at Spuntini! This is my big chance to meet them!”
“Are you planning to pop out of a cake?”
I take a great deal of time with my clothes, hair, and makeup. Tonight is the night I will strike up a conversation with a Yankee.
We walk to the restaurant. As we step inside, I
catch a glimpse of Jeter and Jorge. They are in the private room John mentioned. I crane my neck to see which other players I can spot until the maître d’ comes over to show us to our table.
“I can’t believe they’re all here,” I whisper to Michael, who is sitting across from me. “If we stay long enough, they’ll wander out and I can—”
Jorge emerges from the private room and stops to talk to the father and son who are sitting a few tables away from us. They all chat for a few minutes—the boy is adorable, managing to look both excited to be hanging out with an actual Yankee and sophisticated enough not to make Jorge sign his napkin—before Posada goes back to his party.
“I wonder who they are.” I nod at the father and son.
Michael is more interested in the menu. “Must be associated with the team somehow.”
“Let’s order a lot of food so we don’t have to give up the table anytime soon.”
We order as many courses as I pray my American Express card will allow, and the food keeps coming. But I don’t want my Yankee to see me with spinach between my teeth, so I keep opening my compact to inspect myself in the mirror.
We are on our main course when John Sterling stops by. He slides in next to me.
“What do you guys talk about in there?” I say.
“This and that. Everybody in there is someone Joe trusts.”
After a few minutes, he excuses himself and goes back to Joe and the guys. I am sipping the last of my wine when I glance up at Michael. There is a large—no, massive—figure moving behind him. It takes me a second before I realize that it is A-Rod who is walking directly in back of his chair en route to the men’s room and that he is making eye contact with me. I actually choke on my saliva. It is one thing to see him in his uniform, on the field. It is another to see him in jeans and a polo shirt, inches away. He is an amazing specimen—not an ounce of flab, just a hard, sculpted, athlete’s body—and his sheer physicality makes him a commanding presence.
“What’s wrong?” Michael asks. “You look like you’re having a stroke.”