Confessions of a She-Fan

by Jane Heller

  Eventually, the storm lets up, and there is an announcement that there will be baseball tonight. Everybody cheers.

  We look for food. It is close to 9:30, and we are starving. The walkways are flooded, and I am not about to start foraging for healthy menu options. While Michael goes to buy a hot dog, I buy the chicken tenders and French fries I have so scrupulously been avoiding. And here is the big news: They are fabulous in the most guilt-inducing way. I dip those tenders in ketchup, and it is like savoring some rare delicacy.

  “I can’t believe you ate the whole thing,” says Michael once we are in our seats, which are in section 338, row 10—our usual upper-upper deck location but on the left-field side. The tarp has been removed, so we must be minutes away from game time.

  “I hope I don’t die.”

  We swiped extra napkins from the concession and dried the seats as best we could. Comerica Park is, like Camden Yards, one of those new/ old-timey parks. Along with the tiger sculptures, the requisite fountain in center field, and a Walk of Fame celebrating great Tigers players from the past, it also boasts theme park–type rides for the kids. But what attracts me from my perch in left field is its lovely view of the downtown skyline.

  “I wish they’d get going,” says Michael. “This could be a long night.”

  They have put the tarp back on the field. I look up, and there is more rain.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” we say at exactly the same second, just as the scoreboard posts the words “rain delay.” They will end up postponing the game and will play a doubleheader over the weekend.

  Back in our room, we turn on the TV to discover that the game will be played after all, and the first pitch will be at 11:06. Maybe a true fan would have stayed at the park in her wet clothes. Maybe a true fan would have stayed up and watched the game in the comfort of her hotel room. But sleep hits when it hits, and it hits me before the national anthem.

  It is still raining on Saturday morning. I bound over to the computer to see what happened in the game. Including the 2-plus hours we were at the ballpark, the rain delay lasted a total of 4 hours and 1 minute. The game itself lasted 4 hours and 24 minutes. Oh, and the Yankees lost 9–6inthe bottom of the 11th inning on the three-run homer Carlos Guillen blasted off Sean Henn at 3:30 a.m.

  I get an e-mail from Mark Feinsand asking if we can postpone today’s lunch until Monday. The time on his e-mail is 5:00 a.m. He says he still has not left the ballpark and plans to sleep as late as possible once he gets back to his hotel. He hopes I understand.

  I also get lots of e-mails from friends who want to know if Michael and I stayed through the rain delay and the extra innings and were still there when the game ended at 3:30 a.m.

  “Of course we stayed!” I write to everyone. “It was the most incredible experience—a baseball game that went on all night! Only the Yankees’ true fans were still there at the end!”

  Michael peers over my shoulder. “Why are you lying about this?”

  “Because my mother wouldn’t let me go to Woodstock.”

  I suddenly remember that I have an appointment at the mall across the street to have my hair washed and blown dry by someone named Betty. It is pouring and there is no point whatsoever in having my hair done, but the salon has a 24-hour cancellation policy, and I do not want to do two bad things in the same morning.

  Michael comes with me to the mall. He takes a walk while I try to make conversation at the shampoo bowl with Betty, a very tall African American woman with hair that has a million tendrils. She is not very friendly.

  “Did you get heavy rain last night where you live?” I ask.

  “Yeah.”

  “The news said there were tornadoes in some places.”

  “Yeah.”

  “There was really heavy rain at the Tigers game.”

  She stops shampooing me. “You were there?”

  “Until 3:30 in the morning. And you know what? I’m going back tonight.”

  Betty is now my best friend. When she finishes me up,she whirls me around in the chair so I can face the mirror and admire her handiwork.

  I look like Dolly Parton, minus the breasts. I have big hair. High hair. Towering hair. I ask her if she could soften it a bit, hoping she will understand that by “soften”I mean“flatten.”

  “I have just the thing,” she says and reaches for something called Molding Mud. It is in a jar and it is a yellow, waxy substance. She dabs some between her palms, rubs them together, and runs her fingers through my big, high, towering hair. “This will keep it looking good for 2 years.”

  Two years? I pick up the jar and read the label. It describes the product as “a sculpting fiber cream best used for dreadlocks.” Maybe Manny Ramirez uses it.

  I thank Betty and meet Michael at the entrance to the mall. He does not scare easily, but he jumps when he sees me.

  “It’ll only last 2 years,” I say.

  We go back to the Hyatt and take naps. Later, I e-mail Kat O’Brien, the beat writer for Newsday. I ask if I can interview her for the book. I think about sending another e-mail to Kim Jones, but then I see she has finally responded to mine.

  “I will try to talk with you,” she writes, “but I’m just not sure when. Things are crazy right now, but I will be in touch.”

  We arrive at Comerica Park at 6:00. The sun is out, and the air is dry and fresh—a perfect late-summer night for baseball. We check out the carousel with the tiger seats. We look at the sculptures of Al Kaline and Ty Cobb and Hank Greenberg. We wander around the Big Cat Food Court, which features a dizzying array of choices. Michael buys a hot dog and pronounces it his favorite among all the others he has sampled.

  Our seats are in section 145, row H, which is essentially Comerica’s bleachers. It is Wang against Bonderman for this second game of the four-game series—the same matchup as last week’s in New York.

  The Yankees jump out to a 2–0 lead in the top of the first, and the Tigers fans surrounding us are not happy. They are drunk already. When they start a “Yankees suck!” chant, they look like they want to kill somebody. We are glad we are not wearing anything with the interlocking N-Y on it.

  When the Yankees score four more runs in the top of the sixth, a group of Yankee She-Fans cheers wildly.

  “Jeter will never marry any of you because you’re ugly tramps and sluts!” one of the boozy Tigers fans yells.

  In the top of the seventh,there is an actual scrum between these jerks and a guy wearing a Mariners jersey.

  “Hey, Seattle guy!” one of them taunts. “Are you a Jap lover?”

  Another chimes in. “Do you eat sushi all the time, Chiropody?”

  I turn to Michael. “Have they not heard about ethnic and racial tolerance in Detroit?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Hey, Seattle guy!” the first one yells. “You got a big nose. You must be a Jew!”

  “Are you Youkilis’s brother?” the second one yells. “Or are you just gay?”

  Michael and I are stunned as the slurs keep coming at the Mariners fan, who makes a few attempts to defend himself but is outnumbered.

  What amazes me is not the bigotry and prejudice I am hearing, particularly from a bunch of fans who have had way too much beer. I am surprised—and furious—that the usher in our section is sitting on his fat butt watching the game instead of taking care of business. What is the point of announcing that offensive behavior will result in ejection if the employees look the other way?

  “This wouldn’t happen at Yankee Stadium,”I say to Michael. “Those assholes would be thrown out in a heartbeat.”

  The Yankees win the game 7–2. They move to within two of Seattle for the wild card.

  Michael wakes up sneezing on Sunday. The person sitting behind him had a cold, but he also stood around in rain-soaked clothes on Friday night. I try not to worry, but it is in my DNA.

  Today’s game has a 1:05 start. Our seats are in section 339, row 18, which is back up-up-up there, down the left-field line.
The good news is we are shielded from the hot sun, so I will not be sweaty and smelly for my drinks date with Suzyn Waldman later.

  Hughes is on the mound today and gets bombed. Granderson hits an inside-the-park home run. And Guillen and Thames both smack two-run shots. Giambi and Cano go deep for us, pulling us to 5–4. But here comes the Tigers’ flamethrowing reliever, Joel Zumaya, in the top of the seventh. The scoreboard announcer proclaims, “It’s Zoooooom Maya!” and the speakers blare Jimi Hendrix singing “Voodoo Child.” Zumaya shuts us down.

  Farnsworth and Viz pitch scoreless innings, but the Yankees’ bats go dormant. We lose the game but remain two behind the Mariners, who continue to cooperate by sucking whenever we do.

  Back at the Hyatt, I change out of my game clothes and slip into a black cotton pantsuit—casual but not too. We drive to the suburb of Birmingham, where I am meeting Suzyn Waldman at the Townsend.

  Michael drops me off at the hotel’s entrance and goes exploring. He has spotted a Borders and wants to browse, then go have a greasy, disgusting burger somewhere. He thinks I should be alone with Suzyn so we will bond, but I think he is just dying for a night off from baseball and me.

  I find Suzyn in the hotel bar, where she is having a glass of white wine and munching on nuts. She waves me over and I pull up a stool next to hers. Like a lot of people I have met, she is more attractive in person than on TV. She has beautiful blue eyes and a lot of energy for someone who has just been on the radio for over 3 hours. I order a glass of red wine. We chat like old friends.

  “I wasn’t a tomboy growing up,” I say. “Were you?”

  “No,” she says. “But I remember going to my first game at Fenway at the age of 3 or 4 and loving it. I was sitting close enough to reach out and touch Ted Williams.”

  She tells me about her move to New York after college and her auditions for musical theater roles and the rejections she got when she was told she was not pretty and blond enough for the lead parts. Her blue eyes sparkle as she talks about landing the plum role in Man of La Mancha and touring with Richard Kiley.

  “Is it okay if I turn on my tape recorder?” I ask.

  “No tape recorder because I’ve had something to drink,” she says. “Another time.”

  “We could do a more formal interview in Kansas City next week.”

  She shakes her head. “It’ll be my birthday.”

  “How about Toronto, our stop after that?”

  “It’ll be Rosh Hashanah.”

  Suzyn and I move to a table and have dinner. We share a salad and sample each other’s entrées and have another glass of wine. It is all very chummy.

  Michael joins us as we are finishing up. Suzyn and I have talked a little bit about our personal lives, and she seems pleased to catch a glimpse of the husband she has been hearing about. When it is time to say good-bye, she and I give each other a hug. We have made a connection.

  Ron Guidry walks by and takes a seat at the bar. He is inches away from us. I remember how George King predicted that Suzyn would be the key to my meeting a Yankee. Okay, so Guidry is a coach,not a current player. He is still a Yankee. This is my moment.

  As Suzyn nods at him, I do some deep breathing, ready myself for the big introduction, and toss around a few possible opening lines in my head. I will be poised and professional. I will not gush. And I surely will not confront Gator about the Yankees’ pitching problems. I will not even call him Gator.

  “I’m going over to talk to him,” Suzyn says. “Bye.”

  That is it. I have been dismissed.

  I stand there, stunned. Michael takes my arm and leads me outside.

  “Guidry was right there! I was right there!” I am ranting in a rental car in a suburb of Detroit. “Even if it didn’t occur to her that a person writing a book about being a Yankee fan would kill to meet a Yankee, whatever happened to common courtesy? Whatever happened to sisterhood?”

  “Maybe he doesn’t like talking to fans and she knows that.”

  “But this was my chance! Time is running out.”

  “You’ve got the whole month of September to meet a Yankee. October, too, if they make the postseason.”

  He is right. There is time. My friend Marty told me there is always one player, and that player is out there waiting for me. Somewhere.

  AL EAST STANDINGS/AUGUST 26

  TEAM W L PCT GB

  BOSTON 80 51 .611 —

  NEW YORK 72 58 .554 7.5

  TORONTO 65 65 .500 14.5

  BALTIMORE 58 71 .450 21.0

  TAMPA BAY 51 79 .392 28.5

  Week 22 August 27, 2007

  Why do ballplayers spit? Nobody ever asked me that. We use saliva a lot more than most people do. We’re always licking our fingers or hands and it tastes like shit, so maybe that’s why we spit. Or it’s because we’re hungover and our tongue is the size of a pillow.

  It is back to the Marriott’s RiverCafe on Monday for lunch with Mark Feinsand and a quick chat with Sweeny Murti.

  Mark is a heavyset man in his thirties. He has the tough-talking, raspy voice of the born-and-raised New Yorker he is. I love reading his articles in the Daily News, as well as his blog, because he has a no-frills, just-the-facts style, and you never worry you might be missing something.

  “I hope you got some sleep after that marathon on Friday night,” I say after we sit down and order lunch. “Were the players pissed off that they had to be out there until 3:30 in the morning?”

  “They hate doubleheaders, so they were just as happy to get that game out of the way.”

  “They’ll never make the play-offs with this pitching.”

  He laughs. “I was a Yankee fan for most of my life, so I understand all your craziness. But I can’t cover the team objectively and be a fan. You can’t cheer in the press box.”

  “Why do some players resent the media?”

  “Some of them think our job is to create as much controversy as we can, to stir the shit, to sell papers,to get our names on TV. But most of us got into this because we love baseball and we love writing.”

  “How about A-Rod? Do you think he’ll stay in New York?”

  “I change my mind every day.”

  “Tell me about Jeter.”

  Mark sits back and glances out the window.

  “I went to cover Jeter at Columbia-Presbyterian. Every year he does this charity where he goes with one of his buddies, dressed up as Santa Claus. He visits the sick kids on the children’s ward and gives them the thrill of their life. So I was the only reporter at the hospital that year—my first at MLB.com. This PR woman was whisking Jeter around,and I was standing in the back. I was told, ‘Just stay there and we’ll get him for you.’ The PR woman started to take Jeter away, and he said, ‘When do I talk to the media?’ She said, ‘There’s no media.’ Jeter stopped, looked at me, and said, ‘What about him?’ The PR woman said, ‘Oh, yeah. I forgot.’ Jeter told her, ‘Give me 5 minutes.’ He walked toward me, and we ducked into a stairwell. I asked him a couple of questions about the day and the charity and then asked him a couple of baseball questions. He said, ‘Thanks a lot. Merry Christmas.’ He not only took the time to realize I was there, but he made sure I was taken care of. Did he break any big news that day? No. But it was classy on his part.”

  “Very,” I say. The story makes me like Jeter more. “Did you have anyone to show you the ropes when you started out?”

  “I had Sweeny. I interned at the FAN, and he was there then. He helped me a lot. Now when I see somebody new, I try to be nice. Of course there are limits to being nice when someone’s a foof.”

  “A foof?”

  “A guy who asks stupid questions. Last year on Father’s Day, some guy showed up and asked Joe Torre what he remembered about his father. Well, do a little homework, guy. Know that Joe Torre grew up with domestic violence and started a foundation because of it.”

  “Was everybody cringing?”

  “It was the most uncomfortable thing I’ve ever seen. Joe said, ‘I don�
�t know if you’re aware of my history, but my father abused my mother and you might not want to ask me that.’ The guy said, ‘No, I do!’ We were all just sitting there going, ‘Please go away.’”

  “Sounds like Joe handled it well.”

  “Joe handles everything well. He makes this job a thousand times easier.”

  “My only issue with Joe is his bullpen management.”

  Mark rolls his eyes. I am clearly a foof. “The Torre bashing brings me back to the subject of Yankee fans. They’re spoiled. That’s all there is to it—ridiculous, spoiled brats. Having been one, I know.”

  “Do you think they’re spoiled from winning or from having an owner who’ll buy them anybody?”

  “Both. Yankee fans have to appreciate how hard it is to win.”

  Sweeney Murti walks over to the table. It is his turn with me, and Mark vacates his chair.

  Sweeny is a handsome 37-year-old—as thin and wiry as Edwar Ramirez. He is friendly and easygoing, and it is not a stretch to picture him helping Mark during his first season with the Yankees. He needs to get to the ballpark soon, so our conversation is brief.

  It is interesting to hear what it is like to cover the Yankees for a radio station as opposed to a newspaper. And, of course, we talk about the team’s pitching woes and chances to make the play-offs. But what sticks with me—gnaws at me—is his assessment of Yankee fans, which echoes Mark’s.

  “Teams will have ups and downs, but Yankee fans don’t want anything but ups,”he says. “The fact is you don’t win every year—you can’t win every year—and the fans will have to deal with that.”

  Have all the championships completely warped me? Have I lost all sense of perspective? Do I really not know how hard it is to win? I remember all too vividly how hard it was to win on the tennis court. I could never shut down my opponent when it counted, never close the deal. Have I become a killer through the Yankees? Have I turned into the baseball-fan version of one of those spoiled, selfish, entitled women who used to beat me in the finals of tournament after tournament? The ones who threw their rackets when they missed a shot and disputed every call that went against them and were so competitive they even had to “win” the warm-ups?