by Jane Heller
To my right are a group of Red Sox fans who came to root against the Yankees. I ignore them—until the middle of the seventh. They have the unmitigated gall to sing “Sweet Caroline” during “God Bless America.” I give them the most withering look I can muster.
The game is another insane marathon that is tied at 11–11 in the bottom of the 10th when Melky’s single scores Damon for the 12–11 final.
Sunday is technically the last game at the Stadium of the 2007 regular season; tomorrow’s is a makeup game. I can’t believe the trip is almost over. I can’t believe I didn’t get my interview with Mientkiewicz, either. It is not as if I didn’t try. Still, my editor will probably hate me forever, and I will have to find another way to earn a living.
It is a gorgeous day—sunny and clear and in the 70s—as if New York is showing us its best just when we are about to leave it. Our seats for today are in Tier 14, row C—the nonalcohol section, about halfway between home and third. As the Bleachers Creatures do the roll call, I chant along with them. “Mel-ky!” “Bob-bie!” “Rob-in-son!”
“What’s wrong?” Michael asks when he sees that I am crying as I shout “Der-ek Jet-er!” along with the Creatures.
“I don’t want it to end.”
I am now part of this place, with all its idiosyncrasies, and it is part of me.
Mussina is going for his third consecutive win since returning from his “hiatus.” The crowd is jazzed, but there is also a somber quality that pervades the Stadium, as if we all know this is an ending of sorts.
Joe appears on the scoreboard before the bottom of the first to thank the fans for showing up this season—over four million strong.
“Now why are you crying?” Michael asks.
“He’s saying good-bye,” I tell him. “You know how I hate good-byes.”
I really can’t do good-byes, big ones and small ones and anything-in-between ones. I cried when Johnny Carson left the Tonight Show. Show. I cried when The Sopranos left HBO. I cried when our exterminator left to become a guitarist in a rock band.
“Good-byes are inevitable,” says Michael.
“Disco Stu” pops up on the scoreboard. He is a season-tickets holder who wears garish shirts and dances like a maniac for the scoreboard camera. He is among the unforgettable cast of characters at Yankee Stadium—like the Bleacher Creatures and Freddy the Pan Man and the vendor who shrieks “Ice cold water!”
Bobby Murcer is up next on the scoreboard. Like Joe, he thanks the fans for their support this season.
“I know.” Michael pats my arm when he catches me crying again.
I wipe my eyes with a tissue. “I’m going to miss them so much.”
I flash back to the first half of the season when I was so angry—angry at the Yankees for being flawed and angry at the New York Times readers for branding me a bad fan. I was a bad fan. I had lost the joy, the magic, the faith. But now here I am at the last real game of the last home stand, and I feel a shift in the way I love the Yankees. I still want them to win every single game, and I don’t know how I will cope if they get into the play-offs and then lose in the first round. But in the meantime, I have spent 2 months watching them warm up, watching them play, watching them walk in and out of hotel lobbies, watching them eat and drink and drive cars and do normal-people things. I have read everything written about them and listened to everything the beat writers have told me about them. I know this team in a way I didn’t know them before. I know they cheat on their wives and inject banned substances into their bodies and are not the role models everybody wishes they were. I know. I know. I know. And I love them still.
The Yankees go up 6–3 in the bottom of the fifth and tack on another run in the seventh. Mussina has been absolutely brilliant.
Viz starts the eighth and gives up a two-run homer to Stairs for 7–5. The crowd chants, “We want Joba!” Joe obliges, and Joba preserves the win for Mussina, his 250th, and for the Yankees.
Michael goes back to the Marmara, and I head over to a bistro called Island to meet Kathy Sulkes, one of my oldest and dearest friends. A television news producer for many years, she is moving to Mexico.
“Here’s to new adventures,” I say, as we clink wine glasses.
“By the way,” she says, “I was at dinner over the weekend with my former CBS pal, Gary Paul Gates. He’s a Yankee fan.”
“Cool.”
“I mentioned your book and how it started with the article in the Times about the divorce. Gary and the other men got all excited and said, ‘We loved that article!’”
“I’m amazed so many people even saw it.”
“There’s more,” Kathy says. “I told Gary you’ve been having trouble getting past the Yankees’ media guy, and he has a friend who can help.”
I laugh. I have heard that one before.
“No, really,” she says. “He told me this friend knows Steinbrenner and can pick up the phone and open doors for you. Should I pursue it?”
“Why not?”
AL EAST STANDINGS/SEPTEMBER 23
TEAM W L PCT GB
BOSTON 92 64 .590 —
NEW YORK 90 65 .581 1.5
TORONTO 78 77 .503 13.5
BALTIMORE 66 89 .426 25.5
TAMPA BAY 64 92 .410 28.0
Week 26 September 24, 2007
If Joe wants to hit and run, he doesn’t have to hesitate with me. Same with the bunt. You’re not gonna ask Alex to move a guy over; you’re gonna ask Alex to do his thing. But I give Joe a chance to manage the way he did when he won all the championships.
Kathy calls on Monday morning. She has spoken to Gary Gates and found out that the person he knows with connections to Steinbrenner is Gene Orza, chief operating officer of the Players Association.
“Call Gary before today’s game,” she advises. “He’s waiting.”
I reach Gary, who tells me he has known Gene Orza for years and plays poker with him twice a week. “When Gene calls the Yankees, they listen,” he says. “What would you need from him?”
I give him a brief summary of my dealings with Jason Zillo. “It’s probably too late, but I would love to interview Doug Mientkiewicz.”
“I’ll speak to Gene and see how he wants to handle this. It’s a busy time for him, but I’ll do my best. Any friend of Kathy’s is a lifelong friend of mine.”
Today is an odd day at the ballpark. The final home stand of the season officially ended yesterday, so this makeup game against the Jays has the feel of the last day of high school, when everybody has already gotten into the college of their choice and only a fraction of the class shows up.
Once we are inside, I spot the vendor we love—the woman who shouts, “Ice cold water!” I tap her on the shoulder.
“You were our favorite vendor this season,” I say. “You really should be on Broadway with that voice of yours.”
“Thank you so much,” she says in a much softer tone than she uses in the stands. “May God bless you for being such a nice person.”
She puts down her supply of bottled water and gives me a hug.
“Good-bye,” I say as she goes off to work. Michael hands me a tissue.
Our seats are in Tier 14, the same section as last night, but since there is only a smattering of people, the ushers tell us to move down and sit wherever we want.
Pettitte is pitching because Clemens’s hamstring is still acting up.
My cell phone rings in the top of the sixth.
“Hello?”
“It’s Gary Gates. I spoke to Gene, and he’s glad to help with the Yankees’ media guy. Send him an e-mail with exactly what you need.”
“Thanks so much,” I say. “I’m very grateful.”
“My pleasure. What’s the score of the game?”
“Four–nothing Toronto. The Yankees stink today.”
He laughs. “Just remember that the course of true love never runs smooth.”
We score a measly run in the bottom of the sixth, but it is no contest. Toronto wins 4–1. We were l
ackadaisical.
Back at the hotel, I read Peter Abraham’s blog. He writes that he and the other beat writers have made hotel and plane reservations in all the cities where the Yankees might conceivably play in the postseason. I have not thought about doing this, even though the Yanks could clinch as early as tomorrow night in Tampa.
“We don’t have reservations anywhere,” I tell Michael.
“Then we’d better get on it,” he says.
We spend the next hour coming up with a zillion different travel scenarios. We book hotels in Anaheim, Cleveland, and New York and flights to and from the same cities. And I call Mike, the ticket broker, who confirms that he can get me play-off tickets. We are covered.
My final task before our flight tomorrow morning is to write to Gene Orza. The e-mail I compose is way too long and convoluted, but I send it and cross my fingers.
On Tuesday morning Michael and I are at Newark airport, waiting for our 10:00 flight to Tampa, when I recognize Bruce Beck, the NBC sports anchor. He is sitting with another guy, and they are talking about Jason Zillo and clubhouse passes and champagne celebrations.
“Bruce Beck is flying down to cover the clinch party,” I whisper to Michael.
“Let me guess: You want to interview him on the plane.”
“Not really.”
We board the plane, take our seats, and strap ourselves in. After we reach our cruising altitude, I get up to use the restroom. On my way back I recognize the man sitting on the aisle in the seat directly behind mine. He is the one who was talking to Bruce Beck at the gate.
“Excuse me,” I say. “I overheard you mentioning the Yankees before.”
He is a nice-looking man in his early forties with dark hair, blue eyes, and a toothy grin. “I’m the chief sports photographer for the Post. My name’s Charles Wenzelberg.”
“I see your pictures every day.”I sit back down and turn around so I can face him. I introduce myself and tell him about the book.
He flips up the cover of his laptop and powers up the computer. “I’d be glad to show you some of the pictures and answer any questions.”
Boy, have things changed. I spent the entire trip begging people in Yankeeville to talk to me. me. Now they are volunteering.
“I remember a great photo of A-Rod and Jeter that ran in the Post right after A-Rod joined the Yankees,” I say.
Charles finds it on the computer and shows it to me. A-Rod and Jeter are standing side by side on the field, looking like buddies, even though they were hardly speaking to each other at the time.
“Everyone was trying to get a picture of them together during A-Rod’s first spring training,” he explains. “A-Rod didn’t have a problem with it. Jeter did. But Derek agreed to it because does the right thing for the organization. I took a few pictures of them, but they looked totally uncomfortable. As Jeter was about to leave, I said, ‘Derek, I need you for another minute.’ He said, ‘Okay. What do you want me to do?’ I put him and A-Rod back together and asked Derek to lean his arm on Alex’s shoulder. But once again, he looked like he was being asked to touch fire without an oven mitt on. I said, ‘Okay, guys. guys. Now I need big, goofy smiles.’ The two of them gave me the smile and I made four more pictures. Jeter said, ‘Thanks. Gotta go.’ He ran off, and Alex shrugged his shoulders at me.”
“Did you ever have to shoot Steinbrenner?”
“In 2003, the Post was doing this glossy magazine pullout. We had to get a portrait of George in Monument Park. He was supposed to be there at 3:30. I got there at 1 o’clock and set up my stuff. I put tape down on the ground so George would know exactly where to stand. Three thirty came. Four thirty came. Five thirty came. Someone at the Yankees called and said, ‘He’s just leaving the restaurant in Manhattan.’ Six thirty came.”
“You were standing there waiting all that time?”
“All afternoon. At one point a security guy called me and said, ‘The eagle has landed.’ They brought George out in a golf cart. He came in, and I took three or four pictures. He had his arms folded, and he was wearing his sunglasses. I said, ‘Mr. Steinbrenner, I really need you to take your sunglasses off.’He peeled them off his face with this John Wayne swagger. I said, ‘What I’d like you to do is stand on the tape.’ He said, ‘I see the tape! I know what to do!’ We wanted him to be holding one of the magazines, so I handed him one. He said, ‘You’re trying to stir up controversy with me and Jeter, but it’s not gonna happen!’ I said, ‘Mr. Steinbrenner, I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He said, ‘You handed me the magazine with Jeter on the cover!’ At the beginning of the year he had called Jeter out for his nightlife. I said, ‘With all due respect, that’s not what I’m trying to do. Would you rather hold the one with Mickey Mantle on the cover?’ He said, ‘Yeah. Give me that one.’ Rick Cerrone, who handled PR for the Yankees then, came over and said, ‘Okay. We can’t do any more.’ I said to Rick, ‘Sorry, but I’m not done.’ I gave the magazine to Mr. Steinbrenner, took a few more pictures, and that was it. After George walked away, three of the Yankees’ people said, ‘Wow. A lot of photographers would have folded in that situation.’ To me, he was just another person.”
“Do you think the Yankees will clinch a play-off spot tonight?”
He shrugs. “I’ll be following them around until they do.”
It is hot and sticky when our taxi pulls up to the historic—and very pink—Renaissance Vinoy Hotel in St. Petersburg, where the Yankees are also staying.
After we check in to our room, Michael’s younger sister Lawsie arrives. She lives in Jacksonville but has driven down to visit with us—another bonus of this trip, since we have not seen her in a while. She is a Yankee fan and can’t wait to catch a glimpse of the players as they leave the hotel for Tropicana Field. We sit on the veranda and watch taxis and limos circle around the driveway to pick them up. Lawsie jumps when she spots A-Rod.
“He looks huge,” she says. “His arms are massive.”
I laugh because I am remembering the first time I saw him up close. I thought he looked huge, too. Maybe I am getting used to seeing him because he is starting to look normal-size to me now.
Before we leave for the game, I hurry back to the room to check e-mail. On my way I bump into John Sterling, who is his usual dapper self in his dark suit with the handkerchief in his jacket pocket.
“Why, it’s Jane Heller,” he says, giving me a hug. “You know, the Yankees have been winning since you came on board.”
I beam.
“I hope you’ll keep going with us into the play-offs.”
I am delirious with his use of the word us. I am a member of the Yankees traveling carnival now.
Back in the room, there is an e-mail from Gene Orza. He writes simply: “I’m on it.” Things really are looking up.
Michael, Lawsie, and I hop onto the 5:30 shuttle, which takes the Vinoy’s guests straight to the VIP entrance at Tropicana Field—a beige building with a dome on it.
Inside, I give my name to the attractive brunette who is presiding over the VIP table.
“Jane!” she says. “I’m so glad to meet you!”
Cass welcomes us as if we are long-lost friends and hands me an envelope with tonight’s tickets. While Michael and Lawsie take a tour of the stadium, I go with Cass to a private lounge, where she tells me Matt Silverman, the Rays’ president, will be in to talk to me.
The lounge is a glass-enclosed space that overlooks the stadium, which, like the Rogers Centre, has artificial turf instead of grass and feels like a very large gymnasium. As the Yankees take batting practice, I survey the place. What strikes me is how generic the atmosphere is. Nothing about the Trop says “tropical.” Where is the funky Florida stuff—the palm trees, the flamin-goes, the kitsch?
Matt enters and greets me warmly. He is a handsome man with dark hair and dark eyes. I thank him for the tickets, and he thanks me for the nice words about the Rays in the Times piece.
We discuss some of his talented players—Scott Kazmir, Ca
rl Crawford, B. J. Upton, Carlos Pena.
“Any chance the Rays will let the Yankees clinch tonight?” I tease.
“No chance.”
Our seats are in section 108, row L. They are way down on the field, to the first base side of home plate, and they are upholstered—like our green Barcaloungers.
Igawa pitches five scoreless innings, A-Rod smacks a grand slam, and the Yankees are up 5–0. I can practically taste the champagne.
But then Joe brings in Edwar for the bottom of the sixth, and he gives up a run. Bruney is worse; he walks in a run and serves up a grand slam.
In the top of the eighth, with the Rays ahead 6–5, Dan Wheeler comes in to pitch. Michael and I remember sitting with his parents during the series in the Bronx, but we can’t root for him with a postseason spot on the line. The Yankees tie the score on an error by Navarro.
It is 6–6 until the bottom of the 10th. Navarro blasts Karsten’s third pitch into the seats for a walk-off homer. No champagne tonight.
At Wednesday night’s game, we are in our seats when Charles Wenzelberg stops by to tell us that George Steinbrenner is in his private box.
“Hopefully, he’ll get to see them clinch tonight,” I say.
“If they do clinch, I’ll try to save you a champagne cork from the party,” he offers.
It is not quite the same as being invited to the party, but it is an incredibly sweet gesture.
Wang is going for his 19th win tonight. The Yankees score seven runs in the top of the fifth. They look determined to clinch. Pena homers off Wang in the bottom of the fifth, but the Yanks keep pounding away at the Rays’ bullpen. When it is 12–2, Charles and the other photographers start to cover their equipment in plastic so the cameras don’t get doused with champagne. With the Yankees ahead by 12–4, Mo takes the mound in the bottom of the ninth. The Yankee fans at the Trop are on their feet, chanting, cheering, and applauding. Ruggiano: Out! Young: Out! Norton: Out!