I was born and bred in the Boogie Down Bronx. Pops loved the Yankees so I loved the Yankees. Not a day passed without a story being told about Bobby Murcer, Roy White, Thurman Munson, Sparky Lyle, Goose Gossage, Catfish Hunter, Ron Guidry, Billy Martin and Mickey Rivers. Pops hated Reggie Jackson but he hated the Red Sox even more. Every time a Bosox lover whined about Bucky Bleeping Dent, Pops yelled, “Reggie Bleeping Jackson won that game! Not Bucky Bleeping Dent!”
When I was 3 months old and asleep in my crib, half of the Bronx chased Chris Chambliss around the bases. Pops was hooting and hollering in our Grand Concourse apartment. His hollering woke me up and made me cry. Pops ran over to my crib, cradled me in his arms, and told me, “Good. You need to be awake. The Yanks are going to the Series.”
When I was two or three, my mother bought me a Mets cap, thinking it was just a pretty Yankees cap. When Pops found out, that Mets cap was never seen again. Why she thought the Mets had pretty colors we’ll never know. I guess chicks dig softball uniforms in addition to long balls. Pops often jokes that Graig Nettles is really my brother’s father since my brother is named Craig. My mother always responds, “Hey, Nettles was a handsome man.”
I think my brother’s first words as a child were Reggie Jackson, Home Run! Whenever he hit the ball, he would run around waving his arms in the air, screaming Reggie Jackson, Home Run! My brother always loved the flashy players like Rickey Henderson and still loves talking about the time we saw a game on WPIX where Bo Jackson hit three straight homers before separating his shoulder diving for a line drive Deion Sanders turned into an inside the ballpark home run.
When Dave Righetti threw his Fourth of July no hitter, Rags became my favorite. There was no one better than Donald Arthur Mattingly. Willie Randolph was always the man and the ballplayer I wanted to be. Dave Winfield seemed to hit a homer at every game I attended as a kid. His homers were rarely of the high, far and gone variety. Winfield’s homers were hit 10 feet off the ground. If a mere mortal had hit them, his homers would have been singles that landed over the shortstop’s head. Instead, they would just keep going until they landed 400 feet away from home plate. Winfield’s frozen ropes always dropped my jaw.
My parents gave my brother and I each a $30 per month allowance when we were kids. From the time I was 13 and he was 12, we hopped on the 4 train and blew our whole monthly allowance attending as many games as we could. For teenaged boys living in a borough that is tough for teenaged boys, there was no better place to be and no better way to spend our money. We were safe with our beloved Bronx Bombers and fellow Bleacher Creatures.
My parents often drove us 120 miles up to Albany, New York to spend the weekend watching the AA affiliate of the Yankees. The only time I ever saw Phil Rizzuto in person was in Albany. He was so beloved by every Yankees fan. When whispers started that he was in the house, everyone stopped watching the game, the seats emptied and the longest lines formed down the aisles just to see Scooter.
Up in Albany and in Yankee Stadium, we watched a four time World Series champion being built. I saw Bernie Williams hit a home run in Albany that looked like it was going to hit a barn 500 feet away beyond the left field fence. Bernie later ended an ALCS game against the Orioles in 1996 with the same majestic stroke. Chills went down my spine when I heard Mike Francesa call that Bernie blast Dimaggio-esque. My favorite former Albany-Colonie Yankee Jim Leyritz became a Yankee immortal when he hit dramatic homers in the postseason against the Mariners and Braves in 1995 and 1996. When the ball landed in the glove of Charlie Hayes for the final out of the 1996 World Series, the vision of Stick Michael and Buck Showalter was realized under the watch of Joe Torre and Bob Watson. My parents, my siblings and I all jumped up and down in our living room, hooting, hollering and hugging each other.
Grandpa was a lifelong Yankees fan who loved to tell stories about his younger days rooting for Babe Ruth, Lou Gehrig, Joe Dimaggio, Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle. In his later years though, he swore off the Yankees for good and became a Braves fan because of “that bum.” He never called the man by his name but “that bum” always meant Steinbrenner. Grandpa laughed and hugged my brother and I when we told him that we chanted “Ass-hole! Ass-hole! Ass-hole!” at Steinbrenner during the 1996 tickertape parade. It wasn’t right to act like that towards the greatest owner in the history of sports but, hey, it was fun, in accordance with Grandpa’s wishes and we were angry at The Boss for not getting Mattingly onto that team so he could have a ring.
Tuscaloosa taverns were where I watched the Yankees destroy the Padres, Braves, and Mets in the 1998, 1999 and 2000 World Series. Red Sox Nation has nothing on my Alabama friends in their hatred of the Yankees. My Bama buds hate Yankees and The Yankees. I always made sure Frank Sinatra’s New York, New York was played on the jukebox in those Tuscaloosa joints when the Yanks won. As much as I loved “Sweet Home Alabama” being played a dozen times a night, it ain’t the same if the Yanks win and you can’t hear Frankie Blue Eyes.
It was in Atlanta that I watched Paul Oneill moved to tears by the faithful out in right field. I will never forget the homers by Scott Brosius, Tino Martinez, Derek Jeter and Alfonso Soriano in Games 4, 5, and 7. To this day, at least once a week, Pops rants about all the mistakes in the ninth inning of the night the dynasty died.
The day the Mets traded for Johan Santana was my happiest as a Yankees fan since Aaron Boone beat the Red Sox. Win or lose, Phillip Hughes, Ian Kennedy, and Joba Chamberlain will make me proud to be a Yankees fan in a way Johan never would have.
They’re shutting down The House That Ruth Built after this season. I have not been to The Stadium since I moved down south a decade ago. I will pay that grand old dame a visit this summer to bid her farewell. I will bow down in unworthiness when Enter The Sandman announces that the great Mariano Rivera is about to toe the rubber and fire his wicked cutter at Jorge Posada. I will get one last, long look at the façade as Ol’ Blue Eyes croons. As the 4 train pulls away and the Stadium fades out of sight, I just might cry as hard as Chris Chambliss made me cry when I was 3 months old and laying in a crib. You can take the boy out of the Bronx but you can never take the Bronx out of the boy. Mets suck! Red Sox suck!
