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Sunday, Nov 8, 2009
Two days into New York's baseball orgy, the city is cranked up and wild-eyed, but the gunslingers of the Yankees and Mets have only just begun to stare each other down.
Oct 23, 2000 | I'm toast. I'm burnt. I'm strung out on a little white leather ball. Been on a two-day run. My name is Eric and I'm a Yankees junkie. And on Saturday and Sunday nights, Yankee Stadium was my crack pipe. I almost overdosed. I took in that drug till my head felt like it was gonna explode. And it was good. And I'll be back for more.
I was there Saturday night. (No, I did not pay the 5,000 bucks for my seat that some did. My buddy Jilly invited me.) Took the subway up, took the subway back. Longest game in World Series history. Came draggin' home around 2:30 in the morning feeling like somebody who's been screwing nonstop for five hours and then finally comes and it feels so good. In case you didn't hear, the Yankees won.
How good was it? As we arrived, brilliant light drenched a mob scene in center field. The night air was a summertime sultry. Cameras bobbed, cops and security guys squinted and the Mets, dressed in their away black jerseys, lobbed practice balls into the stands. The place was jumpin' like a convention of speed freaks. Everyone watchin' everyone else while the field guys raked and fluffed the trippy green grass and unsealed the pitcher's mound.
I spied hunky Mike Piazza graciously talking to a phalanx of reporters while Spike Lee zipped around the group, snagging them with a digital video cam. I saw Nelson Doubleday, owner of the Mets, surrounded by grim-faced security guys, little coils of electronic communication in their ears. Maybe Uzis under their jackets? And then there was Rudy and Puffy and Calista and Jack and Billy and over 50,000 other frothing madmen come to worship in the House That Ruth Built.
Then what seemed like miles away in the outfield some high school bands blurped some nonsensical marching music, then a bald eagle was released and recaptured, then Billy Joel sang the anthem. The guy behind me said, "He's not singing. He's lip-syncing." Obviously a newcomer to the stadium who didn't understand this vault is so enormous that you can watch the singer's lips move before you hear the amplified voice over the sound system. Nothing recorded here, dude. This is live and happening right before your eyes. That's the point.
Andy Pettitte took the mound and hundreds of flashes fried the already electric air. It was time. Time to watch titans clash. One team established as the team of all time, indomitable, rich, tough and tight-lipped, against a team that has been aching for this, aching for the chance to put all its intensity on the line, to show the fat cats what it means to really want it. Look, the Yanks are good. That's all there is to it. Consistent, quiet and good. But the Mets are dramatic, strong bats mixed with superb pitching, always full of surprises and passion.
The chords of "Welcome to the Jungle" greeted the visiting team, even though it was only visiting from two miles away. This is the Yankees' theme song, a chilly anthem implying a scary dimension never experienced before. Then the roar got louder. And louder. And we're off. For the rest of the night the sound is a tapestry of clapping, roaring, even screaming, interwoven with antiquated Eddie Layton pipe organ tunes, woven into oddball songs like "Cotton-Eyed Joe" and "Day-O." And behind it all "Let's Go YANKEES."
All kind of playful and fun. Except if you remember the Yankee Stadium of the '70s, when New York City wasn't considered the coolest tourist spot in the world but a place to be avoided. The '70s, when guys roamed the stadium halls with baseball bats and you could drink till the end of the game. If you remember all that, then you know that the Yankee war cries come with real menace. Anything can happen in this place. That's why there's cops every 2 feet. That's why as soon as the game is over, mounted police take over the stadium grounds.
