Another Yankees season is coming to an end and I hadn’t been to a game yet in the 2003. So my brother, Jonathan, and I pick up a six-pack of Bud Heavies and hop on the four-train traveling toward the “House That Ruth Built”. I place a brewsky in a little brown paper bag to keep it real; Jonathan does the same.

“Who’s pitching today?” he asks. “I believe David Wells,” I retort (I say believe as if David Wells pitching is a strong belief of mine). “ Maybe he’s hungover and will pitch a no-hitter again.” My brother takes a sip, gains a bitter-beer face, but on the happy side remembers when he pitched a no-no. Those were the days. Little League Baseball – the second greatest sport there is, second only to D1 college b-ball. We were the Cardinals; Mom was our biggest fan. She probably cared whether we won or lost more than our whole team. My brother pitched as well as playing a Jeter role at shortstop. I, having to wait my turn to play short, acted like Bernie Williams in centerfield, who plays the guitar in his spare time. I have a guitar too, but it doesn’t get much playing time. Instead, I choose to write in my spare time. But back to the lecture at hand. Dad was our Joe Torre, except he smiled. Could Joe Torre smile once? Just once.

An announcer chatted with him, “Joe, you’ve just won your fourth World Series as the manager of the most prestigious sports franchise ever. What do you do now?” Joe answered, “Oh, maybe I’ll go to Disney World, but one thing is for sure. I’m not going to smile while waiting in those long lines and riding the Thundercat.”

It is our stop. The train doors slide open and I can smell the Yankee Stadium hot dogs already, which means I can feel my pockets being emptied. We say these dogs are so delicious. They are good, but they better be good - it costs like $3.50 a dog! Dog bites man!! Three bites later it’s gone. That means it costs over $1.50 a bite. The reason it tastes so good is because you’re not going to be eating for a while because now you’re broke.

We arrive in the Bronx (or should I say da Bronx) around 3:30. The game starts at 7:05. Why it doesn’t start at 7:00, nobody knows. I would thank God for that extra five minutes, but I don’t know where he is. I’m not one of the lucky ones who have found him or her for that matter. Across from Yankee Stadium, we gallop into a bar to get wasted. Wait, no - to waste time before the game! My mistake. I would delete the get wasted part, but I’m using a typewriter. I’m old school like Will Ferrell. I expected the bar to be packed prior to a Yanks game. My mistake again. I guess fans don’t flock to the Stadium to see the Tampa Bay Devil Rays, one of the worst teams in the majors. At the bar I look to my right to see “who’s down there”. Oh my god! Is that god? Have I found him? Nope. Wrong again. It is just a woman with a beard and gray hair down to her butt. I offer her a Gillette. She declines and says, “Stop hitting on me.”

At 6:00 p.m. the bar is filled with Yankees fans wearing their Jeter, Clemons, and Soriano replica jerseys. I notice a supposedly Yankees fan wearing a Yankees hat, but for some reason it is red. This pisses me off. If you’re a true fan, then wear the right color hat. Soon we are surrounded by Yankees impersonators wearing the legendary pinstripes; however, the stripes are on hats instead of jerseys. Then finally someone wearing the right colored navy blue hat walks in. But still it isn’t the real Yankee hat. For some reason the Yankees symbol, NY, is shrunk and placed to the bottom left of the hat. I can’t take this anymore so we leave.

We spy a Mickey D’s close by so we dash in to get some grub before the game. “Number four biggie size with a coke, number twenty-five with a beer” is what we hear people yelling. The line inside is long, so I take a seat to let it diminish. It is almost my turn. It seems nobody is ready to order when it’s their turn. The worker with his fashionable McDonalds visor and pleasant expression says, “Next”. The next person looks up to the menu like he has never been to McDonalds. Then orders. “I’ll just have a coke.” The worker denies the request, “We only have Pepsi. Is that ok? (“No Coke, Petsi,” I almost scream, but I realize no one would care.) “Yeah I guess.” The next person orders quickly. He must be experienced. “Any ketchup with that?” The hungry person in front of me answers, “Sure. Ketchup would be good.” Now it is my turn. I’m ready. “Yes,” I say assuredly, “I’ll have an eight piece chicken tender and a Pepsi.” “Sir, we now offer ten tenders.” “Ok. Then I’ll squeeze in the extra two or save them for later. Can I have some barbeque sauce?” I take my seat. Well, I sit down. I’m not going to take it. That is stealing. My on-a-diet brother sits down with his fast food salad. I tell him that it looks delicious. He takes the saltshaker and pours so much that the lettuce is almost all white. I ask my bro what he’s doing. He answers, “Eating a salad. I’m on a diet.”

Now we’re off to the “Will Call” window to retrieve our tickets. Jonathan starts yelling for Will. Will doesn’t answer, but a friendly man, wearing the correct Yankee hat, leads us toward our tickets. We get our tickets checked and get the mandatory pat down by a copper. Next, off to the “Jon” (John?) we go to relieve ourselves before a nine-inning game. Although not really hungry, Jonathan and I still buy the tempting-looking nachos served with cheez-whiz and salsa. I’ve bought cheez-whiz before for home. It just doesn’t taste as good at home as at Yankee Stadium, at a restaurant or even at your best friends house. So we buy nachos and a twelve ouncer of coke. It cost nine bucks. Yeah, that seems fair.

We enter the actual stadium where we can see Jeter, who is stretching and smiling as usual, but he’s focused and is always prepared for victory. I love the way Jeter carries himself. I don’t like him like a teenage girl does. I respect his game. He’s not a showboat like so many other professional athletes. In his book, The Life You Imagine: Life Lessons for Achieving Your Dreams, Jeter says, “his father would tell us that Derek is the cockiest player on the diamond”. He doesn’t show this to the fans though. He lets his game do the talking. We take our bleacher seats and I hear a couple fifteen-year-old girls screaming for Jeter. I don’t think they can relate to my respect for the pinstriped number two, but I could be wrong. I have been wrong once before.

I’d hate to ruin people’s Yankee Stadium experience, but truthfully I would have rather stayed home. First of all, I want to watch the game. It is hard to watch the game when you’re at the game. There are so many distractions. I’ve already mentioned the Jeter lovers who think the Yankees won eleven points to three points. Points no. They’re called runs. Then there are people who boo because the pitcher keeps throwing to first base. The pitcher is trying to keep the runner from stealing and I don’t think that booing will change the pitcher’s strategy. The annoyances continue. We’re at Yankee Stadium so when a Red Sox fan appears it is not pretty. The chants of “Red Sox suck. Red Sox suck” begin, followed by “Yankees suck. Yankees suck”. But really both teams are at the top of major league baseball. I start the chant, “Fans like you suck.” This didn’t go over too well. People start booing me. You know how I feel about booing so we leave after the seventh inning.

We’re back on the train and I’m train-illiterate so I don’t even know if we’re on the right train. Luckily it was the right one and now we’re back to Manhattanville College. A trip to Yankee stadium cost me eighty bucks. What did I gain from the trip? A backache because of the bleacher seats, Cheezwhiz on my new jeans and an empty wallet. However, I did reminisce on my old baseball playing days and gained some train-riding knowledge. I can’t wait until the Devil Rays come to town next season - maybe this time I’ll actually watch the game!