My displeasure with the Base Ball Club of New York has grown once more, and my temper’s steam now froths over the bill of my suede top hat.
As many of you know, the house that Babe Ruth built over a series of three years with nothing more than a lightning-stricken bat and a hot dog bun will close at the end of this year, and by the end of this year, I mean September 21st at approximately 10:45 PM, because the Yankees are going anywhere this year. Deal with it.
I hope the Orioles win 21-0, too.
You see, I, a native of, like many fops, Upstate New York, recently spent my hard-earned money to travel to the Big Apple in order to see the Boston Red Sox take on the hometown Yankees in the 36th to last game ever at Yankee Stadium.
Now, the game was wonderful. I as a stocking fanatic rooted for my beloved Bostons, and the event itself was well worth my $145 second-hand market ticket. It was what occurred before the base ball game that upset me so and made my hat bill froth so.
Approximately 90 minutes before the presumptive start of the game, my companion and I-we will call him “Dandy” for anonymity’s sake-did what any man would do at his first and final six hour bus ride trip to Yankee Stadium: go see Monument Park.
In all of sport, there is no more majestic, more pointless collection of bronze figureheads than Monument Park.
Thus, Dandy and I waywardly wandered through the tunnels of Yankee Stadium until we reached the general left field area. As we gazed out from the top of the section, we noted the line that peeled back from the Park into oblivion. “Where dost this line end?” queried I to Dandy. “Where dost?”
So we began to walk alongside the line to trace its origins. Until of course some security guard who spoke broken English-clearly a newcomer to the Bronx, possibly Pudge Rodriguez-said we could not do as such.
And thusly we had to discover the end of the line another way. Now, most other stadiums would have signage noting where to get into line for a major attraction, but New York? Nah.
Dandy and I walked up and down flights of stairs until, lo, the line! We scurried to the end. Until of course the lady behind us kindly rudely pointed out that the line wove up the secret passageway another floor.
We trotted up another floor, our monocles steaming from our perspiration, when we finally and truly found the end. This end had to be the end. We were at the top of Yankee Stadium, right field by this point. There was no farther back than this.
So we scurried once more. Until of course a security guard, again in broken English, told us the line was now closed.
FOP!
Defeated, we waddled back to our seats, noting that some man with a bookbag-not allowed into the stadium per anti-terror rulings-was able to get in line after we were denied.
I’m a Yankee, born and bred in America. It’s Yankee Stadium. It’s My Stadium. I want to see the monuments. I want to be able to touch Babe Ruth’s forehead and smell the vaporizing Clemens steroid sweat brewing forth from it.
This was an injustice chronicled for all the ages. My ire for the New Yorks now has a true and personal reason. A reason not just of sport, but of man.
–The Egalitarian
