Above all the game exploits and immortal flashes of baseball heroism that took place there, the Yankee Stadium moment that stands out above all others for me took place prior to a game on an October night in 2001. On that evening, two of my deepest passions—baseball and politics—intersected in a sobering and unforgettable event. The nation was still reeling from the heinous attacks that had devastated a neighboring city borough a few weeks earlier. Determined to show the world that New York was stronger than ever, fans packed the bunting-festooned stands to witness game 3 of the World Series.
The President of the United States, an avid baseball fan, threw out the first pitch. His Yankees bullpen jacket concealed a bulletproof vest as he strutted onto the field. Fifty-five thousand New Yorkers—Democrats, Republicans, and Independents—stood and cheered. Under the advisement of shortstop Derek Jeter, President Bush chose to deliver his ceremonial, and extraordinarily symbolic, first pitch from the mound itself; a cheap toss wouldn't do. The leader of the free world wound, kicked, and dealt: A strike. Recounting that simple and powerful act induces goosebumps every time.
Almost seven years later, with the current MLB season underway, I was unsure if I'd manage to make the pilgrimage back to New York to attend one last game. The 2008 campaign was shaping up to be pretty disappointing anyway, I told myself. I still knew I had to make it back. Appropriately, my final visit to the House That Ruth Built was with my dad. He'd been enjoying Yankees baseball on that plot of land since Mickey Mantle patrolled centerfield. We drove to the ballpark and climbed up to our nosebleed seats on a humid July night. The game got ugly fast; our Yanks were pummeled early and often by the hated Red Sox, but the game outcome wasn't really the point. During the middle innings, we sat and talked about our favorite memories of the place, pointing to the best seats we'd ever sat in, and relishing our many "I was sitting right there when…" memories.
As we left the ballpark, we meandered over to the new Yankee Stadium, still under construction. It will be spectacular, we both agreed, but nothing can replace the original. As we slowly walked back to the car, a telltale lump started to form in my throat before I convinced myself to calm down. There were almost three months of home games left on the schedule. Plenty of time.
Suddenly, last Sunday night, the moment arrived. The swan song crept up on me. The closing ceremonies were executed beautifully, and the game was all I could have asked for: A Yankees win finished off by legendary closer Mariano Rivera. After the final out, the team acknowledged the fans and took a final lap around the playing surface to the strains of Sinatra's trademark Gotham anthem. And that was it. The place where I was introduced to the wonder of baseball, where my team clinched two of its four world championships in my lifetime, where my high school friends and I rebelliously spent senior ditch day, and where a special baseball bond between my father, my brother, and me was born and cultivated—that place was gone. Is gone. And for a fleeting moment on a couch hundreds of miles from the Bronx, NY, nothing—not the latest polls, not the stock market roller coaster—nothing else seemed to matter.
Farewell, Yankee Stadium.