Scott's View - Yankee Stadium
It's easy to hate the Yankees. For starters, if you happen to be a fan of any other team, they've won more championships than your team has. A lot more. That fact itself is enough to foster a healthy resentment. Add to that the Yankees' arrogant, meddlesome owner, George Steinbrenner, who throws millions of dollars at the best free agents year after year to buy a team of superstars that smaller-market teams can only dream of affording, and you have a formula for out-and-out hatred.
To be sure, I've been no fan of the Bronx Bombers over the years. But in the summer of 1990, with the Yanks bumbling their way toward a rare last-place finish, Ron and I were quite happy to spend a few days exploring New York City, and soaking up the history in the House That Ruth Built for a pair of games against the equally hapless Cleveland Indians. We didn't really care who won or lost, as long as the weather was nice and we got to see some decent baseball.
But first, we had to get to New York. Our plan called for Sunday and Monday games at Yankee Stadium, followed by a non-baseball day of tourism, and a Wednesday night Mets game at Shea before leaving town for Montreal. So we decided to do all of the 12 or so hours of driving from Chicago to New York on Saturday. No problem, with two drivers switching off and only one Interstate to take us the whole way.
Indeed, the trip down I-80 was fairly easy and quite uneventful. But by the time we crossed the Delaware River, leaving Pennsylvania behind and crossing into New Jersey, we'd had about enough of looking through a windshield for one day. We agreed to stop at the first decent-looking motel we saw, and save New York for Sunday. Now keep in mind, this was a time before MapQuest, before in-car GPS systems, before Travelocity and Expedia made finding lodging anywhere in the country a snap. Neither of us even owned a cell phone.
And, amazingly, we didn't see a single motel, motel sign, or billboard for a motel in the entire 75 miles it took to cross New Jersey.
This was only our second Baseball Trip, and we still had a thing or two to learn about planning ahead. So we found ourselves crossing the George Washington Bridge into Manhattan at about 10:30 p.m., without a clue as to where we were going to spend the night.
Ron was at the wheel, and I was manning the Rand McNally on navigation duty. We knew we didn't want to pay for a hotel room in Manhattan, so I guided us across the Harlem River and north on Interstate 87. A cluster of suburbs just north of the city limits looked like our best bet. Eventually, we saw an exit that seemed likely to offer a passable motel. Unfortunately, it didn't. I don't recall the exact circumstances at this date, but for some reason we were either unable to, or chose not to, simply turn around, get back on the highway and continue north to a more suitable exit. Instead, we followed what appeared to be a busy road on which we might find lodging. But alas, that road ended in a T-intersection, forcing us to turn onto another road, which twisted and turned until it ended as well, and before too long we were about as hopelessly lost as we've ever been before or since.
One of the reasons Ron and I have taken 18 Baseball Trips in as many years is that we get along so well. We've spent countless hours in cars together, and usually manage not to get on each other's nerves too badly. This, however, was an unusual situation. The neighborhood around us was getting seedier by the second. Drug dealers, prostitutes, and gang members were everywhere -- probably somewhat fewer of them than we imagined, but they were most definitely there. And these two guys in the Hyundai Excel with out-of-state plates and the map light on didn't feel very safe. We began to take it out on each other.
"Where the Hell are we? Get us out of here!" yelled Ron. "Don't you think I'm trying?" I snapped back. We argued over every subsequent turn until finally -- finally! -- we happened upon an intersection which Rand McNally had deemed important enough to include on its atlas. Sure enough, we were deep in the heart of the Bronx, New York's most notoriously dangerous borough. Not a popular tourist destination. Armed now with our true location, however, I was able to guide us back to the interstate without incident. We continued our northbound route and, at the very next exit from where we originally got off, we spotted our salvation -- The Carvel Inn.
We had crossed out of the Bronx and into Yonkers, and immediately the landscape appeared more inviting. And besides, after spending all day in a car and losing our way in unfamiliar rough neighborhoods late at night, we were in an "any-port-in-a-storm" state of mind. We checked in and immediately called it a night, thankful to see the end of a long day.
The Carvel Inn, as it happened, was owned by the same Carvel famous for its ice cream creations. Why they decided to branch out into the hotel business, I have no idea. But as a hotel company, well... Carvel makes pretty good ice cream. Let's just say this place had some serious cleanliness issues. We did spend one night there -- the idea of more driving was even less appealing than staying in this dump -- but the first order of business Sunday morning was checking out and finding a new place to stay. Luckily, a much more suitable establishment (a Best Western, I think) was located just up the road. They allowed us to check in early, and we had our home base set for the rest of our New York stay.
The next order of business was heading down to Yankee Stadium by the 1:30 starting time. Ironically, Yankee Stadium is located in the Bronx, where we couldn't get out of fast enough the night before. But the daylight, the throngs of fellow fans, and the visible security presence made us feel a heck of a lot safer this time around.
As I mentioned before, I'm no lover of the Yankees. But just to walk up to Yankee Stadium is to feel the great history of this storied park. You can imagine the presence of Ruth, Gehrig, and DiMaggio just by gazing upon the famous exterior structure and, once inside, the distinctive white roof trim. It's nothing short of awe-inspiring. On top of that, we had good seats, the weather was beautiful, and we watched the home team come out ahead 5-3. What a perfect way to relax and forget about the aggravations of the previous night.
After the game, we walked across the street to a crowded tavern full of Yankees fans and had a beer. The place was packed, the atmosphere was jovial and boisterous, and we were stunned when, after ordering just our second round at 5:30 in the afternoon, the bartender belted out "Last Call!" Had we lost track of time that much, or was the place really about to close before the sun even went down? Puzzled, we asked the bartender, who explained that the bar stayed open an hour or so after Yankee games, then closed down to allow fans to clear the area, to later reopen for the local crowd. "Trust me," he said, "You don't want to stick around here after dark." Once again, the reality of the tough streets of New York City made its presence known.
The next day we arrived early and paid a pre-game visit to "Monument Park" beyond the left field wall. This miniature hall of fame features plaques honoring past Yankee greats, and all those whose numbers have been retired. This includes the aforementioned Ruth, Gehrig, and DiMaggio, as well as Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Yogi Berra, Thurman Munson, Whitey Ford, Reggie Jackson, and others. We had felt the history here the previous day, but seeing Monument Park really drove it home.
It was another gorgeous day, and the Yankees won again. We left Yankee Stadium with a good impression and some indelible memories of a great historic ballpark.