Ode to a Pilgrimage

April 18, 1923

New York Giants 7, Boston Braves 4
at Braves Field
Brooklyn Dodgers 6, Philadelphia Phillies 5
at Ebbets Field
Chicago Cubs 7, Pittsburgh Pirates 2
at Wrigley Field
St. Louis Cardinals 4, Cincinnati Reds 2
at Crosley Field
Cleveland Indians 6, Chicago White Sox 5
at League Park II
New York Yankees 4, Boston Red Sox 1
at Yankee Stadium
Philadelphia Athletics 3, Washington Senators 1
at Shibe Park
Detroit Tigers 9, St. Louis Browns 6
at Sportsman's Park III

On that day in 1923, Fred Lieb of the New York Evening Telegram first dubbed Yankee Stadium 'The House That Ruth Built'. And Ruth did not disappoint. In the bottom of the third inning, the Sultan of Swat sent a line drive into the right field seats that put his Yankees up for good against his former team.

It is now 85 years later. And Yankee Stadium's last. Yes, there will be a new stadium. The name is already etched into the facade. It will be bigger, more comfortable, perhaps even more accommodating. But, it will never be the place where Mantle vied with Maris for 61 and Gehrig considered himself the luckiest man on the face of the earth. It will never be the home of Joltin Joe. It will not be the place where a tattered flag flew over tens of thousands of Americans who looked for solace after 9/11. It will not be the place where John Paul II captured American hearts. It won't be the place where the greatest football game of all time decided football's fate in the United States. And never again can we Yankees fans boast that this new stadium is The House That Ruth Built. Is it a travesty that this American edifice will become a parking lot? Yes. But this is an ode, not a critique.

It begins in a relatively new city to baseball and in a state of the art facility on July 21st. I had purchased tickets to Safeco Field for a friend's birthday to watch the utterly destitute Seattle Mariners take on the seemingly more beloved Seattle-Boston Red Sox. The stadium bellowed with Red Sox cheers that made my stomach ache. Reds and blues outshone the sad spottiness of greens and blues. As the game wore on I began to reminisce about the many games I had attended in my lifetime. Not nearly as many as a self-proclaimed diehard fan, certainly, but enough. My mind wandered more. To baseball fields. Softball fields. Makeshift wiffleball fields. And as I lost myself in the green of the grass, I realized that all of my memories of this glorious game called baseball centered around one person, a person whose birthday it happened to be on that day when I saw the Mariners shut out by the Red Sox. The old man.

The idea dawned slowly but surely. For all the games I had attended and for all that I loved about the game of baseball, I owed it to the old man to make one last pilgrimage to Baseball’s Cathedral with him. But, as most of you know, I’m not a particularly emotional being. When the game ended that evening, logic struck; I convinced myself that the idea was a pipe dream. So, I did nothing.

Seven days passed. I said nothing about the idea. Inside my brain, the emotions and logic began to compromise. I had enough PTO (Paid Time Off) that I could conceivably take time off work. And I hadn’t been home in three years. On that seventh day during a break at work, I looked for Yankees tickets. Sold out, of course. I surfed to StubHub, RazorGator, and countless other sites. Once my brain processed the numbers that my eyes were displaying to it, the logic reasserted itself and guffawed at the emotion. Not a chance in heaven, hell, purgatory, or limbo. Oh wait, no more limbo.

Another day passed. The emotion would not subside. The right brain kept replaying the final sequence in ‘Field of Dreams’. Okay, so a little known fact that won’t be so little known after I publish it for all to see… that final sequence is the only one to date that can make me sob. ‘Fine!’ my logic told my emotion. ‘Let’s do it.’ Once I made that decision, only God could have stopped me from achieving the goal.

God helps those who help themselves. And I needed a plan. Well, even more important than a plan was an accomplice. I thought of the perfect one: my brother. For whatever reason, my brother has this stigma attached to him of not being able to keep a secret. To my knowledge, I can’t remember a time when he disclosed a secret – apart from ratting out my father for some insignificant trifle when he was all of five years old. Because of this stigma, he proved to be – as stated – the perfect accomplice. I called him and told him my plan. He thought it a good idea. Thus, we the brothers Klemenz – with help from my brother’s wife – concocted the perfect plan.

Why did I need an accomplice? A good question. You see, my father’s no slouch. If he’s not at home repairing, building, cleaning, mowing, carrying, or otherwise kicking something, he’s out doing one of these things for the Church, his family, or his friends. And when he’s not doing one of these things, he’s out with his wife traveling or watching football. So, if this was going to be a surprise, I had to have my brother corner him for a date to go to Yankee Stadium. It turned out to be August 17th against the Kansas City ‘what have you done since George Brett left’ Royals.

I bought the plane ticket, left on August 15th after much ado at work to ensure that my projects were copacetic, had an exit row seat on the first plane to Indy, sat next to a talker on the second plane to Hartford, met my brother and his wife at the airport, had my brother’s dog inspect me in the car, watched a replay of one of Michael Phelps’s 342 gold medal races at home in my brother’s basement, and went to bed. The next day my brother and I spent time reacquainting – after a three-year lull – and watching movies. Oh, and I had something akin to real pizza, which is hard to come by in these here parts.

By Sunday, I actually felt a little nervous. I wasn’t certain how the old man would react. I couldn’t remember a time when either of us – or anyone else for that matter – had surprised him in a good way. At a little after 9 a.m. the old man pulled up in his blue van and said hello to my brother and his wife. As he stood garbed in Yankees shirt and hat, I walked from the garage and saw his jaw drop. To catch him speechless is itself a treat. We hugged. And he tried to form words. To no avail…

After a brief stop at Dunkin Donuts, we made our way via the Wilbur Cross/Merritt Parkway out of Connecticut and into New York. A once familiar trip for me who had often traveled the same road back and forth from college. But I rarely ventured into the city; I usually went around. Not on this day. We knew our destination.

We passed through Yonkers and on into the Bronx. ‘That lighthouse up there means we’re getting close’ my father remarked. Just around the next bend were the familiar block letters indicating the home of 26 world championship teams. It was an awesome sight in the true meaning of the word. That pipe dream had come true.

We parked, paid too much for it and went looking to have a beer. No beer before noon on Sundays in the city. Odd rule. So, we tried to walk around the stadium. You can’t walk all the way around the stadium. So, we just went in.

‘I love to see the green of the grass’ my father said with a twinkle in his eye. He began talking of his first visit to the stadium back before the renovation in the 60’s. Of our multiple trips to see Donnie Baseball and the likes of Rickey Henderson and Dave Winfield. The story of Lou Gehrig played on the big screen as the players warmed up on the field.

At the beginning of the game, I purchased the first round of beer and dogs. And we watched as the game unfolded. It wasn’t a particularly good game. The Yanks took it to ‘em 15-6. But it wasn’t really about that game in particular. It was about all the games that had ever been played in that stadium. It was about all the history. All the great plays. All the great wins. Even some of the devastating losses. But it was all about baseball. Every once in a while I stole a glance at the old man and watched him as he watched. And for all the differences of opinion, disagreements, and problems we ever had, I knew this memory would be one to overcome them all.

When the game had finished, we walked down near the field and surveyed the stadium one last time. Frank crooned. Cameras flashed. People lingered. After a few pictures, the old man turned to us and said, ‘Ready?’ We nodded and made our way into the tunnel.

On the eighteenth of April in Twenty-Three;
Hardly a man recalls the glee
Of Yankee Stadium’s first opening day.