It was the bottom of the fifth at the new Yankee Stadium. The boy of no more than six returned from the bathroom ahead of his lagging father. The boy scurried to his seat and picked up the magazine. He looked up at me and asked, ‘What happened?’
I replied, ‘A-Rod flied out to right. And Cano is on first.’
A bit confused, he looked back at me and inquired, ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’
I looked at him equally confused. ‘No, it’s still three to nothing.’
It was a friend’s birthday, and she had suggested a Yankees game to celebrate. The brunch she was having with friends proved a bit early, so we chose to meet at the stadium before the game. After a quick stroll around the new sports complex immediately adjacent to the stadium – and the location of the old Yankee Stadium – we met up with the crew and entered.
We climbed the stairs and proceeded to our seats among the Bleacher Creatures in section 201. Although we could not see left field from our seats, there were three large screen televisions to our right to aid us should any ball travel beyond our line of sight. In addition, we did not have the benefit of being able to see the giant scoreboard since we were directly beneath it. But there is an abbreviated horizontal scoreboard that extends across the front of the stadium, which gave us enough information about the current state of affairs.
In the bleachers sat an eclectic mix of young and old. Bud Light flowed like water into the cups of most fans. I decided to stick to water as I was saving the extensive alcohol intake for later in the day. In front of us sat an older gentleman and his five year old kid, who was fully garbed in Colorado Rockies attire. As a Yankees fan, I cannot help but feel disdain for anyone not wearing white, navy blue, or the barely acceptable ‘Away’ gray. But, I decided to make an exception as I immediately recognized a father-son outing replete with the father teaching the son how to score the game.
In the middle of the second inning, the father turned and asked if we would watch their stuff while they went to the bathroom. The kid, at that point, was not making eye contact. When they returned with a beer – presumably for the father – and a hot dog with ketchup (such a travesty), play had already resumed. The kid asked his father what had happened fully expecting him to know. I volunteered, ‘A-Rod got out on a five three.’ The father lit up, and aided his son in the correct scoring.
Over the next couple innings, we chatted briefly. They had traveled from Colorado to watch a few games at Yankees Stadium, and they just happened to come for Old Timer’s Day. In fact, the father told me about how they had run into Goose Gossage in the elevator of their hotel. When the kid very earnestly told Goose that he wanted the Rockies to win, Goose answered, ‘Well, I hope not.’
In the fourth, the father asked me to take a picture of him and his boy. I took his iPhone and snapped what I considered to be a pretty good shot of them with the field extending behind them. After I handed the phone back to the father, the kid looked up at me for the first time and said, ‘What happened?’ I answered honestly, ‘I don’t know; I was taking your picture. But I know he got out.’ The boy harrumphed and went back to concentrating on the next batter.
In the middle of the fifth – just before play was to resume – the kid needed to use the bathroom again. Again, the father asked us to watch his stuff. And off they went. A-Rod flied out to right. Cano got a hit. That’s when the kid descended the stairs – with his father lagging behind – and snuck back to his book. He opened it hastily and looked up at me. ‘What happened?’ I told him. ‘How did they get two runs? Did Swisher hit a homerun?’
I made a concerted effort to understand where he had seen the two. The score at that point was three to nothing. The Rockies had five hits and the Yanks had one. The Rockies had no errors and the Yanks had one. I looked at every other number on the board, and there was no two. I looked at him and responded, ‘No, it’s still three to nothing. Swisher’s at the plate.’
As soon as I finished speaking, the crowd roared. Nick Swisher sent a ball hurtling into the right field seats; he and Cano both scored. Amazed, I glanced down at the kid, who was busy filling in the appropriate boxes on the score sheet. I tried to understand if the kid understood what he had just said. But Posada sent a ball to deep center that made the stadium erupt. By the time the roar had ceased, the time to analyze had passed. Instead, the occurrence passed into the realm of that abyss between the sublime and the mundane. I leave you to draw your own conclusions…
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