Crosstown Traffic

Melissa Hughes

To be, shall we say under-employed, during the baseball season is a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it affords the baseball fan plenty of time to take in games. (Those day games during the week, when you have the whole ballpark to yourself, are especially pleasant.) Unfortunately, under-employment doesn't leave many ducats to pay for frequent ballpark outings, not to mention the necessary switch to Bud as your game-time brew in the name of economy. Ugh.

When my friends proposed a trip to Yankee Stadium, I yawned. They were due to play the Kansas City Royals on this particular fine, sunny Saturday, so the only unknown was not who would win, for the Yankees surely would, but by how much. Think point spread.

I considered. I've been to the park that natives refer to simply as "The Stadium," despite the fact that, yes, there is another ballclub in this town, and yes, they too have a stadium. Anyone who has ever seen Shea Stadium knows that the two are seldom confused. One is a monument to the sport, rich in history, if not structural stability, while the other is as municipal a stadium as they come. Another difference is price.

"Sorry, guys, too rich for my blood."

"We're getting bleacher seats."

Hmm. I've been to Yankee Stadium before, though never without burly escort, but I've never braved the bleacher seats. I'd heard all the stories of carnage and debauchery, but it was a day game - how bad could it be? Off to the number 4 train we went. As we rode, I made certain to tuck away any indications on my person that I am a Mets fan (tattoos, insignias, etc.) I love my team, but I am not prepared to die for them on the number 4.

I was pleasantly surprised that the bleacher seats were only $7 - until I sat down. They really are bleachers, and they really are uncomfortable for waiting out those marathon American League games. And it didn't occur to me until it was too late that the last place shade reaches as the sun sets behind the plate is - you guessed it - the bleachers. If they need a poster child for skin cancer, I'm crispy and available.

And talk about exile. Siberia doesn't begin to describe it. It's like you've done wrong and the penalty is banishment. The angle was disorienting, akin to sitting backwards on a train. Don't even think about catching a ball in this deity-of-your-choice-forsaken place. The bleachers are behind each bullpen - way back. Even with binoculars, I still couldn't see who was at the plate. This explains why nobody in the bleachers was keeping score.

The animals of this habitat have acclimated to their environment. They pay rapt attention to the general goings-on of the game. In a way they're forced to, because they're denied the details. In the bleachers, your reactions are based on those of the other fans in the stadium (you're facing them instead of the field) so they may be a little, well, delayed. You can't see the DiamondVision, or the plate for that matter. You know something good happened, you're not sure what, and you don't even really care. Just wait for your cue and start cheering like mad.

It baffles me that these fans can still even conjure up the ardor to cheer for a team that just seems to win so effortlessly, but there was no lack of enthusiasm. "SCO-ott BRO-sius," CLAP CLAP clap clap clap.

Security took their work very seriously. They hauled a fellow away for smoking - a cigarette. Remember, people: bleacher seats are non-smoking all the way. Leave the smokes at home.

When you can hardly make out the plate, it's hard to keep your mind on the game. You start to experiment with limb placement in an attempt to gain some comfort on the thin slab of plastic that is your seat. One arrangement left my posterior end dangling from the edge of one seat, while resting my head on the edge of the seat behind me. Blue sky, clouds, and Old Glory just above my head waving gaily to right.

Something struck me funny about that scene until I realized what was missing. At Shea, planes taking off from nearby LaGuardia Airport regularly supply a unique ambient sound. This was perfectly serene and quiet, without so much as the crack of bat on ball to disturb me. That is, until Random Rowdy Guy suggested, "You shouldn't lay like that. It might give guys ideas." He snickered, and his girlfriend laughed with him.

Perhaps most amusing were the verbal exchanges that took place. One of the groups in attendance was a college fraternity. They cheered lustily for their team throughout the game, but the cheering was redirected toward one of their own as he removed his shirt. "Take it off," they shouted, which he did, revealing much thick, coarse, dark, curling hair, front and back. "Now take off the sweater!"

These taunts were nothing compared to the ones they hurled at the relievers warming up in the Kansas City bullpen. I'd repeat them, but Strikethree.com would just as soon avoid an NC-17 rating. Anyway, I assure you that no Royals were harmed in the making of this 14-1 Yankees win.

Melissa Hughes just had a birthday and was so pleased when the nice concessionaires at Yankee Stadium carded her. Tell her she's aging well and send her an ASCII birthday cake at mh@strikethree.com.