Ghosts of Yankee Stadium Strike Again

By Steven Lienert

The Phanatic Magazine

Bronx, N.Y. - I've been to about a bajillion baseball games in my life and I've come close to catching a ball just once. So,even though my buddy scored me a right-field bleacher seat for Monday's Home Run Derby at Yankee Stadium, I didn't think I had a prayer of getting out of the
Bronx with one.

For the sake of the story (and the fact that I can't write about Brett Favre again), let's just say I brought my glove anyway.

This was my third trip to House that Ruth Built, and it probably was my last. Both times, I've gone, I rooted for the Yankees because 1) they weren't playing the Phillies and 2) it was like a one-day vacation from an otherwise agonizing last 25 years of being a sports fan.

This time, however, I figured I could wear my true colors and not get crucified. I wasn't the only one. Mets fans were out in droves, but they are waaaaaay more sheepish around Yankee Stadium than they are when they strut into Citizens Bank Park. It's almost as if they were conceding that they were being out-obnoxioused by Yankee fans. Even Red Sox fans were emboldened enough to wear their regalia, and they only caught a little flak.

But when Chase Utley flied out in his first few at bats in his ups at the derby, Yankee fans turned to my friend (who, despite being a Yankees season-ticket holder, held true to his heart and wore a Phillies jersey with me) and I and began heckling us as if we were in the batter's
box.

So I did the first thing that foolishly popped into my head: I loudly guaranteed Chase Utley would hit one to us. I called his shot. I said Utley promised me one. I was lying through my teeth with no possible way it was going to come true.

That led to quite an uproar in Section 37, but that lasted exactly one swing.

Utley finally put a ball over the short porch in right, far below where we were sitting. But funny things happen to people in Yankee Stadium, and the ghosts wanted us to have that ball.

It cleared the fence and landed on the concrete runway that separates the bleachers from the general population (they don't sell alcohol at all to the bleacher creatures) and, thanks to spin, hopped into our section several rows behind us. Thanks to karma, belief, or God having pity on the most stupidest person ever, the ball ricocheted off a plethora of hands, landed in our row and rolled right to my friend.

To his credit, he alertly pounced on the ball, trapped it with his glove, used his off hand to pull the ball out from under before he tucked it inside his shirt.

Meanwhile, about 20 people in close proximity all thought they had a shot at it, and they dove on top of him like they were playing Fat Albert's game of Buck-Buck. I played the part of a football ref trying to figure out who came up with the fumble while pulling people off my
buried friend.

When he emerged and held the ball aloft, it wastriumphant. The people that were heckling us a minute ago were now extolling our virtues, telling everyone within earshot that we called it. All kinds of fans got their pictures taken with us. We became part of bleacher creature folklore. For about two-and-half seconds, we were celebrities in the Big Apple.

The rest of the night was awesome, especially watching Josh Hamilton hit the signs on the wall behind us and to our right. But even on the ride home, as soon as I hit the Pennsylvania Turnpike, I called the local sports radio station because, well, no one else was up at 2 a.m. that would share my exuberance.

I have the picture of the ball saved as my wallpaper on my phone, and when I show my friends the picture of me and my buddy holding the ball, they always sarcastically comment that I don't look happy enough.

Hah. Just imagine if I actually got to take it home with me.

Steve Lienert can be reached at stevelienert@hotmail.com