Confessions of a She-Fan (14 page)

“Not really. He warned us. He said, ‘Hey, if you want to write stuff that's off limits, it's gonna hurt.'”

“How did the story even come about?”

“Those pictures fell into our lap. But if it hadn't been that story it would have been another story. With the Yankees there's always another story.”

“Do you think A-Rod will opt out?”

“I think he's gone, yeah. He did it in Seattle, and he did it in Texas. Now he's done it in New York for 4 years and hit his 500th home run. Time to go find something new.”

“He didn't get a World Series ring in New York.”

“He's not gonna get one with this team. The pitching isn't good enough,and it hasn't been all year. The kids will make the staff better but not enough.”

“My impression of the Yankees has really changed. They're a cold, unfeeling organization.”

“A professional sport is a very cold business—probably the coldest business outside of the Mafia.”

“You're comparing the Yankees to the Mafia?”

“In the sense that it's cold.”

“What's the most bizarre thing that ever happened to you while you were covering the Yankees?”

“It was the last day of spring training in '98. Hideki Irabu was pitching. I came into the clubhouse, and Steinbrenner showed up. I said, ‘George, what did you think of Irabu?' George said, ‘That fat pussy toad.'”

“Do you miss George being around?”

“The
New York Post
misses him. He made the telephone ring at 7:00 in the morning. He'd be screaming at you. ‘Wait a minute, George,' I'd say. ‘I don't work for you. Why are you calling?' He'd say, ‘I'm calling to tell you I'm never calling you again.'”

I laugh. “What's the best part about being a Yankee beat writer?”

“It was February—3 days before spring training and probably the deadest time for the beat writers. The phone rang. A friend of mine said, ‘The Yankees are trading for Alex Rodriguez.' I said, ‘You know this how?' He said, ‘I know a company that's advertising with the Rangers, and they just pulled out of the deal because Alex won't be there.' It was Friday night at 5 minutes to 6:00. At 6:00 I was on the phone to Cashman. I didn't get him. I called the agent, Scott Boras. I didn't get him, either. I called the Rangers. Didn't get them. So I needed a story for7o'clock, and we decided to go with it. The point is that one day the Yankees tell me a journeyman like Enrique Wilson is their third baseman. Within 24 hours it's ‘We got the best player in baseball.' I wouldn't be surprised if Mickey Mantle walked in tomorrow. That's the best part of covering the Yankees. You never know.”

“What's the worst part?”

“What's the worst $1,000 bottle of wine you ever had?”

As our flight lands, George and I talk briefly about my situation with Jason Zillo.

“I just need to interview a player,” I say. “One player.” I tell him about my plan to get together with Suzyn Waldman in Detroit.

“There you go,” he says. “She'll probably introduce you to someone.”

As Michael and I collect our baggage, I realize I didn't drink any wine on the plane. I completely forgot to be nervous.

We take a cab into Manhattan. We are staying in the city for this home stand as well as the next three. Lisa has booked us a very inexpensive room at a boutique hotel in the theatre district. It is 10:00 by the time we pull up in front of the hotel, and we are exhausted.

“This is it,” says the cab driver.

As Michael and I drag our suitcases inside—where is the bellman?—my heart sinks. The lobby, which is as big as a phone booth, consists of a beat-up desk at which a man sits behind a computer. No gift shop. No concierge. No guests.

“I see your reservation,” he says in the sort of deadpan that makes me think he is drugged. “We don't have any deluxe rooms with king beds available.”

“But we booked the deluxe room.”

“I only have the little one with the double bed.”

The little one with the double bed
.

The room is tinier than my bedroom closet at home. I know people say things like that and they exaggerate, for the most part. I am not exaggerating. There is a tiny bed, a tiny desk, and a tiny bathroom with a tiny sink and an even tinier toilet. There is not enough room for two adults, let alone their luggage. But what puts me over the edge is the not-so-tiny roach that skitters across the floor.

I call my sister. “We need to get out of here.”

She rouses herself—it is late, after all—and suggests places for me to call. I call them. Either they are booked or their reservations office is closed for the night. I call my sister back and tell her we will have to look for another hotel in the morning.

Michael and I barricade ourselves in by stacking our suitcases next to the door. Then we place ourselves very gently across the bed, so as not to stir up the roaches or crab lice or other vermin that reside here. Fully clothed, we lie with our arms around each other.

“Tell me a story,” I whisper. “One of your sailing stories.” I love Michael's sailing stories. He tells me the same ones over and over, and they are never boring to me. Not the one about the time he fell overboard on the way to Bermuda. Not the one about the time he sailed to Block Island just before a hurricane hit. Not the one about the time he sailed to the Caribbean on a big old schooner and was marooned on the island of Canouan. I am not sure whether it is his voice that soothes me or if it is the fairy-tale quality of his tales.

“After our Atlantic crossing, we restocked the schooner in St. Thomas and headed south toward the lower Caribbean,” he begins.

Within minutes, I am asleep.

By 8:00 a.m. on Monday
I am on the phone, attempting to find us a hotel that does not cost a fortune and does not have roaches.

My sister calls with a suggestion: the Marmara on 94th Street and Second Avenue, not far from the 86th Street subway station that will take us directly to the Bronx. We flee the hotel-that-shall-remain-nameless.

The Marmara is a converted apartment building that rents furnished studios and one-bedroom apartments by the night and by the month. Our one bedroom is clean and bright and cheerful. I would have chosen a different decor—we are talking about a '60s look with Swedish blond wood furniture and a platform bed, the corners of which keep barking my shins—but I am in no position to quibble.

Tonight is the first of a three-game series against Baltimore. At 6:00 the 86th Street subway station is jammed with both rush-hour commuters and Yankee fans, but we squeeze onto the #4 train. I am sandwiched between two men with deadly breath.

When the train finally stops at the Stadium and we spill out onto the platform, I turn to Michael and say, “I don't think I'm a subway person.”

“It'll get easier,” he says, rearranging his Yankees cap, which is askew from all the bumping and shoving.

We enter the Stadium at Gate 4 and go through the usual security checkpoint. Only this time the guard takes issue with the black bag I have given to Michael to carry. It is filled with rain gear—an umbrella and two slickers. We are not about to get caught in another thunderstorm.

“You can't bring that bag in here,” yaps the guard, who has an angry scar across his cheek.

“Why?” I say.

“Because you can't.”

“You already looked inside,” Michael points out. “We're not hiding any bombs.”

“You're not getting in with that bag. Walk back to the parking lot and leave it in your car.”

“We didn't drive,” Michael tells him. “We took the subway.”

“Then you'll have to throw the bag out,” says the guard with a little grin. He is enjoying this.

I tell him to look at the woman at the next turnstile. She is lugging a large leather tote. “Why are they letting her in with that?”

“It's a purse.”

“Men can't have purses?”

“Oh, now you wanna report me for sexual discrimination?” He flashes me his ID badge. “Make sure you spell my name right.”

I know New York is a tough town and the Yankees are a tough organization. But this guy bites.

“You win,” I tell him, then grab Michael's hand. When we are far enough away I whisper that we will enter through another gate and try again. I am not letting the Yankees keep me out.

The security guard at Gate 2 is nicer and waves us through.

We are in Tier 17, row H—familiar territory for me now. The seats don't seem so up-up-up anymore and the aisles not so narrow. When the speakers blare “The Boys Are Back in Town,” I sing along.

Wang doesn't have the good sinker in the first inning, allowing three runs. But he settles down. The Yankees are up 6–4 by the time he makes way for Villone in the seventh. Ron promptly hurls two wild pitches, and the score is 6–5 for Joba in the eighth. He shuts the Orioles down and pumps his fist. Mo blows the save in the ninth, but Melky scores on Jeter's slow roller in the bottom half, and the Yankees win 7–6.

Tuesday brings new challenges on the hotel front. At 7:00 a.m. we are awakened by construction noise outside our window. And I don't mean a little construction noise. I mean drilling and digging and jackhammering. I call the front desk. Nobody speaks much English here. But I do glean from the woman that the noise outside is the construction of a new subway line on Second Avenue—a project that will take, oh, 12 years.

I call my mother to tell her we are at a different hotel than originally planned. “Susan found it for us,” I say. “It's called the Marmara.”

“The Marinara?” she says. Her hearing is remarkable for a 90-year-old. But every now and then she mixes up names, like when she refers to A-Rod as A-Rot.

I tell her we will be staying here for the next few home stands, so I hope she will come into the city and visit.

“Are you taking care of yourself?” she asks. “There must be all kinds of crazy people at that stadium.”

“I'm fine,” I assure her.

It is a beautiful day, and Michael and I take a walk. I had forgotten how much I enjoy that you can walk everywhere in Manhattan.

Back at the hotel we learn that Phil Rizzuto has died. According to the YES Network, there will be a moment of silence before tonight's game, and all the players will wear number 10 on their sleeves. I am sobered by the Scooter's death. It reminds me how fragile the Yankees are. I would be grief stricken if something happened to Jeter or A-Rod or even Farnsworth.

Now that I am stacking up Yankee media people to interview, I zero in on Kim Jones, who does the TV postgame interviews with the players for YES. I e-mail Peter Abraham to ask if he will pass along her contact info.

At the Stadium for tonight's game against Baltimore, we go right to our gate as if we have been doing this for years. The mean security guard is not around, and we waltz in. Our seats are in Tier 13, row D, which turns out to be a nonalcohol section. It will be a nice change of pace to sit with people who are not drunk.

After the moment of silence for Rizzuto, the Yankees take the field. I can see Jorge kneeling at home plate, praying silently and crossing himself. I have seen Mo pray, too, turning his back to home plate and bowing his head before throwing his first pitch. These small observations are what make watching a game in person so much more interesting than watching it on TV. I also love the interactive “roll call” at the top of the first inning of every game at the Stadium,
when the Bleacher Creatures yell out a rhythmic cheer for each starting player. I don't miss my green chair anymore.

Karstens is starting in place of Clemens, who is serving his suspension for hitting Rios. Jeff goes sour in a hurry, giving up five runs over three innings. The crowd boos him. A pigeon shits on Michael's head. I have a bad feeling about this game.

Baltimore's pitcher, the hard-throwing Daniel Cabrera, is throwing strikes for a change, and the Yankees don't get a hit off him until the fourth. Brower allows three more Orioles runs, and Villone serves up four more. Only Farnsworth is effective, retiring the side in order in the eighth. If he could do the same thing when the score is not 12–0, he would be on to something. It is a blowout for the Orioles, and I am pissed.

On the subway back to the city, a tall, disheveled, bearded man asks for our attention. He tells us he has kicked booze and heroin and crack, survived a stroke, lost his twin babies at birth, and watched his sister get hacked to death by her knife-wielding boyfriend. He would like our money. My mother is right: There
are
crazy people out here. But he also tells us he is a Yankee fan, so I reach into my bag for a dollar and hand it to him.

Wednesday is a day game after a night game. Our seats are in Tier 13 again, the nonalcohol section. The man in front of us is an emaciated old dude with a bleached blond ponytail and white-gray sideburns. He is wearing a T-shirt that says “God,Country and Notre Dame” and a green cap with a shamrock on it.

The Yankees are facing Erik Bedard, a tricky left-hander. Hughes is on the mound for us. I know Phil is a rookie coming off an injury, but he never seems to go deep into a game. With the Yankees down 3–0 in the top of the sixth, he is pulled for Sean Henn, who has been recalled from Scranton along with Edwar Ramirez.

“Ice cold water!” shrieks the female vendor Michael and I have come to recognize. She has a great pair of lungs and works her ass off. She is the most exciting thing about this game, which is over 3 hours old.

But then Shelley hits a three-run homer to tie the game in the bottom of the ninth, and we all leap to our feet, cheering and clapping and chanting, “Let's go, Yankees!” Here is Mo for the top of the 10th. He is coming off a rocky outing, so the crowd is wary—with good reason. He gives up three
runs. As he trudges off the mound, people boo him. They are assholes. The Yankees lose 6–3.

On Thursday the construction on Second Avenue knocks out our Internet service. I march down to the lobby and ask the woman at the front desk why we were not told about the construction when we checked in, particularly when I asked for a quiet room. She offers to move us to a deluxe apartment for the same price.

I hurry back upstairs to tell Michael, and we grab handfuls of clothes and bring them down the hall to Room 505, which faces 94th Street instead of Second Avenue.

I have been thinking about the three girls who lived next door to my brother-in-law in the '60s and had ballplayers from every team at their feet. They didn't get pushed away. They knew how to make the players pay attention. It occurs to me I should track them down.

When my Internet service is fixed, I Google Barb, the ringleader, and find out where she lives. I dial Information, get her number, and call. Her husband answers.

“Hello,” I say. “Is Barb there, please?”

“She's not home,” he says. “Who's this?”

“My name is Jane Heller, and my sister Susan is an old friend of Barb's. It's been a long time, but I'd love to catch up with her.” I don't bring up that Barb was a baseball groupie. I have no idea whether she has told her hubby about this aspect of her past.

“She'll be home in an hour.”

“Great,” I say.“I'll call back then.”

An hour later, Barb picks up the phone on the first ring. I tell her who I am and she laughs.

“Of course I remember Bobby and Sue,” she says of my brother-in-law and sister. “I remember you, too. You wanted to meet a baseball player so badly. A Yankee, especially.”

“Not much has changed.” I explain about the book. “Is there any chance I could get you and Diane and Patty together and interview all three of you? I'm really interested in how you came to know so many players.”

“What a coincidence. I was out of touch with Diane and Patty for a long time, but we recently agreed we should plan a reunion.”

“Great.” I give her the dates of the next home stands. She promises to talk to the others and arrange something.

“Didn't I introduce you to Ruben Amaro?” she asks, as we are about to hang up.

“No,” I say, “you introduced me to Jack Hamilton. I met Ruben Amaro all by myself.”

Tonight is the opener of a four-game series against the Tigers. It is hot and muggy, and the subway station is a sauna. We slip into the train just before the doors close on us.

I am kind of getting into the subway experience. On the #4 train to Yankee Stadium, the majority of passengers are Yankee fans. I love riding along with them, listening to how cocky they are one minute and panicky the next. They can boast about the Yankees, then bash them, in one head-spinning sentence. I get that. I get them. I am them.

Our seats are in Tier 7, row W, which is the second row from the top. The players are little tiny ants from up-up-up here, but we are behind home plate, along the first-base side, so we have a view of the balls and strikes.

When the lineups are announced, we all boo Sheffield for calling Torre a racist. But the one who could be trouble for the Yankees is Detroit's starter, Justin Verlander, who pitched a no-hitter earlier this year.

Mussina looks honest-to-God-terrified of the Tigers, giving up six runs over five innings. The Yankees mount a minor charge in the bottom of the ninth, scoring two runs, but they get beaten 8–5. They have now lost three straight.

On Friday the New York papers are full of doom and gloom about the Yankees' chances of making the postseason. Mussina's performance last night is critiqued, and there is talk that he might skip a start to work on his mechanics. Fine with me, but who will take his spot in the rotation? SpongeBob SquarePants?

It is raining as Michael and I are ready to leave for tonight's game. We decide to wait out the storm and then leave. We flip on YES, and Mike Francesca says the tarp is on the field and the game will not start at 7:05.

It is 8:30 when it suddenly dawns on me that YES is not televising the game
against the Tigers tonight. I turn to channel 9, and there is baseball! They are in the bottom of the first at Yankee Stadium while we are sitting in our hotel!

Michael grabs his rain jacket and says we should get moving.

“But do we really want to go out in that?” I point to the window. There is still lightning out there.