You Don’t Have to Adopt the Faith to Appreciate the Cathedral

“How about a game at Yankee Stadium? I can get a couple of tickets for an afternoon game. You could take the train to The City,” is an attractive offer from my daughter Sarah.

I check the schedule. Next week, the Minnesota Twins play at Yankee Stadium (on July 5, 2007). A New York City resident since moving from Minneapolis, Sarah has abandoned her Twin Cities loyalties where baseball is concerned. She is a self-proclaimed Yankee fan. I suppose walking into a Times Square office building everyday nurtures elite tastes. Or perhaps she is rebelling against her father’s longstanding anti-Yankee grudge.

I have enjoyed baseball at sixteen major league ball parks, but never in the venerated Yankee Stadium. I accept Sarah’s invitation on one condition: “not one red cent of my money passes into the hands of George Steinbrenner!” I explain my reason: Steinbrenner welched on a contractual agreement with Yankees’ star Dave Winfield’s charitable foundation that supported programs for New York City kids. And George publicly belittled a Yankee player, calling him “. . . a fat, pussy toad.” She groans and agrees.

The invitation is a pleasant surprise. Sarah and I seldom talk baseball, with one notable exception. The summer of 1992 she was taking classes at the University of Maryland where I was teaching at the time. I frequently attended games at brand-new Oriole Park at Camden Yards. One day, Sarah asked why I didn’t take her to a game. I didn’t realize she was interested, so I immediately purchased tickets for that night’s game. Upper deck seats offered a great view of the bright green playing field and orange brick warehouse reflecting the setting sun behind forest green right field stands. We happily consumed Maryland crab cakes and good baseball. After seven innings, she asked to leave. On our walk to the car, Sarah said, sweetly, “Thanks for taking me.”

My pilgrimage to Yankee Stadium begins on the Metro-North train from New Haven (where I spent my summer after retiring from the University of Iowa) while she boards the 42nd Street Shuttle. We meet at Grand Central Station. I wear a bright red St. Louis Cardinals’ cap to express my true baseball sentiments and for easy identification in the crowd. She wears a navy-blue pants suit, wrinkled from a morning at work, and a bright smile.

Sarah guides me through a portal maze to board a #4 Express train. She admonishes me that country bumpkin gawking won’t do on New York City transit lines: “Don’t look anybody in the eye!” Nevertheless, I can’t resist smiling at a little boy, perhaps eight years old, wearing a navy tee with “Jeter” and a large “2” lettered on the back. “Going to the game with your Dad?” I ask. No response. “Well, when you get older you can take him to the game, like my daughter is taking me,” I say with an air of pride. The kid is well-drilled on how to respond to strangers. Sarah rolls her eyes.

We elbow through the crowd at the 161st Street station, down two flights of steps and cross to the Stadium entrance. I am stepping fast to keep up. Dimly lit ramps running to the upper deck reveal the Stadium’s age, presaging its imminent destruction and replacement. Mr. Steinbrenner convinced city and state officials to contribute 500 million dollars to a luxurious new Yankee Stadium now under construction next to the aging one. Dark corners cannot hide chipped paint and rust; the ramp floor is sticky with “used” cotton candy, soda pop, chewing gum.

We emerge from a tunnel into the open air third-deck grandstand. I pause to absorb the full scene. Yes, I feel awe. My attention is drawn to the outfield grass, a lush green contrasting with infield red clay. The pasture fans out to join a royal blue semicircle wall. Behind the left field wall Old Glory flutters atop a three-story flagpole. Three granite monuments flank the base of the flagpole. Behind the...