Last night was the final game at Yankee Stadium. I caught a bit of it on TV.
I remember the first time I went there, in 1981, struck at how vibrant the colors were — the rich green of the outfield against the deep ochre of the base path, with the stark white of the Yankees home uniform — when compared to the images that I had grown up with on TV.
I remember the last time I went there, in 1999, with
I didn’t get to the Stadium as often as I’d have liked to — but it still formed a big part of my life, through countless games on the television forming the background of thousands of family memories. Weekend gatherings at my grandmother’s are mixed with memories ranging from the George Brett Pine Tar game to David Wells’ pitching his Perfect Game. My grandmother had a print commemorating the construction of the stadium in 1923, hanging on the landing of the stairwell in her house.
Last night was the last game — the Yankees will have a new stadium, but it will be a soulless corporate monstrosity, with more luxury boxes and no sense of history. The *real* Yankee stadium, the stadium that gave its final bow last night, was steeped in history: Not only baseball’s history, or the history of New York….but my personal history as well.
I’ll miss it.