On Thursday, I went to the first game at the new Yankee Stadium. I walked into the main rotunda of the massive, modernized version of baseball's greatest cathedral, and the first thing I saw was a giant fruit stand. We were 10 minutes from the first pitch, and men and women were circling the giant tables of produce, squeezing pears, smelling mangos and inspecting bananas. Maybe some of them were grabbing a healthy alternative to the ballpark frank. Maybe some thought they'd grab a few quick groceries while at the game. I kept walking.
I arrived at the concourse that circles the field-level seats and took a deep breath, trying to take in the smell of the new stadium -- the same smell my kids will one day associate with the Yankees. I guess I seemed a little crazy or lost because just then, a woman from Yankees hospitality came up to me dressed in full Steinbrenner business attire. She had a huge smile on her face and held a little sign that said, "My name is Deborah. How may I help you?" I told her I was "just fine" and that I knew my way around. I kept walking.
I figured I would grab some lunch before getting to my seat and was excited to taste something from the rumored smorgasbord of dining options offered at the new stadium. I started to walk into what I thought was a food court of some kind when I was stopped because I didn't have stadium suite tickets. I put my face up to the glass and saw that it wasn't a food court but a giant lounge full of flatscreens, gourmet food and comfortable seating. It looked like an ESPN Zone. We were now a couple minutes from game time, but the lounge was totally packed. I kept walking.
I finally got to my seats with my best buddy Dave and his dad, foodless and confused. I'd been anxious about my first visit to the new stadium. I was scared I wouldn't like it, or maybe more scared that it would prove something to all the Yankee haters. Most of all, I was scared that the magic of baseball I grew up with might not lie with something as transient as the players who wore the pinstriped uniform but with the history that lived in the old temple that still stands next door. I've spent the entire four years since they announced construction living with this fear.
So when I entered the stadium and saw the fruit stand, the annoying hotel-like hospitality worker and the over-the-top lounge, I freaked out a little. I thought that maybe, with each exotic fruit purchased in place of a hot dog and with each dollar spent at the Stadium's Hard Rock Café, my love for the game would die a little. I thought that the cushioned seating and gargantuan HD scoreboard would never feel right.
But as the game went on and I stopped paying attention to the bulls--t, I started to let go. I stopped fighting the changes, sat back in my softer-than-a-couch seat and started really enjoying the game.
See, I had this unrealistic expectation that I would walk into the new stadium and it would somehow just feel right. I thought I would feel the way new parents feel when they hold their children for the first time -- immediately connected by some indescribable, almost spiritual bond.
But I was being ridiculous. Change is hard, and when it happens to things you love and hold dear, it's downright painful. Sure, the new Yankee Stadium is different, but for my kids, it won't be. They'll walk in with their own children, pass by the fruit stand and tell the story about how their crazy father, Gideon, used to complain about this delicious and holy stadium mainstay. It's just a matter of time. And being 19 the day the new stadium opened up, I've got plenty of just that.
