A Snowstorm in Lower Manhattan

I tell the girls we won’t get close enough to see the players’ faces, but that they’ll hear the roars, see the streams of white paper falling from office windows, and feel a kind of excitement you don’t experience every day. I know this from the last time I tried to see a ticker-tape parade, in 1996. That year, the only Yankee I could glimpse from half a block away was Kenny Rogers, and that was only because he had climbed on top of his float. But the sound of hundreds of thousands of voices echoing through that canyon of gray buildings? The streams of paper showering you from above? That’s why you come to this thing.

Amy and I figure we’ll enjoy the trip more by driving into Staten Island and taking one of the mighty orange ferry boats to the city. It’s a great idea, if only there were parking spots to be had on Staten Island. After finding a spot about a mile away from the ferry terminal, we’re all finally on our way, passing by Lady Liberty and Ellis Island in the mighty harbor.

Walking up to the parade route, I see a sign hanging from the Fraunces Tavern Museum on Broad and Pearl streets. It reads: “See the Magna Carta.” I do a double-take. Say what? The Magna Carta is here, on Pearl Street? If that’s true, I’m starting to feel guilty for walking by, for kind of wanting to see CC Sabathia more than the document that changed the world. I wasn’t really ready for that choice.

We move on, and turn left onto Beaver Street. From here, we can make out the floats as they roll by, about a hundred yards away. There goes Derek Jeter, wearing some shades and flashing his smile. There’s Andy Pettitte, videocamera in hand. Oh, and that’s definitely CC – all 6 feet 7 inches of him. “There’s CC,” a father says to his son, and holds him up. What an impressive man Sabathia is – truly a document all his own.

We wave to Mariano Rivera, as he fittingly closes out the parade. The girls come down off of our shoulders, we take some more photos, and walk through the printer paper, the ticker tape, the toilet paper and the phone book pages. It looks like a snowstorm has hit, and this part of the city has the communal feel of a snowstorm as well. We stand in line for some soft pretzels, which aren’t hot, but oh well. A sanitation worker with broom in hand waits patiently for us to move so he can get started with the hours of work he’s got this afternoon.

There are so many people wearing brand-new Yankees gear, leaving little reason to wonder how the team can afford so many high-priced players. One fan has taken marker to her jersey, writing the words “Have My Baby” underneath the “Teixeira” on her back. Sorry, miss, but Tex is spoken for. Another fan wears a Mike Mussina jersey, calling to mind the former New York ace who joined the Yankees after their last world championship in 2000 and retired after last season.

Back at the ferry terminal, they have decided not to add any additional boats today, despite the fact that thousands of navy-blue-clad people are standing elbow-to-elbow in the terminal, waiting to travel back to Staten Island. We’re feeling the crush of bodies around us. Chelsea is crying. I lead the way as we excuse ourselves and move out of this crowd. A man curses at me, and I ignore him. Minutes later, dozens of police officers arrive as there have apparently been injuries among the thousands pushing forward in that crowd. We’re out of here. So much for the communal feeling.

Outside, a young family like ours is standing along the East River walkway. They’ve left the ferry terminal as well, and they’re taking photos. We chat for a few minutes, and it’s getting back to the kind of day it’s supposed to be, one in which people let their guards down a bit and share a greeting or two. Over at the South Street Seaport, a man is leading a child in a “Let’s Go Yankees” chant. A man is running up to scare a pigeon from behind with his noisemaker. Amy buys the girls some ice cream cones, and that, for Chelsea, is the real highlight – chocolate all over her face, the sweet taste of Haagen-Dazs in her mouth.

A fleet of ferries has arrived to clear out the terminal – anyone for planning ahead next time? – and the girls are ready to head home. Broadway is making its way back from paper to asphalt, and the Yankees are all at City Hall now. Workers are hammering a pylon into the ground south of the Seaport, and a helicopter takes off from the nearby heliport. A guy in a Yankees jacket walks into Fraunces Tavern. (I can hear his chant now: “Magna Carta! dun-dun-dundundun. Magna Carta!”)

A pair of tourists drive by on rented bicycles from Central Park. Amy and I smile to each other. We want to stop and tell them that this is not the way it is here every day. Electricity doesn’t run at this high a voltage all the time in New York. Only when powered by paper, passion and pinstripes.