The Valley of Ashes (One Sixty-Two: Day 69)

Writer’s note: One Sixty-Two is a season-long series of blog posts connecting baseball’s major-league players to life’s universal themes. Just as there are 162 games in a season, so there will be 162 posts in this series. Let’s play some ball.

Day Sixty-Nine: Cliff Lee, Seattle Mariners

As the No. 4 train pulled up to 161st Street last night, I wondered what state of disassembly the old Yankee Stadium was in, 21 months after it last hosted a baseball game. I wasn’t aware that the ballpark was gone entirely, that the cranes and pulleys had torn the stadium apart already. So as the elevated train crawled to its stop, I had trouble believing my eyes.

I looked west and saw a vast, empty lot the size of three city blocks. The lot was coated with a ghost-gray dirt cover and surrounded by a makeshift blue fence. Instead of looking like the House That Ruth Built, this looked more like the Valley of Ashes in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Great Gatsby. As I walked down the stairs from the train tracks, I stopped and took another look. This dirt pile over here was right field; that one was left field. Only my imagination could help me see the old stadium that had framed my childhood. Out toward 157th Street, beyond the lot, I could see the old, 138-foot-tall replica of a Louisville Slugger baseball bat. This was where I would meet my brother or friends when we were arriving separately for a game. It was the only remnant left.

Of course, as I descended the stairs, I walked across 161st Street and into Jay Gatsby’s house itself. This monstrous hulk of a stadium now houses all the Yankee home games. It was a beautiful early-summer’s evening, and the pinstriped club was hosting the Seattle Mariners. The fans had filled this mansion up, as they do every night. They were walking around the open concourse, shopping in the souvenir shops (they even have a women’s-specialty store, with lots of Yankee pink), and eating at the Hard Rock Café. I was fortunate enough to sit for a few hours with my brother, Eric, and our dear friend, Neil. They had an extra ticket and had invited me. As we sat in our upper-deck seats, we took it all in – the 101-foot-long video screen, the groundskeepers dancing to the Village People’s “YMCA,” and the cascading levels of seats, running all the way down to the “premium” seats at field level, where one seat costs more than the per-capita income of about 50 countries. In those box seats, Gatsby comes over and serves you dinner.

Out in centerfield, I could barely see the monuments and retired Yankees’ numbers beneath the giant, black-tinted Mohegan Sun Sports Bar. Over in right field, I could see the No. 4 train pass through the small opening between the bleachers and upper deck. But the train now passes that spot after it departs, northbound, from the 161st Street stop. So if you’re riding that train from Manhattan, you don’t get that breathtaking, momentary view of the green field while pulling up to the platform. It’s a view that defined the magic of this place. But times have changed.

Seattle’s ace pitcher, Cliff Lee, shut down New York with a complete-game victory last night. The home team rallied in the ninth, then folded. After saying goodbye to Eric and Neil, I crossed the street on my way back to the train station. As I walked up 161st, that blue wall was beside me again. When the makeshift wooden planks offered a slight opening, I caught a glimpse of the Valley once more. Gray, and barren. On the wall, the words “Post No Bills” were printed in white stencil. A man with a saxophone played a slow blues tune in front of the old park. A funeral hymn, perhaps.

I reached the station, and climbed aboard the No. 4. It had been another grand party at Gatsby’s house, with lots of new money all around. I had enjoyed the company and the entertainment.

The atmosphere, though, had left me empty. It always does in this place.