Stuff to See!

Zen's Little Bite of the Big Apple

It's amazing what you can remember about a place like New York City after an eight and a half year absence.
Having looked forward to this day for the better part of a month, I awoke on the morning of July 31st in time to meet my bus at 6:30 in the morning. Since this was the first trip I was taking as a passenger rather than a driver, I thought it would be a good idea to pick up some reading material to bide the time. I ended up settling for a copy of ESPN the magazine, Scientific American, and an impulse buy of The Weekly World News, featuring a cover story of prostitutes who were actually aliens. Fun stuff, and quite informative, although I don't plan on involving myself with any prostitutes. I find the Weekly World News to be an impressive act of complete fiction, perhaps carving out a literary niche of its own: journalist fiction.
The other magazines read as they normally would, reminding me that I need to read Scientific American more often, and that I never need to read the ESPN mag again. Why the hard feelings on the sports mag? Well...it's a huge publication, but for whatever reason, perhaps because it eschews the use of page borders, it looks sloppy. I'd also read many of the articles in the magazine on the ESPN website, which made half of the magazine useless to me. The other half wasn't much better.
The bus trip itself seemed more suited to families that wanted to enjoy a day of shopping, or catching Broadway shows, rather than for single-minded, baseball-obsessed mockeries of humanity like myself. I couldn't beat the price, though, and the ride itself was pretty nice. The bus arrived in downtown Manhattan without incident.
We disembarked right around the corner from Times Square, which was quite a sight, even for jaded eyes such as mine. Wall to wall advertising stretching in all directions almost as far up as the eyes could see, which was tacky and mind blowing at the same time, showed me just how far I'd traveled from my humble burg of Baltimore.
However, I didn't come to New York to take in the sights.
Armed with 102 month old memories of my last trip (spent mostly in Greenwich Village), and a solid knowledge of Manhattan's layout (in that I knew where Central Park was), as well as subway directions to the Bronx, I pretty much cut north up 5th Avenue, looking for Central Park, looking for anywhere to get on the subway, since I hadn't actually marked where I would board either the 4 or the D trains. I seemed to remember that the D train passed to the west of the park, so I figured I'd make a left turn and look for a subway entrance.
So here I was, in the largest in the country, walking around at 10:30 in the morning looking for the subway. I eventually found it on the west side of the park at Columbus Circle, which I vaguely remembered from my last trip.
The subway system has changed somewhat. Rather than using the world-famous subway tokens I remembered, subway travelers were using some cardboard debit card known as the Metrocard. Naturally the Metrocard vending station accepted Visa, so I picked one up and waited for the D train. The train arrived in short order and whisked me from Manhattan to the Bronx in short order, dropping me off a block or so away from Yankee Stadium. After disembarking I donned my O's jersey and hat and made my way to the confines.
Why wasn't I wearing my regalia before? Well, it was quite warm outside, and infernally warm in the subway station, not to mention humid and altogether rather stifling. The jersey I brought was a black one, and while I didn't mind absorbing the rays of the sun when I was actually in the stadium, I wanted to avoid discomfort beforehand. In that, I was successful.
The odd thing I saw right away, spoiled as I am by Camden Yards, was that the outside of the stadium had very little personality. It resembles a whitewashed concrete cereal bowl from the outside, although there are spots, here and there, praising the Yankees storied and highly successful history. I didn't see those spots until I left, since I made a beeline for the closest entrance intending to check out Monument Park. After finding myself in a press inside the stadium, I made my way to the back of the line to see the park, a line which stretched back some 500 or 600 deep at the least, although I didn't count heads. The wait was around 30 minutes before I actually reached the park.
When I was born, I had to sign a contract promising to revile the Bronx Bombers, to wish them nothing but the worst, as long as I was a citizen of Baltimore, or at least that's how I remember things. Since I also remember laughing after being freed from the womb and running around the 11th floor of Mercy Hospital brandishing a scalpel, one might wish to discount my newborn memories as products of a diseased life on this earth. At any rate, my feelings toward the Yankees range from quiet dislike to ravenous and soul-shredding maniacal hatred, mostly depending on the Orioles' fortunes. The O's woes, and a renewed interest in baseball history, have tempered my hatred into a garden variety dislike for 2004, although like a lot of people, I root for the baseball Goliath to be slain by any David who may happen along. As a fan of the sport, though, I respect and acknowledge their accomplishments. As a fan of the sport, I had to see for myself this place where so many of the game's great moments occurred.
I also looked out for Jeffrey Maier, but I'm sure he's out in Brooklyn somewhere smoking crack and nursing a back alley porno career.

Again, regardless of my personal feelings toward the Yankees, Monument Park was something to behold. Yankee Stadium strives to enclose its patrons within its confines and bombard them with the greatness of the Yankee squad. The most effective evidence of this is making Monument Park part of the interior of the grounds, rather than scattering evidence around the outskirts like Camden Yards does, although Camden's architectural goals are diametrically opposed, seeking to bring the entire city, or at least downtown Baltimore, into the ballpark with its patrons. I prefer the openness of Camden Yards, but I can acknowledge the success of Yankee Stadium's architectural intent.
At any rate, there was plenty of photo candy present, and trusty digicam in hand, I bit off a few pieces for myself.

• Entry View of the many numbers retired by the Yankees
• Babe Ruth's number
• Mickey Mantle's number
• Joe DiMaggio's number
• Roger Maris's number
• Thurman Munson's number. Since Munson lost his life just over 25 years ago in a tragic airplane crash, this seemed especially appropriate.

I knew about the retired numbers. What I had forgotten was the second part of Monument Park: the collection of plaques of the Yankee greats.

• Entry view of the plaque area
• Lou Gehrig's plaque. His record of 2,130 consecutive games played did NOT, in fact, stand for all time, but it stood for longer than any home run mark has.
• Joe DiMaggio's plaque. Speaking of records that have stood, who's going to break the 56 game hitting streak record? That one may stand for all time, and only an oh-fer against Cleveland kept Joltin' Joe's streak from reaching 80 games or more.
• Babe Ruth's plaque
• A very nice plaque dedicated to the victims of the September 11th attacks in 2001. Tasteful, eloquent, and pertinent.

After taking in the sights of Monument Park I rumbled toward the opposite end of the stadium where my seat awaited me. En route, I took in one of the restrooms, which was actually in a good state of repair, which is not what I'd heard in tales I'd read. One thing that struck me was how cramped the concourses were, compared to the spacious accommodations at Camden Yards. I must have inadvertently bumped into about 24 people, simply because the space was so cramped. Oddly enough, I heard no snide comments about my attire. Anyone who deigned to acknowledge my enemy colors merely asked if I was up from Baltimore, which, of course, I was. In fact, most of the people I encountered were courteous, or at least not overtly obnoxious. Pity for the forlorn fan of a fourth-place team, or good manners?
One thing I was not able to find in my journey toward my seat was a stand selling nachos. I'd read in multiple places that the nachos were so bad, so god-awfully bad, that I just had to try them for myself. Maybe it's better that I didn't have a chance, but I did pick up a hot dog and a soft pretzel, both of which were passable, although the food doesn't match Camden Yards.
There was also beer at $8.00 a pop. It is New York, after all. Perhaps if I had visited a food court near my seats I could have found some local brews, but to paraphrase Faulkner, the quality of MGD remains the same, although that damns with praise, to be sure.
Perhaps I seem a little biased toward my home stadium, but I don't think that's really the case. In fact, every New Yorker I've talked to about Yankee Stadium vis a vis Camden Yards prefers the Baltimore park, although they'll comment that Camden Yards is small, which it is, in comparison to the cavernous seating arrangements in Yankee Stadium. Perhaps I'm spoiled by the variety my home park offers...if that's the case, I may feel the same if I ever reach Fenway Park, or Wrigley Park, both of which predate even Yankee Stadium. We'll see if and when I get there.
I finally reached my seat, food and beer in hand, in time to take in some BP. My view of the infield was pretty good, but my view of the outfield missed a decent portion of the right field corner. This was actually a factor during one play, where inept Orioles outfielder Karim Garcia, formerly of New York, misplayed a fly ball into a triple. However, for $40.00, and the sheer novelty value of seeing another stadium, I can accept that. I've had far worse seats in my time.
After enduring what seemed like seven hours of Derek Jeter worship, the game finally began. As such things go, it was a pretty good game, although it was my SEVENTH STRAIGHT LOSS this year. As much as I disavow supernatural phenomena, it may just be possible that I'm a jinx on my own team. The game ended Yankees 6, Orioles 4.
Where Yankee Stadium really shines is in the passion of its fans. Unlike Camden Yards, where you get funny looks if you cheer with the bases loaded without a scoreboard telling you to make some noise, New York fans cheer with abandon at the right times. They are engaged during the game and seem to really get into it. I liked that. In fact, I liked that a lot. The only times where I've seen such passion in Baltimore are during playoff games, games with improbable comebacks, or games against the Yankees, where the Yankee fans, to my shame, outcheer the Baltimore fans. If I have one gripe against Camden Yards, it's the quality of fan activity. Such a beautiful venue deserves better.
Being unfamiliar with the local territory, I had some adventures getting back to the subway. One incident occurred where a New York fan was celebrating with his son, or nephew, when he turned around and saw me in my Baltimore gear and apologized. Perhaps he thought I was going to knock his block off, but in the end, it's just a game, and that's exactly what I said. I even congratulated the little one on the Yankees' victory. From the grim reports I'd heard, I don't think a man had as much fun wandering around in the South Bronx, in enemy gear, no less, as I did.
I boarded the D train back to Manhattan and disembarked at Columbus Circle again, although Grand Central Station was closer to my bus rendezvous. I wanted to find a deli where I could sample the local cuisine, so I went walking down 7th Avenue. The hookers, or space aliens if you prefer, weren't out.
One thing I love about New York is that you can find people speaking almost any sort of language, including English, almost anywhere around town. I think a family down from Quebec noted my apparel (I'd doffed the jersey because it was a sweat box), or maybe my odor, since I'd spent most of the day sweating. Since time was running short toward my bus rendezvous (I had about an hour from when I returned to Manhattan to reach Times Square), I didn't do much shopping, picking up only a T-shirt that I'll note below. After passing roughly 700 delis, I stepped into one that seemed slow and saw a small Greek flag. After making small talk, mostly in English, I ordered a hot pastrami on rye with mustard, a slice of the best strawberry cheesecake I've had in years, and a bottle of cool water.
The sandwich was great, and the cheesecake was to die for, but the water was just not very cold, and it failed in that regard to quench my thirst. In fact, drink refrigeration in Manhattan leaves something to be desired. Upon my arrival I picked up a Sabrett's hot dog and a Gatorade. The hot dog was tasty, if a little lukewarm, just like the Gatorade. Even the beer at Yankee Stadium wasn't all that cold. Maybe I was just running warm all day, but it seemed like finding a cold drink of any kind was about as easy as finding a cold shower in Hell.
Naturally, I reach my bus stop with half an hour to spare, so I take in some more of Times Square. What I didn't know, and what may have quickened my step heading back to the bus stop was that there was an enormous Toys 'R Us in Times Square. I don't really know too much about that area, although the rest of the world seems to know much more, based on what I heard in the background when I finally boarded the bus home.
Aside from some traffic congestion in northern New Jersey, the ride home was mercifully swift, featuring an awful movie with Ben Affleck and an awesome lightning display when we returned to the Baltimore area. Having driven over about half of this road in my trip to a Transformer convention earlier this year, the last half of the trip was familiar and comfortable, aside from the fact I was dying of thirst, having tossed my lukewarm water from the deli in a fit of pique. However, shortly after 10:30 in the evening, I returned to my trusty little black truck and found my way home.
One day, I may even watch the Orioles win again.