In honor of the final game being played tonight at Yankee Stadium, I'd like to commemorate the moment in song:
Thanks for the memories...
That time I called the girl an effing C-word...and the officer had to move us...
That time I told a guy "Oh you're a big man"...and I thought he was going to knife me...
We thank you, again...
Thanks, for the memories...
That time I balled when Aaron Boone hit his mother-effing home run...then Hubby jumped the turnstile and got a ticket from a copper...
We thank you, again...
Thanks for the memories...
That time when Shilling's sock was bloody but our seats were too nosebleed to tell...
That time we held the sign for Soriano (40/40) and Darren saw us on tv...
We thank you, again...
Over the years I often found my keister planted in Yankee Stadium. At first in Red Sox shirts, possibly holding signs, definitely screaming loudly. After not too long, I wisely gravitated to wearing nothing that could possibly indicate I had been born in New England and refrained from cheering of any sort.
But let's face it, I cheered, I cried, I cursed. I vowed time after time, especially following rough games, that we should flee the godforsaken state of New York. And sometimes, on those evenings at the stadium when the Sox weren't in town, I secretly wondered what it would feel like to actually root for the home team. I could never, of course; but a girl could dream. After all, I always did admire Jeets. And Bernie. And Paul O'Neil. And Tino, and Scott Brosius...
My favorite part always came at the end of the game, when Frank Sinatra's voice would fill the air, resurrecting old, forgotten childhood notions I held about living in New York:
Start spreading the news...I'm leaving today...I want to be a part of it - New York, New York...
Hubby and I would always stay until that final inning. And we would always sing along, his arm slung over my shoulder; we may have been outsiders, but at least we had each other.
Goodbye Yankee Stadium. Thanks for the memories. (Ya bastid'.)
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