Common Sense, Dancing

Although I do think you’re all that and a bag of chips, this is not a fan letter. This is a thank you note. I’ll be heading to the stadium later (I almost said “new” but I think by now it’s just “stadium”) for my first live game of the summer, and I just wanted to post a note to say thank you to the Yankees, so I decided to send it to you in your capacity as the Captain of the team.

Although certainly the Yankees are the team that everyone loves to hate, and I certainly can’t speak to all that pent up fan anger here, I must tell you that the Yankees have colored so many memories of my life that I can’t imagine a reason to be down on the team.

My mother’s father, my grandfather, was a dedicated Yankees fan. Although he died more than 25 years ago, I can still close my eyes and hear his voice imitating Phil Rizzuto’s “Holy Cow!” calls as part of the play-by-play announcing team. I can still see him waving his hand at the tv and muttering, “those bums,” at the players — but knowing that he didn’t mean any of it.  My mother’s mother, who died when my mother was barely into grade school, was also a committed fan. And although I never knew her, I have heard from my mother and my aunts that she would be stationed at the ironing board some afternoons when they got home from school, ironing and watching the Yankees. If that’s not a little bit Norman-Rockwellian, I don’t know what is.

I am notorious for my terrible memory — have almost no recollections of childhood or college until I’m prompted with details by someone else — but I can clearly remember my younger brother sitting in front of the tv, watching his Yankees, with his glove on his hand when the Yankees were in the field, and his batting helmet on his head when the Yankees were up.

And now I’ve got boys of my own: one son who’s become a Yankee fan with all that seemingly innate knowledge of Yankees’ history, and a husband who didn’t grow up in this country (didn’t even grow up as a baseball fan) and continues to learn the nuances of the game and the Yankees’ history every season. We go to games, we talk about players, we talk about statistics, we talk about rules.

So, thank you. Why? Well, of course those memories are nice but what strikes me when I think about the team is not the winning and losing percentages (they’re nice too) but rather an overall feeling of what’s right with character, tradition and history — things that are contradictory to what we experience today with a cult of celebrity. Yes, Boss Steinbrenner is no longer in charge over in the Bronx, but I hope that his simple rules about appearance and professionalism remain unchanged. Yes, steroids have sullied the game, and the Yankees are not immune. But Yankees are not punching out their girlfriends’ fathers in the family clubhouse. Yankees are not being accused of rape in a Southern college bar. Yankees managers are not throwing chairs at players.

Instead, the Yankees attend to the business of baseball. They attend to family — writing books about their children’s struggles childhood disorders, returning to their Latin American roots to make their countries better. They attend to community, standing tall with NY and the world during the days and months (and years) after 9–11. Televising the 7^th inning stretch tradition of Kate Smith’s God Bless America (instead of cutting to commercial). They attend to their history, honoring their past with Monument Field and Old Timers’ Day (perhaps the only team in baseball to continue the Old Timers’ tradition).

It’s easy to be a Yankee fan. I get that, but I’m not sure why that should be a problem — win or lose, you guys are a collective class act.* Thank you for that. Better my children emulate you, or Rivera, or Posada, than The Situation, Tiger Woods, or Ben Roethlisberger.

I’ll see you later. I’ll be on the first base side, wearing a Yankees jersey.

*Oh, my head’s not totally in the sand. Roger Clemens is having some trouble — but his trouble is just a reminder to my children that Lying Is Not Okay. So thank him for that if you should happen to see him (but I can’t imagine why you would).

This post was prompted by Mama Kat’s Writers’ Workshop. To find out more, click here:

We had a terrific time, thanks. Left NJ on Wednesday and returned on Sunday evening. Husband and I flew to Miami and then drove the 4 hours down to the Keys — but four hours alone in the car is a really good time if you haven’t really been able to have an adult conversation in a while (and by adult, I mean about something other than 1) Disney television, 2) what I will next buy for you, or 3) what’s for the next meal).

Yesterday morning while still in Key West, I was exchanging texts with a friend about this week’s upcoming schedule, and I mentioned that it was hot in Key West — hot almost beyond words. She asked if it was Dante’s Circles of Hell kind of hot, and I agreed that it probably was, but “with more sweating. Way more sweating.” I stand by that answer. Rural New Jersey is hot in the summertime — humid too (oh wow, is it humid — but as Key West showed me, the Keys know humid and NJ, you are not humid.

(On the upside, I had really great hair for about 4 days. Apparently soul-sucking humidity does nice things for curls. You bypass frizz and go right to ringlets. I recommend it — if you can get by the, oh yes, soul–sucking humidity.)

Here’s something odd about the trip — or should I say the “pre-trip.” As we had been preparing for the trip, and mentioning to friends and strangers that we were headed to Key West for a mini-vacation, everyone had lots of recommendations: places to eat, things to see, activities to do. But *not one* person mentioned The Chickens.

Friends, there are chickens — hens, roosters, chicks — roaming Key West freely. They do not appear to be banded or cared for at all, they’re just hanging out, roaming the squares and wandering into the open air restaurants and bars. (A plus for them, they walk like they’ve had a few already, so they fit right in.)

Let me repeat: Chickens. Wandering free* through the streets. And no one thought to mention this? Doesn’t that occur to anyone as odd?

Our first night there, we’re walking to dinner and I said to Husband, “Husband, I think I just saw a chicken over there on the sidewalk,” to which he said, “Wife (or Old Bag, as he’s been known to affectionately call me), I don’t think you saw a chicken.” And the words were not out of his mouth when the chicken meandered down the sidewalk in front of us. At which point he said, “Yep, you saw a chicken.” And the next morning we were awakened by, no kidding, roosters crowing.

If you ask me about Key West, I’m going to mention the island tour by jet ski, a restaurant called Bagatelle, checking out Hemingway’s house, and, let’s see.….oh yes, the chickens. This way, you’ll be prepared and won’t be stuck recycling old jokes about chickens crossing the road — you’ll have new material on hand.

You’re welcome.

Photo by Gina Mikel, scientificillustrator.com

* Who knew? The chickens are known as Gypsy Chickens and have been roaming the streets for hundreds of years — something to do with (depending on your source) cockfighting or fresh eggs. Apparently they are the source of great controversy among Key West residents — many on the chickens’ side and many against. Huh.