Memories of Yankee Stadium

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To my father, Andrew Pitoniak. Thanks, Dad, for taking me out to the ballgame.

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A native of Rome, New York, and a magna cum laude graduate of Syracuse University, Scott Pitoniak has received more than 100 journalism awards. He has been named one of the top columnists in the nation by the Associated Press Sports Editors and is the author of 10 books. Scott attended his first game at Yankee Stadium in 1966, and he has been making annual pilgrimages to The House That Ruth Built ever since. He is married to the former Beth Adams and has two children, Amy and Christopher.

Contents

Foreword by Joe Torre

Acknowledgments

Introduction

1. A Brief History of Yankee Stadium

2. Memorable Moments

3. A House They Call Home

4. Yankees Reminisce

5. Opposing Players Reminisce

6. Athletes from Other Sports Reminisce

7. Fans Reminisce

8. Members of Media Reminisce

Sources

Foreword by Joe Torre

When I attended my first World Series game at Yankee Stadium on October 8, 1956, I had no idea I would be witnessing one of the most memorable contests in baseball history. I was merely going there that crisp autumn day to root against the hated Yankees. See, as a 16-year-old from Brooklyn, I had grown up a fan of Willie Mays and the New York Giants, so my allegiances were grudgingly with the Dodgers because I was a National League guy. Plus, I knew it would be so sweet to celebrate with my fellow Brooklynites if the Dodgers could knock off the Yankees again, just as they had done in 1955 when next year finally arrived in the borough of my birth.

But when the game reached the top of the ninth inning and the Dodgers still hadn’t gotten a hit off Don Larsen, I began silently rooting for baseball history to be made. Like the 65,000 other fans in the stadium that day, I knew there had never been a no-hitter in the World Series, and I thought it would be cool to be on hand for the first one. So, even though Larsen pitched for the team I couldn’t stand, I have to admit that a part of me was happy he wound up throwing a perfect game on the day I was there.

It’s funny how life works out. Forty years later I returned to Yankee Stadium as the manager of the team I grew up rooting against. And I sat in the home-team dugout pulling for David Wells and David Cone to put the finishing touches on perfectos, which they did. It was amazing when Don Larsen threw out the ceremonial first pitch to Yogi Berra before Cone’s no-hitter, and after Wells’s gem, we learned that Larsen and Wells had attended the same San Diego high school.

There have been many special moments for me during my career, both as a player and as a manager, but perhaps the most special of those moments occurred at 10:56 on the night of October 26, 1996. That’s when, after more than 4,000 games as a player and a manager, I finally was able to experience what my older brother Frank had experienced 39 years earlier with the Milwaukee Braves—winning a World Series title. As I led my team on a victory lap around the stadium, I thought about what a long, emotional journey it had been. 

We, of course, would go on to win three more World Series championships and make the playoffs all 12 years that I managed the Yankees. I feel privileged to have called Yankee Stadium my office during that stretch. It obviously is the most special and historic ballpark in America.

—Joe Torre

Acknowledgments

A book is a true team effort. And I was fortunate to have a heck of a team behind me during this journey back in time.

A doff of the cap to Bob Snodgrass, Laine Morreau, Tom Bast, and the other dedicated folks at Triumph Books for making this project a reality.

A hug for my loving wife, Beth Anne, whose support and meticulous copy editing helped me get through the difficult stages and maintain some semblance of sanity.

A handshake for Joe Torre, one of the classiest people I’ve dealt with in my 35 years as a sportswriter.

A pat on the back for artist Bill Purdom, whose cover illustration brought me back to days of yore.

And high fives to the scores of people who were kind enough to share their memories with me.

I’d especially like to thank the following folks for their help: Jim Abbott, Joe Altobelli, Marty Appel, Raymond Berry, Steve Bradley, Bob Costas, Harvey Frommer, Frank Gifford, Christopher Granozio, Chuck Hinkel, Joe Horrigan, Katie Leighton, Doug Mandelaro, Jim Mandelaro, Danny Mantle, David Mantle, John Maroon, Dan Mason, Matt Michael, the New York Yankees, Keith Olbermann, Phil Pepe, Amy Pitoniak, Christopher Pitoniak, David Ramsey, John Ricco, Cal Ripken Jr., Ed Shaw, Curt Smith, Lilly Walters, and Bob Wolfe.

Introduction

The No. 4 train emerged from the clammy subway tunnel and rumbled up the rusty, elevated tracks like an old-fashioned roller coaster. Before hissing to a halt high above River Avenue and 161st street in the South Bronx, I caught a glimpse of the mountainous, white concrete edifice.

There it is! There it is! I exclaimed with the wide-eyed wonderment of a young boy. Yankee Stadium! The House That Ruth Built! The most famous ballpark in the world!

My kids appeared mortified by my behavior.

Dad, be quiet, my 11-year-old daughter, Amy, implored, poking me in the ribs. You’re embarrassing us.

Yeah, Dad, chimed in my eight-year-old son, Christopher. Settle down before you have a heart attack.

There was no danger of that, though the palpitations were similar to ones I felt 32 years earlier when my father and I made this same baseball pilgrimage for the first time.

It’s just a big building, Amy said, her logical assessment sounding sacrilegious to an aging baby boomer who grew up fully intending to replace Mickey Mantle in center field.

Amy, you don’t understand, I protested mildly as we walked off the train. It’s more than a building. Much more.

As we pushed through the turnstiles beyond the left-center-field fence two hours before the first pitch that July 4, 1998, I clutched my son’s hand the way my dad had clutched mine so many summers ago. Faster than you could say, How about that! I had been taken back, back, back in time.

There are certain firsts you never forget. Your first kiss. Your first home run. Your first car. Your firstborn.

You definitely can count my maiden journey to the stadium among my indelible firsts.

September 17, 1966—Bobby Richardson Day—was the first time I set foot in the big ballpark in the Bronx, and I remember it as vividly as if it happened 41 seconds rather than 41 summers ago. I had never seen a building so massive, so cavernous. You could have fit my entire hometown of Rome, New York (population 50,000), in there and still had room for thousands more.

The blueness of the seats and the greenness of the grass had a visceral impact on me. It was similar to what I felt when I witnessed that scene from The Wizard of Oz when the film, in a snap, magically switches from dull black-and-white to brilliant color.

My initial trip to the stadium featured a prodigious exhibition of power by the Mick himself during batting practice. I watched in jaw-dropped amazement as the blond-haired, blue-eyed, biceps-bulging Mantle muscled BP offerings into the far reaches of the upper deck. I couldn’t help but notice a different sound to the balls he hit. It was an explosion rather than a crack of the bat. White ash against horsehide never sounded so good.

An aerial view of a packed Yankee Stadium in 1955. The House That Ruth Built became much more than just a baseball stadium; it became a historical epicenter during its more than 80 years of existence.

All those memories came rushing back as I waited in line at Monument Park in the renovated stadium with my kids decades later. The Yankees were taking batting practice at the time, and Scott Brosius deposited a home run 10 feet from us. An usher named Tony picked up the ball, walked over to Amy, and said, Honey, this one has your name on it. My incredulous daughter couldn’t believe her good fortune. The radiance of her smile was exceeded only by the afternoon sun.

With time to kill before the first pitch, I took my son up the ramps to the third deck in right field. He started to run, and I shouted for him to slow down so he wouldn’t fall. The instant the words left my lips, it occurred to me that my dad had once issued this very same warning near this very same spot. Yankees manager Joe Torre often said there are ghosts in this building. I realized he wasn’t just talking about the ghosts of Ruth, Gehrig, and Joe D., but also the ghosts of loved ones who had moved on.

Christopher and I went halfway up the steep steps in the upper deck, and I pointed to the back row and told him about home runs Mickey used to launch up here. My son looked uneasily down at the field and toward home plate, more than 450 feet away. He was more concerned about returning to the comfort of a lower deck than listening to history lessons from his old man.

The game that day was closely contested, with the Yanks eking out a 4–3 win on a blown ninth-inning call against the Baltimore Orioles. My son was disappointed he didn’t witness any home runs, but he was pleased to see Yankee shortstop Derek Jeter make an acrobatic play and drive in three runs with two base hits.

Midway through the game, I closed my eyes briefly and tried to imagine my dad seated next to me, and the ornate, faded, blue-green façade that used to hang from the stadium roof, and the Mick in the batter’s box mashing baseballs into the clouds. I wished Andrew Pitoniak could have shared this moment with his son and grandchildren. I wished he could have sat there with us. I would have told him how much I appreciated all the times he made those eight-hour round-trips from Rome to the Bronx for Sunday afternoon doubleheaders. I would have told the mechanic with the eighth-grade education and the heart as big as this ballpark how much I loved him.

In August 1970 he and I visited this baseball cathedral together a final time. We saw the Yankees retire Casey Stengel’s No. 37 jersey that day. Six months later, Dad’s heart beat a final time. It would be more than a decade before I would muster the gumption to return to the big ballpark in the Bronx.

Sinatra’s New York, New York blared over the loudspeakers as my kids and I streamed out of the stadium with thousands of others. I had purposely made sure that Amy and Christopher’s first major league baseball game would be experienced at Yankee Stadium. I was thankful they had indulged my nostalgic emotions, that their old man hadn’t embarrassed them too badly.

Perhaps one day they’ll realize that no ballpark in the world—not even the Roman Colosseum—can hold a Louisville Slugger to this place.

Perhaps one day they’ll understand why this edifice was so important to their dad and tens of millions of others who worshipped baseball gods and other deities here.

The motivation for writing this book wasn’t merely to take a trip down memory lane—though, I must admit that certainly has been a most enjoyable trek—but also to provide future generations with an appreciation for an architectural wonder that became as much a part of the Big Apple as the Statue of Liberty, the Empire State Building, and Carnegie Hall.

Sadly, the wrecker’s ball will replace the fastball and the curveball and bring down The House That Ruth Built after the 2008 season. A new Yankee Stadium will step to the plate across the street.

And, while it is sure to be much more fan-friendly, player-friendly, and owner-friendly, it will never be able to equal the history and tradition of its predecessor.

See, the original Yankee Stadium was more than just a building. Much more. It was hallowed ground. A rare place that could take you back, back, back in time.

—Scott Pitoniak

November 5, 2007

1. A Brief History of Yankee Stadium

It is known as The House That Ruth Built, but it easily could be called The House That John McGraw Forced the Yankees to Build.

After all, if it weren’t for the pugnacious, vertically challenged New York Giants manager, the Yankees might have become the Manhattan Mashers rather than the Bronx Bombers. They might have written their unparalleled baseball history in the Polo Grounds rather than Yankee Stadium.

From 1913 to 1922, the Yankees rented the Polo Grounds in upper Manhattan from McGraw’s Giants. And the shared arrangement was working just fine until Yankee owners Jacob Ruppert and Tillinghast L’Hommedieu Huston decided to make Boston Red Sox owner Harry Frazee a dramatic offer he couldn’t refuse. Frazee, whose true passion was the theater, was in need of cash. So, in the fall of 1919, he approached Ruppert and Huston, seeking a loan of a half-million dollars, and the Yankee owners countered with an offer of $115,000 in cash and a personal loan of $350,000 in exchange for the Red Sox’s star pitcher and slugger, Babe Ruth. A day after Christmas that year, the transaction was consummated.

Talk about the perfect storm. The time, the place, and the performer couldn’t have been more perfectly aligned. The Roarin’ ’20s were about to unfold, New York had become America’s most populous and prominent city, and Ruth was on the verge of changing baseball forever with his booming bat and larger-than-life personality.

During the summer of 1920, the Babe posted otherworldly statistics—54 home runs, 137 runs batted in, and a .376 batting average. Although the Yankees finished in third place, the fans didn’t care. Roughly 1.3 million of them flocked to the Polo Grounds to witness the Sultan of Swat slug homers farther and more frequently than anyone had before. The Yankees wound up drawing 350,000 more spectators than their landlords did.

This scenario repeated itself the following season as Ruth’s popularity soared higher than one of his majestic, cloud-kissing home runs. The Yankees won their first American League pennant in 1921, but lost to McGraw’s Giants five games to three in a best-of-nine World Series.

Although the Giants had maintained their title as baseball’s best team, they had been supplanted as baseball’s most popular team by Ruth’s Yankees—a situation the seething McGraw found intolerable.

After being significantly outdrawn by the Yanks for a second consecutive season, the manager known in baseball circles as Little Napoleon decided he could take no more. He handed the Yankees their eviction notice, telling them that their lease would be up following the 1922 campaign.

If we kick them out, McGraw reasoned, they won’t be able to find another location on Manhattan Island. They’ll have to move to the Bronx or Long Island. The fans will forget about them, and they’ll be through.

The eviction notice didn’t cause the Yankee owners to panic. If anything, McGraw had done them a favor, providing them with the impetus they needed to build a spectacular new ballpark unlike any that had been constructed before. Ruppert sensed that the baseball industry was about to take off. He also knew that in Ruth he had the perfect drawing card to pack the new place. The timing couldn’t have been more exquisite.

As McGraw had predicted, finding a location for the new ballpark presented problems. Initially, the Yankees considered a