By Spencer Ackerman
The picture you see to your left is an iPhone-produced facsimile of the Legends clubhouse/restaurant behind the visitors’ dugout along the third-base line of Yankee Stadium. That is, new Yankee Stadium. The last time I went to old Yankee Stadium, I paid a lot of money for good seats to take my then-ill mother to Mothers’ Day at the Stadium in 2006. Two i-bank douches seated behind us talked very loudly for much of the game about their latest conquests, and as much as I figured they were actually cruising each other and deserved support during that brave moment in their lives, I don’t play that shit with my mother in tow. Many stink-eyes and one disappointing matchup later, I left the Stadium thinking it was consigned to be a redoubt of the overprivileged.
Then last night I attended — unexpectedly, and fortuitously — the amazing 11-inning second game of the Yankees-Twins division series. I won’t say anything about how I obtained the tickets I got, but suffice it to say I had no business sitting where I did, especially as the tickets were a Wonka-esque passageway to Legends. The silver wristband provided by those tickets allow access to a never-ending cascade of food and alcohol.
And this was high-end stuff. Two sushi chefs assembled and sliced a mass-production volume of spicy tuna rolls, perfectly fatty and delicate. I liked it so much I ate it all game, paired with fresh slices of salmon and fatty tuna. During my pre-game sushi, eaten in the clubhouse, I looked over my flight of Stella Artois and there was Bill O’Reilly. Suddenly I noticed people in our section come to an abrupt pause in their meals before breaking into deep, affectionate smiles. Turning around, I saw: Rudy Giuliani and Judith Nathan had arrived.
Depending on when you believe life begins, I attended my first Yankee game either six months in utero or three months out of the womb. You could say I’m a dedicated fan. And I have never hated the Yankees, and the sheer decadence they callously encourage, more than when I stepped in that clubhouse. To think I used to smirk at the post-Candlestick Stadium (Pac Bell Park? After all of this telecom consolidation, what’s it even called these days?) for serving garlic fries. I ate a New England-style lobster roll — it was so fucking creamy and refreshing I was only half-conflicted for ordering it (a New England confection in Yankee Stadium could be a recipe for a jinx) — in between my sushi, all of which was washed down with moats of Dewer’s and beer. I told my father what I ate. He shook his head. “You faggot,” was all he could say.
Now, of course I don’t hate the Yankees, especially not after a surprisingly powerful performance from A.J. Burnett; three RBIs from A-Rod; a stunning display of pitching from Dave Robertson to strand three Twinkies who loaded the bases with no outs (yes; Mauer was robbed by the ump, but nevermind that for now); and Teixiera’s worth-every-penny walkoff homer in the 11th. But I can no longer fairly object when you talk about the evilness of the Empire. Yes, my liberalism was offended by that clubhouse. But like Tricky said: My evil is strong.
