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By John C. McGinley (as told to Alex Belth)

I’m spit-balling with you but my favorite memories of Yankee Stadium came from a period of time when everyone I knew was an unemployed actor. I’m from New York originally. I was born in St Vincent’s in the Village and lived in Peter Stuyvesant Town until I was ten. Then my parents moved to the suburbs in Jersey but later I went to NYU and then lived on Perry and Bleecker for close to twenty years before I finally came out here in ’91. I got out of NYC to 84 and for the next five years, everyone I knew was unemployed actors. You’d get an off-Broadway play, or a day job on a soap, but mostly it was a grind, it was a struggle.

I loved to go up to the Bronx on an afternoon and catch a game. I’d go up to a day game at 161 and find all the other unemployed actors. Some guys would go to Shea but I never rooted for the Mets until Willie became their manager a few years ago and then I loved them.

The Yankees were terrible then. It wasn’t like today, getting a ticket was no sweat even if you were dead broke. Seats weren’t hard to come by. If a scalper was eating a scalper ticket sandwich two innings into the game, you could get it on the cheap. The scalper would have to eat it by that time. So we’d start up in the cheap seats and then move down. Most of us brought our own booze in with us, everybody brought what they needed. There would only be something like 12,000 people in the Stadium on a weekday afternoon. The ushers would let you down by the dugout because they were unemployed actors too.

The one thing that was understood was that nobody asked each other what they were doing. Cause the answer was, you’re doing nothing. You’re going to a Yankee game cause the phone’s not ringing. There were no cell phones in those days so guys would get up during the game and go use a payphone to call their machine to see if anyone on the planet would give them a job. And then you’d go back and watch the game for three hours and get lost in it and be happy.

We’d bust each other’s humps and argue and see who could memorize the most statistics. Tommy Sizemore had a photographic memory that was not dissimilar to Bob Costas’s ability to recall stats and facts. I was so pathetic I’d bring Roger Angell books up. I read his stuff in the New Yorker and his collections. Halberstam’s writing in the Summer of ’49 and especially The Teammates. I’m a sucker for baseball writing because the game lends itself to poetic prose. Some people think it’s too much but I think it’s great. So we’d talk about baseball and be having a good time.

I loved Yankee Stadium because of the colors and the smells and the potential for anything to happen in the bottom of the ninth. Baseball dictates that you can always come back and even in those years when the team was awful anything could happen. It was the perfect place to be for a young, unemployed actor. Things just seemed unlimited. Day games are from God. They are the greatest.

John C. McGinley plays Dr. Perry Cox on NBC’s Scrubs.

My wife Emily and I painted our apartment a few months back.  When we got to the bedroom, we chose a pale green.  “Green is a tricky color,” my mother said, and sure enough when we stared slapping it on the walls, we realized we had made a mistake. 

Lesson: Never buy a color called “Impetuous.”  So we tried another shade of green, which we liked…until the sun went down and our room turned into something out of Pee Wee’s Playhouse. 

Wait til we put the pictures back, then it will look better.  Emily gave in.  The thought of re-painting was worse than living in a Fun House.  And eventually, with the pictures back on the wall, it did start to feel like home. 

The new site here doesn’t feel like home yet.  It has that new car vibe.  The technology is new, there are two new contributors, and a bunch of issues to address–the archives, the comment section, the links.  It has been overwhelming.  Exciting, but strange and new. 

I’m amped about where we are headed.  I just wanted to let you know, that I empathize with some of your reactions to the change and appreciate all of the feedback you’ve provided.  It’s going to take a minute, and things will continue to be tweaked over the next couple of months, but we’re working on it, and you aren’t alone in getting used to the new digs. 

Thanks for coming back.

But we’re going back again in a couple of weeks…

By Will Leitch

(Writer’s Note: I wrote this piece in October 2003, right after Aaron Boone hit his epic home run to briefly stave off the impending Red Sox juggernaut. Five years later, I’m a little embarrassed by it. It betrays a New York newbie’s naivete and dopey slack-jawedness about this strange new city in which he found himself. But I still thought about this story’s Jerry every time I went to Yankee Stadium, and, all told, I still think about him a little every time I ever go to a game anywhere.)

Thanks to the glory of blind Internet luck, I scored tickets to Game 6 of the American League Championship Series, for the blood feud between the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox. My seats were in the right field bleachers, notoriously the most profane, obnoxious and uproarious section in Yankee Stadium, probably in all of baseball.

Manhattan interlopers like myself, and outsiders who only know what they see on HBO, have a distorted view of what the people of New York City are like. They see glammed up urbanites in high heels and Prada sunglasses, sipping martinis and staying out until 4 a.m. They see artists, they see writers, they see stockbrokers, they see the fast living, non-stop, run run run lifestyle, the one that embodies Manhattan, the one that makes everyone want to come here, and they think that’s what life is like in New York. And for a certain, tiny-but-endlessly-self-promotional section of the population, I suppose it is.

But the real New York can be found in right field of the Yankee Stadium bleachers.

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Another Fine Mess for Bud Selig’s MLB.

Before the 2-2 game can continue the $64,000 question remains:

This is what we want from sports, most of us, a remembrance of happy times and experience shared, warmth and kidding laughter, a marvelous sense of the importance of the unimportant.

Leonard Shecter

Bronx Banter is just a few weeks away from completing its sixth full season yet it feels as if we’re just getting warmed-up.  I am proud to bring the site to the SNY network of blogs.  Along with Steve Lombardi’s Was Watching, our inimitable take on all things Yankees, helps give SNY great Bronx Bomber coverage, soup to nuts. 

Much thanks to Steve Raab, Fred Harner, Matt Cerrone, John Keegan, and Ken Arneson for helping make this a smooth transition.  And the move should be seamless for you guys as well. 

You’ll notice the banner ads for SNY but otherwise, things are remarkably similiar to how they were at Toaster.  Just so you know, as part of our deal, I retain complete editorial control, so the content will not change because we’re affliated with SNY.  You will have to register for the comments section from scratch, an inconvenience I trust won’t be too much of a hassle.  The new Loggin button can be found on the top left-hand portion of the page.  I’ll keep reminding y’all as the week goes on.  (In the conversion from Toaster, we’ve lost the comments for all posts that took placed during the last week, however the older posts still contain comments).

When I stared this site back in November of 2002, I didn’t choose the title Bronx Banter randomly.  Sure, it had a nice ring to it, but if I had lived in Brooklyn at the time, I never would have used “Bronx” even if it was a Yankee blog. 

Banter is what this blog has always been about.  I’ve never thought that my opinion is the end all.  I’m no expert.  I’m an enthusiast.  I love initiating convesation, banter.  That’s what gets me going.  I learn as much from you guys in the comments section as I do from anywhere else. 

So, in addition to the usual Bronx Banter crew–Cliff Corcoran, Bruce Markusen, Will Weiss and Emma Span–Todd Drew, who writes the brilliant man-on-the-street blog, Yankees for Justice, is joining the team and will be posting on a regular basis.  Diane Firstman will also be on board, providing a daily one-stop-shop of Yankee links around the ‘Net.  I’m thrilled to have both of them jern the club, and honored to have such a strong group of writers working with me to bring you our own unique brand of Yankee coverage. 

The look of the site is in Beta form, and we’ll be tweaking things as we get our bearings during the winter months.  Bear with us as we get the hang of the new technology.  As always, I encourage you to give me your take on what you like and what you don’t like about the site.  The hope here is to make Bronx Banter bigger and better while remaining true to the spirit of intelligence, humor, empathy and curiosity that has marked our first six seasons.

And that’s word to Big Bird.

In November of ’02, I started Bronx Banter on Blogspot.  The next year I took it to All-Baseball.com, and for the past four seasons, I’ve been with the crew at Baseball Toaster. It’s been a great run and a true honor to blog alongside the talent here.  Now, Bronx Banter is moving again, this time to the SNY network of blogs. 

The new address is www.bronxbanterblog.com. 

The Banter writing crew, Cliff Corcoran, Bruce Markusen, Emma Span and Will Weiss, are all coming along, I retain complete editorial control, and the new spot will be poppin.  Please jern us.  Once again, I want to say what a great time we’ve had here at Toaster.  Special thanks to Ken Arnesen for making the transition a smooth one.

Thanks, and as Kane says:

Three games in, and this has been a fun, competitive World Serious.  The Rays were down 4-1, came back to tie the game, but the Phils pulled it out with a cheap hit in the bottom of the ninth. 

Go Baseball!  Hope we get four more just like it.

By Steven Goldman

I don’t know if this is my warmest memory of Yankee Stadium. Somehow my memories of the ballpark are more vivid than warm. There’s not a lot of romance attached to it. Maybe that’s because in the games I have attended as a fan, in my pre-professional days, I’ve seen a disproportionate number of losses. This is true even of the good years. Resultantly, my inventory of memories stretching back to the 1970s mostly shows visitors like Paul Molitor, Kirby Puckett, and George Brett doing mean things to the Yankees, and mediocre starters like Neil Allen and Joe Niekro doing their desultory best not to lose too badly. Even the things that are vivid involve losses. I was at the 1998 playoff game against the Indians where Chuck Knoblauch failed to pursue a ball that was sitting on the ground right next to him because he was arguing with the umpire, while Enrique Wilson tore around the bases with what proved to be the winning run. It was amazing to hear 40,000 people shouting, "Throw the f**king ball!" in near unison.

Some of my most vivid memories involve personal embarrassment or shame. The 1988 Old Timer’s Day game is fixed in my mind not only because of the grand slam that the great Jose Cruz pinch hit against the White Sox, the last home run of his career and his only as a Yankee, but because at almost that same moment my car was being stolen. I was 17; it was the first time I had driven to the ballpark. PS: despite the grand slam, the Yankees lost.

Going back still further, I can remember one of my first trips to the Stadium, if not the first, when I was about five years old. On our way into the building, I had seen a little toy horn that one of the vendors was selling. It was nothing more than a blue tube of plastic with a trumpet-shaped bell at the end. I was, in my childish way, very excited to have it, but as we entered the Stadium, a security guard saw the horn and started screaming at me. "What is that thing? You can’t bring that in here!" My parents intervened and the guy relented. I was allowed to bring it in, but with a warning: "Don’t make ANY noise with that thing!" For the rest of the game I felt scared, as if I was being watched, as if one wrong move would get us thrown out. I remember nothing about the actual contest, just the powerful feelings of mortification that blotted out all else. I imagine the Yankees lost.

Far more recently, during my professional years, I passed out in the Yankees clubhouse (in front of Tanyon Sturtze’s locker—he brought me a chair) and had to be carried out on a stretcher after Gene Monahan administered smelling salts. Thus I have experienced Stadium-based mortification both as a very young child and as an adult. It only remains for me to reap some kind of extreme embarrassment in old age; perhaps I’ll soil myself while interviewing Derek Jeter, Jr. at Stadium II.

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Over at the Voice, Neil DeMause is live-blogging the Kucinich Hearings.  It ain’t pretty, but Neil is doing a crack job.  Here is part one and part two (still in progress…).

Who said sports ain’t glamorous?

JR Moehringer won a Pulitzer in 1999 for this article.

Two years earlier, he was nominated for the same award for his piece Resurrecting the Champ, which was made into a movie last year. I didn’t see the flick but think the article is a monster, absolutely riveting.

Just check out this classic opening:

I’m sitting in a hotel room in Columbus, Ohio, waiting for a call from a man who doesn’t trust me, hoping he’ll have answers about a man I don’t trust, which may clear the name of a man no one gives a damn about. To distract myself from this uneasy vigil–and from the phone that never rings, and from the icy rain that never stops pelting the window–I light a cigar and open a 40-year-old newspaper. * "Greatest puncher they ever seen," the paper says in praise of Bob Satterfield, a ferocious fighter of the 1940s and 1950s. "The man of hope–and the man who crushed hope like a cookie in his fist." Once again, I’m reminded of Satterfield’s sorry luck, which dogged him throughout his life, as I’m dogging him now. * I’ve searched high and low for Satterfield. I’ve searched the sour-smelling homeless shelters of Santa Ana. I’ve searched the ancient and venerable boxing gyms of Chicago. I’ve searched the eerily clear memory of one New York City fighter who touched Satterfield’s push-button chin in 1946 and never forgot the panic on Satterfield’s face as he fell. I’ve searched cemeteries, morgues, churches, museums, slums, jails, courts, libraries, police blotters, scrapbooks, phone books and record books. Now I’m searching this dreary, sleet-bound Midwestern city, where all the streets look like melting Edward Hopper paintings and the sky like a storm-whipped sea. * Maybe it’s fatigue, maybe it’s caffeine, maybe it’s the fog rolling in behind the rain, but I feel as though Satterfield has become my own 180-pound Moby Dick. Like Ahab’s obsession, he casts a harsh light on his pursuer. Stalking him from town to town and decade to decade, I’ve learned almost everything there is to know about him, along with valuable lessons about boxing, courage and the eternal tension between fathers and sons. But I’ve learned more than I bargained for about myself, and for that I owe him a debt. I can’t repay the debt unless the phone rings.

Moehringer is also the author of an acclaimed memoir, The Tender Bar. If you aren’t familiar with his work, I highly recommend checking it out. He’s one of the best we’ve got.

I haven’t been drawn to Charlie Kaufman’s movies (Being John Malkovich, Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind), at least the ones he’s written.  So I can’t say that I’m falling over myself to see his directorial debut, Synecdoche, New York.  However, I do admire the Times’ film critic, Manohla Dargis, and she gave the movie nothing short of a rave this morning. 

Hmmm.

Yeah, it took some moxie on the part of Joe Maddon to stick with David Price, who wound up getting the final seven outs for the Rays last night (he also got a key break with a non-call in the ninth).  And onions to Price for bending but not breaking.

The Series is tied at one as the action moves to Philly tomorrow night.

By Chris DeRosa

A Goodbye in Eight Games

23 May: Sea 2 @ NY 13

I’ve only made it to a handful of games in recent years, so with this season being the last chance, I bought a seven-game package and distributed one of each pair of tickets to my family as Christmas presents. My dad and I got a good one to start it off. Andy Pettitte finished off hitters more efficiently than he usually does, and Matsui and Giambi had big games at the plate. Our seats were half-way up in right field, which afforded us a view of the new building. There is some comfort in the fact that it is literally across the street. When you go to new place, you’re still making the familiar trip.

The most memorable game that I saw with my dad when it was just the two of us was Old Timers’ Day, 1978. This game was a famous one in Yankee political history; they announced Billy Martin would return as manager—bizarrely, a year and a half later—and he got a deafening sustained ovation. We had an old used car at the time, and, getting onto the expressway on the way home, the engine burst into flames and we had to abandon it. There was a group of kids who saw it happen and broke into "Burn, baby, burn—disco inferno!"

19 June: SD 1 @ NY 2

A sunny Thursday afternoon game with my brother Ben, who is a Red Sox fan. As an exercise in nostalgic reverie, having the San Diego Padres as the visiting team is a bit jarring. Do the Tigers or Indians play ever here anymore? The Yankees announce the opposing lineup to the "Imperial March" from Star Wars, which by logic, should obviously be our theme, if you want to embrace the Evil Empire conceit. "It’s because they have no sense of humor about themselves," says Ben.

Joba Chamberlain started for the Yanks and held San Diego’s minor league lineup in check, striking out nine. In the second, he loaded the bases with no outs, but then he unclogged the inning with a strikeout, a tag out at home from a ball that squirted away from the catcher, and another strikeout. Chamberlain came out for the sixth, struck out the first two guys, and then must have reached 100 pitches, and Girardi took him out. "Why don’t you just put him in a bubble?" said Ben.

30 June: Tex 2 @ NY 1

My friend Kevin, who is not a big fan, called me and told me he thought he’d better see Yankee Stadium before they tore it down. I went off the plan and splurged for tickets in Box 628, over third base in the upper deck, because I wanted to show him the sort of seats that will not exist in the new place. He was surprised to learn that Yankee Stadium is freshly painted, made of concrete, and only mildly pungent. He was under the impression that he was going to see some venerable old ballpark with rickety wooden planks and peeling paint.

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Did you ever suck the jelly out of a jelly donut and then fill it with chocolate-swirl ice cream?

Mm’eeeh, could be.

Cole Hamels, Ryan Madson, and Brad Lidge made like Stravinsky last night and composed a big win for the Phillies.

Philadelphia left a ton of runners on base because the Rays’ pitching was excellent too. The experts said that Philly needed to win Game One. Now, let’s hope the Rays tie it up tonight and make it a Serious.

By Jacob Luft

I was lucky as a kid in that my parents used to let me tag along on business trips. Oftentimes that meant New York City, though it could also be Chicago or D.C.. On one such trip to the Big Apple, I remember taking in the view atop the Empire State Building, looking west across the Hudson River and asking my dad, “What’s that over there?”

“Oh,” he replied, “that’s just New Jersey.”

(Little did he know he was talking to a future bridge-and-tunnel boy and proud resident of West Orange, N.J.!)

If mom and dad didn’t have time to take me out to see the sights themselves, they would leave me with my great aunt or some other family friend. Funny thing, though: I can’t recall ever being consulted on the destination. I was at the grownups’ mercy of what they considered to be a good time for a kid. That changed one day — I don’t remember the year, sometime in the mid-1980s — when my mom got in touch with an old friend of hers from the old country (Nicaragua) who volunteered to watch me for the day.

Upon picking me up at the hotel he asked, “Where do you want to go kid?”

That was my cue.

“Yankee Stadium.”

It was the dead of winter. I had heard the newsman on the TV say it would be in the teens with minus-7 wind chill. Suffice it to say, there was no baseball scheduled on this day. Don Mattingly was on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean bashing coconuts. He wasn’t bashing baseballs at the Stadium.

“Uh, you know it’s not open right?”

“I don’t care,” I said. “I just want to see it.”

“OK let’s go.”

He was kind enough to leave some frost on his windshield that morning for the benefit of a kid who had never seen snow, but it was more slush than anything at that point. Still, I was duly impressed. I recall crossing the river, heading toward the Bronx on the highway and seeing the big grey hulk of the Stadium rise up. He drove around in circles for a little while trying to afford me the best view possible. As many longtime Yankee fans have told me, the Stadium in the ’80s was drab and dreary, and that jibes with what I saw that day. From the outside it seemed a lifeless edifice, especially with heavy sleet providing all of 30 feet of visibility. But hey, that was The House That Ruth Built, and Lou Gehrig played there and so did Joe D. and Mickey Mantle and all those guys on the baseball cards I had back home in a shoebox. I was on Cloud 9 just being so near to hallowed ground for the first time.

Unable to gain access to the Stadium itself, we did what I considered to be the next best thing: We ate a McDonald’s a couple blocks away. Nothing like a Quarter Pounder, French Fries and a Coke to ease the sting. I remember the fries being extra salty, which went in perfect balance with the gritty neighborhood. And it wasn’t just any McDonald’s. It was a Yankee Stadium McDonald’s, with pictures of Gehrig and Ruth and other legends all over the wall. My pilgrimage felt complete.

“So,” my guide asked, “how about we go to the Statue of Liberty now?”

Jacob Luft is a senior editor at SI.com.

According to Joel Sherman, major league executives believe that Atlanta is a likely destination for Jake Peavy. Eh. So long he doesn’t wind up in the AL East (i.e. Boston), right?

In a recent chat at ESPN, Buster Olney answered a Yankee question:

Dave (NY): I know you’ve said Cashman wouldn’t make Tex a priority. How do things stand on that front? I’d rather have CC myself.

Buster Olney: Dave — they’ll make him an offer they’re comfortable with — say, 6 years, $18 million a year — but they won’t sniff the 10/200 that has been rumored. If the Red Sox or Orioles take Teixeira much higher than the Yankees, I don’t think they’ll chase it. On the other hand, all bets are off when it comes to CC — they’ll go crazy to get him.

And wouldn’t you know it, but Rob Neyer also fielded a Yankee question in his latest chat:

Josh (NY): Cano and Kennedy for Matt Kemp? Yankees need a center fielder and reports say the Dodgers love Cano.

Rob Neyer: One sticking point: I’m not sure Kemp is a center fielder for much longer. I think he’s about to grow out of the position (if he hasn’t already). Also, do the Dodgers need another young starter? Can’t Jamie McDonald be that guy if they want one?

Who out there is bully on Tex? What about CC? I don’t know that either will end up in New York, but if I had to pick between the two, I’d guess that the Yankees have a better shot at Teixeira. Whadda ya think?

By Dick Lally

June 8, 1969: Mickey Mantle day. I grew up idolizing Mantle, and when he came back on the field to accept the adoration of a crowd that under appreciated his great skills for far too long, I must have set the Guinness Book record for most goose bumps in an afternoon.

We sat in box seats on the third base side, I was fourteen and the cheering was as dense as concrete, a baseball version of Phil Spector’s Wall of Sound. I came back a month later for Old Timers’ Day and received the commemorative recording of the event as a keepsake. I had it for years until it was lost in a move.

During the regular game that day, my friend Patty and I went to the concession stand and found Mike Burke signing autographs. The Yankees president had that great head of grey hair which he wore stylish coiffed and nearly down to his shoulders. Patty called out, “You’re a hippy,” and Burke said, “That’s right. Want to hear me hear me sing ‘Purple Haze?,” an answer that completely charmed the crowd of teenagers massed around him.

Dick Lally is the author nineteen books, including nine on baseball.

Silence is Foo!

Allen Barra writes about Philly fans today in the Wall Street Journal.