What a sad sight it was in the Bronx on Saturday night.
It was muggy, humid and the sun was struggling to peak through the dampening clouds, almost like how the Yankees have struggled to score this season. The stands were half-filled, a few die-hards coming to say goodbye to the stadium.
On the mound was Sidney Ponson, nipping the edges of the plate and holding his breathe after each and every pitch. In the fourth inning, Ponson walked three straight batters and served up a juicy batting practice fastball to Ben Zobrist, who then hit a grand slam to the right field bleachers.
The fans booed and threw the ball back onto the field while Joe Girardi yanked Ponson. The Rays led by four, en route to beating up on a dead corpse in the New York Yankees.
"Let's move our seats," my father said.
We snuck our way down and got closer to the field, moving in and out of the empty seats that littered the stadium. At least we were getting our money's worth.
And then it happened. It was an acceptance, an understanding that this was really it. For my entire childhood, for 14 straight years, the Bronx Bombers were playing meaningful games way into the fall. I was currently watching an exhibition, an after thought on Major League Baseball's schedule. I knew this was going to come some time, I just never knew it would hurt so badly.
Wilson Betemit pulled a homer down the line to make it a two-run game, and then Ivan Rodriguez stroked a base hit. Cano drove him in to make it a one-run game. The Yankees were in business.
In the eighth inning Jeter picked up his third hit of the game, hot in pursuit of Lou Gehrig's record for most hits at Yankee Stadium. The crowd went into an infatuated frenzy, as usual for the Yankee's captain.
Then up came Alex Rodriguez with runners in scoring position, a chance to tie or take the lead. He struck out looking, and the crowd booed him as if he stole an old lady's purse.
"I could see that one coming," my dad said.
The Yankees tied the game, and then took the lead, setting the stage for Mariano Rivera. This was one last chance to see Mo close the door in the house that Ruth built. Two strikeouts and a weak grounder later, the game over, the music played and the lights went out.
Three hours at Yankee Stadium for the final time. What we thought would be a celebration season has turned into a funeral. But for that last experience, shared with my father, I couldn't have asked for anything more. For Dad and I, it was a closure.
You can reach this writer at sports@theeagleonline.com.
