Bronx, N.Y., July 12, 2002 — Yes, I know, that saying reached the level of cliche years and years ago. And even a sidelong glance at the doings of the powers that be in our business community will show you right away that most people that have accumulated lots of money in this society would (and did) do anything necessary to get it, to “receive” it, and not to “give” up one thin dime, if at all possible.

And although this column will decidedly not be about this aspect in our beloved game, all the player strike, owners contraction or lockout, and fan strike talk make it clear that the ballpark is no bastion for the selfless givers who are pure of heart.

I was flabbergasted when Sue, my better half, approached me a couple of months ago, thrilled with the four-day music festival she had discovered in the Catskills, and ready to order our tickets that very minute. We are holders of both C (all the home Sundays) Plan and B (41 midweek home dates throughout the regular season) Plan tickets at Yankee Stadium (I love to call it the Baseball Cathedral myself), and a quick look at the Yankee schedule and our ticket drawer indicated that not only would I be giving up my tickets to four (maybe five!) consecutive games, but that one of them would be the Old Timers Game! But there was nothing phony or put-on about the excitement in Sue’s eyes, and I found myself reluctantly relenting to her indefatigable passion and her need to get away (once I ensured that at least none of the games would be against the Red Sox).

Perhaps a minor matter in the greater scale of things, but certainly a concern, the next thing to do was to decide how to apportion the tickets. Our Sunday Plan is for four seats, and has been populated over the approximately 15 years we’ve had it by quite a few Yankee fan friends, so I was correctly confident that we would have no trouble selling the Saturday Old Timers Day tickets (which, in a quirk, one gets with the “Sunday” Plan). Friend Linda’s sister-in-law and brother were both celebrating birthdays, were both Yankee fans and, yes, she would love to take them.

But the midweek night games, and even the July 4 day game, were another matter. Neither of us would have made good salespeople (believe me, I have failures both with door-to-door vacuum cleaners and in-store ladies’ shoes in support of that statement on MY behalf), and after a few stops and starts with friends who were interested but, “Oh, any other time, we’re doing family stuff” that week, we settled on a plan. First I repaid Steve, a coworker who gave me free New York Ranger (hockey) tickets several months ago (none of these names are the actual names, by the way) with the Friday tickets, and Sue and I both agreed to give the four July 4 tickets to Carl, a brilliant guy with whom we’ve both worked in the past, who has a quickly growing family. Finally, Sue mentioned Andrew from her office, a young father with a new home and a seven-year-old Yankee fan son. Not able to resist the image of that kid in the Stadium, I agreed, Sue offered Wednesday, Andrew accepted, and we were ready to go.

Resigned to my fate, I attended my last pre-festival game last week in Roger’s start against the Tribe Tuesday. The Bronx evening was oppressively hot, and coupling that with the fact that we were down 3-0 14 pitches into the game (Lawton and Thome homers), it seemed I was being encouraged to take a break from my “rooting” duties. Of course I knew better, and we scored three in the fourth and seven in the seventh, climaxed when Jorge’s grand slam smacked the right field foul pole. I left the Cathedral, and Sue and I drove north the next afternoon, and she was right, as always. We had a great time. The music and the mountains did their part to “free my soul,” I was certainly “lost in the rock and roll, and” yes, I “drift(ed) away.”

Somewhat renewed in spirit (but fatigued in body), we arose Sunday, blew out of the mountains, and I was able to join the Sunday gang in the Bronx for Weaver’s debut. The Yanks had won (mostly) without me, but Derek was hurt, and Andy pitched poorly in the lone loss on Saturday. The Yanks (and I) triumphed in Jeff’s debut Sunday (though he has some things to learn about winning), we trudged home and literally collapsed into bed, dreading an upcoming grueling week of work.

And then the best part happened. No, the week was just as grueling (if not more so) as we had anticipated. But Steve (away on business Monday) stopped by on Tuesday, giving a sheepish grin. He and his buddy couldn’t make the game after all, but not to worry, he gave the tickets to his brother-in-law, who took his seven-year-old boy. They had a fabulous time, and the son has not stopped talking about his wonderful day in the Stadium yet. Thinking of Sue’s friend Andrew and his son (whom Andrew had told Sue had called him at work every day the week leading up to the game, saying, “Are we going to Yankee Stadium tonight, Dad? Are we? Is it tonight? Huh?”), I couldn’t help but be happy that Steve had given up the tix.

I worked late, rushing to finish some last-minute stuff I needed to overnight to our supplier, and I kind of “pushed the envelope” on leaving on time to drop the package at an overnight carrier. With 25 minutes to get to their location eight miles down the highway, I thought I’d be OK, but the entrance ramp onto the roadway was backed up, and I was confronted with the highway paving project of all time. My Ford and I crawled over less than a mile for the next 18 minutes, when my patience (it’s between me and “Whomever” how patient and in-control I really was in that front seat) was rewarded, I broke past the paving, and motored down the road at an mph I’ll never admit to. Braking in front of the carrier’s building with a squeal and hurtling myself from the car, I literally handed the package to the young lady who was standing there locking their front door for the evening.

Sue had flown out of town for a business meeting that afternoon, so I crawled the remaining way south, proceeded to a fast food burger joint and then home. After picking up the mail, I literally fell in the door, and would have lied there perhaps (heck, I could reach the remote), but I noticed the blinking light on our phone’s message machine. It was Carl. He and six-year-old Clark had had a wonderful time.

A side note to my friendship with Carl: I actually hired him at a former employer years ago, and I (who lives and breathes Yankee) never asked him for whom he rooted in the interview (Yes, you can’t ask religion, nationality, political affiliation, ethnicity, etc., I know, but I have never heard of anyone getting in trouble for asking what baseball team you root for). I hired him on the silly basis that he was the best for the job, and found myself “stuck with” a diehard Mets fan.

Of course I returned the call, and it was indeed a joy. July 4, you see, was Derek Jeter T-shirt Day, and young Clark had demanded, received, and worn a Yankee cap. The weather was stifling, and they did walk around a bit, but Carl tells me that if it was my plan to plant a Yankee fan in a Mets fan house, I could not have been more successful. Carl and I talked and laughed about it for 20 minutes, and I am not usually a phone guy. Clark will have a younger sibling within a matter of weeks, and I couldn’t help telling Carl that the Yankee word just might spread throughout the house. Carl countered that perhaps the new arrival would be a Mets fan exactly because big brother likes the Yanks. Then he admitted that it might all be for the best. “Heck, I’ve already got him halfway to being a Jets fan. Maybe it’s best that he root for at least one team that wins all the time.”

Sue and I are big Yankee fans, and we consider ourselves among the best aunts and uncles on the planet. We have made choices in our lives, and we do enjoy the results of many of those choices. It’s rare that we get the opportunity to feel this good about positively affecting the lives of children we barely know. We are off to pick up the music vibes this weekend too. I’m almost sorry that the Yanks are away, and that we have no more tickets to offer THIS time. What else is there to say? I’m sure Clark, Andrew’s son, and Steve’s nephew are yelling it with me as I type:

YANKEE BASEBALL!!!