It was his second-to-last game at the stadium, and fans were crowding the gates, basking in the authenticity of the bootleg-jersey vendors and the magnificent pillars of the stadium's exterior. It was a Wednesday, middle of the day, and I skipped class to go with my family. After nearly two hours of riding various rails, it was finally our turn to find our view of the field. Lobel's, Parm, and Brother Jimmy's BBQ beckoned as we trudged on toward our seats. We passed the countless fans who were about to watch a game but came only to see a true athlete conclude his career. Even before we reached our seats—before anything happened—I wished the game would never end.
The game began with the National Anthem—the games always begin with the National Anthem—but this one was different. I got chills swimming through my body. Maybe in my subconscious mind I knew this one would be different from the rest of the National Anthems I would hear at the stadium after that day. A legend's career was coming to an end, and although Major League Baseball would not skip a beat after he is gone, the games would certainly not be the same, and neither would the National Anthems.
In shallow left field we could see everything. I could see every inch of the infield and outfield; I could see Monument Park; I could see the bleacher creatures; I could see the Mohegan Sun Sports Bar; and I could see him perfectly as he squatted in the on-deck circle before his at-bat, kneeling in prayer. He was a mile away but seemed so close. Then he rose, and Bob Sheppard's immortal voice announced his name and number. And as he rose, the rest of the stadium rose with him. His career was drawing to an end, and we wanted to mimic his every gesture, to soak in his every movement. We cheered, and some cried. Not a soul in the stadium was silent. I turned to my left to see a young boy wearing a pinstripe jersey two sizes too big cheering and jumping up and down. I remember when I was the little boy in the stands wearing his jersey, standing up and cheering for him every at-bat.
I emulated him when I played ball. I watched him intently so that I could play just like him. I know that I became a better short stop because of him. I saw how he would venture into left field and center field to catch fly balls, so I did the same. I saw how he would always position himself differently before every pitch, and so I copied. And I considered his attitude and persona off the field and matched that as well. He was a leader but was and is always respectful and kind to everyone he meets.
Pictures from his career still hang framed on my bedroom walls.
I knew I could always turn on a game and see him play. I remember one game so vividly. Eleven years ago, beginning of the summer, I was sitting in my family room with my dad and my brother. The Yankees were playing the Red Sox. It was the top of the twelfth inning; the Red Sox had a chance to go ahead. A ball was hit into shallow left field, fair ball, right up against the line. He was sprinting from his position at short stop. He stretched out his arm, made the catch, stepped once, stepped twice, then leaped into the stands, cutting up and bruising his face. His range and boldness on the field were incredible. He was never afraid to go after any ball or take any chances.
He had made so many more unbelievable plays before and after that game. He had his iconic jump that was the result of a back-handed catch deep into the infield; he had his own unique batting stance with a linear swing; he turned a double-play faster than most middle infielders; and he had an unparalleled agility on the field that was utilized so effectively in plays like his remarkable "flip" that saved a run in Game 3 of the 2001 American League Division Series.
His career seemed endless; retirement seemed impossible. I never thought there would come a day when I would be cheering for my favorite short stop's final at-bat. I then turned to my right and saw that a woman was holding her hand to her eyes, fighting back tears. I watched my family stare and cheer in true elation and astonishment. It was my brothers' first game at the stadium; they had never seen the Yankees play in person before. And I know they were just as astounded to see him as I was. He could play a million seasons, and no one would ever tire of seeing him or be less astounded when in his presence. The applause at that moment was long and powerful, replicating his career.
We cheered through his warm-up swings, and we cheered as he looked around the stadium. And he was too far away—I know he was—but I could tell in his eyes that he knew he was appreciated and adored. I know that he wished he could play forever—for the love of the game and for his love of the fans.
One could not assess his accomplishments in order of importance. Was his greatest accomplishment his 3,000th hit being a home run? Or the fact that he had a 3,000th hit? Was it when he received a Rookie of the Year award in 1996 or a World Series MVP award in 2000? Or his 5 Gold Glove Awards? Or his 5 Silver Slugger Awards? Was it that he was the Yankee captain for 11 years? Or that he played in 14 All Star games? Or was his greatest accomplishment the sole fact that he played 20 extraordinary seasons for his favorite baseball team and was adored and is still adored by the greatest fans on the planet?
We cheered for all those things, I suppose. And the ovation appeared ceaseless, and as I stared at the sky, it even felt like the sun was cheering, partially hidden behind the clouds. On this warm September day, I thought the whole world crammed itself inside this stadium to witness history. We all knew that one day we would look back and talk about how we had the opportunity to watch one of the greatest, most respectable athletes of all time play a monumental career. While others fell by the wayside, he continued strong, playing twenty solid seasons with the greatest franchise in sports history, being a role model to all athletes and even fellow short stops like myself. He would soon be remembered like the greats: Lou Gehrig, Mickey Mantle, Joe DiMaggio, Babe Ruth, Roger Maris, Thurman Munson, Yogi Berra, and so, so many more.
Icons don't come that often, but when you are in the presence of one, you know it. When a man plays with such skill and grace, we call him a talented athlete. But when a man is kind and friendly and respectful on and off the field, when he is an encouragement to young athletes everywhere, when he is a role model to people who don't even play sports, and when that man is so loved by people who have never met him before, we call that man a legend.
And that's why we cheered and didn't stop. We cheered for the man, for the accomplishments, for the memories. He was going to leave behind a legacy. If we ended our applause, his career would end shortly after, and not a single person in that stadium wanted that. And somewhere in the back of my mind, we're still cheering for him—for the man who once wore the navy blue number two.
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