Last night was the last game at the existing Yankee stadium, which was somehow sad even for a quasi-baseball fan like me. Andrew, of course, has no love lost for the Yankees, but that was the team he got to see most often when we lived in NYC; he had season tickets, went to countless games. And it was at that stadium that our relationship actually began—so I’ll miss it there, despite the fact that my game-going consisted more of people-watching than game-watching.
Andrew took me to a Yankees game—my first MLB game ever—several months before we started dating. I don’t remember exactly, but I think it was a weekend, and I think we met up at the stadium—somehow finding each other in the crowd. Andrew introduced me to his baseball-game rituals—beer, peanuts—and explained the game now and then. I remember being floored by the vast size of the ballpark—the population of more than five Connellsvilles could fit inside. Afterwards, we hugged goodbye at the entrance to the subway, as I headed back to my apartment in Harlem, and he headed back to Brooklyn.
We’ve been to many baseball games since then, in all different places on two different coasts; but I’ll always remember that particular Yankee ballpark as playing a small role in bringing us together.