I’m at the end of the platform so as the D train pulls into 7th Avenue I can see Yankee jersey after Yankee jersey flashing by, each car sprinkled with Jeters and Judges and Gregoriouses and everything's just a blur of navy all splattered with that iconic interlocked NY logo.
I know it’s ridiculous, but still: I feel nervous. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach and the subway car I’m in is full of people who are noisy and excited—the only more boisterous subway experience will be the ride home, when it seems like everyone on the train is six beers deep and prepared to hug every stranger (in the case of a win) or start a slurred, messy fight (let’s hope we don’t lose). But now, ten minutes to noon, everybody’s jacked up and there are 8 different conversations going about the Yankees’s chances this year, what C.C. is going to do, how the Giants suck—even the homeless guy who just came through asking for change stops to weigh in on the bullpen.
I know it’s ridiculous, but still: I feel nervous. I’ve got butterflies in my stomach and the subway car I’m in is full of people who are noisy and excited—the only more boisterous subway experience will be the ride home, when it seems like everyone on the train is six beers deep and prepared to hug every stranger (in the case of a win) or start a slurred, messy fight (let’s hope we don’t lose). But now, ten minutes to noon, everybody’s jacked up and there are 8 different conversations going about the Yankees’s chances this year, what C.C. is going to do, how the Giants suck—even the homeless guy who just came through asking for change stops to weigh in on the bullpen.
This is one of those days when I really extra love living here. The NY accents are out in force: the guys from Queens in their Timberlands, maybe off-duty construction workers, drinking tall boys from paper bags. A whole knot of twenty-something guys who look like they work together in finance, sunglasses firmly on even underground, shouting over each other about the best game they ever saw, yo, bro, no, seriously. There are couples in matching jerseys and what appears to be all of the male members of a family, several generations, the little boys restless and eager and the men easy and laughing and Opening Day is the day when everything is possible.
Some cops step into our car at 155th St and they’re smiling, too, politely ignoring the many open-container violations going on all around them. The car is full now and it feels warm and happy and trust me when I say this is NOT what it’s usually like on the D train. A debate ensues as to when the first Boston Sucks chant will go up, and then we’re at 161st St and streaming off the train and the people left behind look slightly stunned and a little lost. Through the station, a lady yelling “stay to the right,” and up into the chaos of a sea of people and the one-dollar-water guys and did I mention sooo many people,Yankee blue and pinstripes everywhere. A man passes me, his phone pressed to his ear, scanning the crowd ahead, saying “I don’t see you, I don’t see you, and I’ll tell you, you’re too big to miss.” I join an endless serpentine line and the sun comes out and it’s Opening Day!
I see a guy with “UNANIMOUS” on the back of his jersey, big letters, and it takes a minute to clock that he’s wearing number 42. Our lines snakes by cops and stadium personnel, people shouting directions, one guy saying “enjoy the game, guys, enjoy the game,” a big smile on his face and we’re breaking all the NYC the rules, high-fiving and smiling and the best word for what we’re feeling right now, all 50,000 of us pouring into the Stadium, always written and pronounced with a capital “S,” is pride. Yankee Pride, New York Pride, this is one tough goddamn town but we’ve made it, we’re here, and we’re wearing our pinstripes and it’s Opening Day! Anything—everything—is possible.
Let’s go, Yankees!
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