Yankee Stadium's NO Network

In 1996 I joined three friends in buying a half-season ticket package from the NY Yankees. The 35-game package earned us first dibs on our seats through the playoffs and World Series, and for an extra $100 we got entry to the Pinstripe Pub, the bar/restaurant in the belly of the stadium. It may sound stupid to want to go to a bar in the middle of a baseball game when you've paid to sit in main reserve on the third-base side, but the Pub was the only place in the stadium you were allowed to smoke, and the only place to get a drink late in the game when everyone else had been cut off. It was particularly welcoming during extra innings and rain delays. Membership has its privileges.

But things change. The Yankees won a bunch of World Series, so ticket prices went up and a half-season package eventually required buying 42 games. Smoking was banned in the Pinstripe Pub. And don't even get me started on those plastic beers.

But at least there was always the ritual. After a few games that first year we realized that spending $5+ a beer at 35 games a year was not cool at all. Especially not the way we drink. So Plan B: Buy a bottle of bourbon, hide it in a folded newspaper under your arm and walk into the stadium. Not ingenious or unique, I know, but the reason we fancied ourselves clever was that there was a "designated driver's booth" where you could present your driver's license and receive a free coke. Mixers. Seemed brilliant, but when we tried it we realized that the cokes came in what were practically dixie cups.

Luckily it wasn't long before we realized that Yankee Stadium was relatively laissez-faire about bringing food and drink into the stadium. The only rule was no glass bottles (and no alcohol). When we found that a nearby deli sold cups of ice for 50 cents, a ritual was born: sandwich, bourbon, mixers, cups with ice?for less than the price of a beer and a dog.

This worked beautifully for years. Then Osama Bin Laden ruined it all.

After 9/11 Yankee Stadium was on full alert. New rule: no bags. No, seriously, no bags. I went up to the gate with my plastic deli bag full of my sandwich, ice cups and ginger ale, only to be told "no bags." I opened it to show that inside was merely a sandwich, ice cups and ginger ale. The guy made me take it all out. I dropped the bag on the ground and walked in with all my stuff piled up in my arms. He didn't frisk me.

At another game I saw a guy holding what was clearly a hero inside a brown paper bag he had molded to fit the shape of the hero. The security guy said, "No bags, sir."

"It's just a hero."

"No bags."

"Well, can I take my sandwich in?"

"Just no bags."

The guy took the deli-paper-wrapped hero out of the paper bag, dropped the bag on the ground and walked past. The security guard did not ask him to unwrap the deli paper to see what was inside, though two grenades would fit nicely in something that size.

But fine. We could deal with that. It seemed preposterous that they were also not allowing people to bring in umbrellas (on one rainy night there were piles of them outside the gates?they must have made a killing selling those ridiculous ponchos inside), and it sucked that if I was coming from work I couldn't bring my shoulder bag, but whatever. We still had our ritual.

Then came the 2002 season. I have always been a huge fan of Jason Giambi. I was jealous that the A's had him, and I rooted for him whenever he wasn't playing the Yankees. So I was excited. Then we got to the gate.

"No beverages." He was a tall, skinny kid, probably from the neighborhood.

"But it's in a plastic bottle," my friend said.

"No beverages."

"No, wait. I thought we could being in a soda if it was in a plastic bottle."

"No beverages."

"Fucking shit man." Dan threw his club soda and his cups into a big trash bin full of umbrellas, bags and beverages. My soda was in the large pocket of my cargo shorts. I was holding my sandwich and cups of ice.

"No beverages."

"It's just cups filled with ice."

"No beverages."

I took the lid off one of the cups, showed him the inside. "See, just ice. Not a beverage."

"No cups."

"Oh come on buddy. What the hell is going on here? It's a cup with ice."

"No cups. You have to dispose of them." The people in line behind me started getting angry and were yelling at me to just move the hell along. Acting like a child, I whipped the cups into the trash bin with what I imagined to be the force of a Roger Clemens fastball. That sure showed them.

But I did get my soda in, because it was in my pocket, which they did not pat down. Could've had a pipe bomb in there.

Now we were furious. We bitched about it the whole game, sipping our warm bourbon out of the bottle while the fans initiated Giambi with a string of boos. Now, another ritual we have is going to the Pinstripe Pub during the 7th inning if the Yanks are losing. We consider it good luck, because more often than not we find that they come back while we're in there. And besides, by then it's already last call inside the stadium, but as members we were allowed to bring a drink out to the field from the Pub as long as we left before the 8th inning was over.

Then we noticed someone new in the Pub. It was a woman, probably in her 40s, wearing a suit that made her stand out among the uniformed bartenders and waiters. She was looking around anxiously, following one particular old-timer bartender, asking him questions, watching what all the employees were doing. Clearly some sort of new middle-management person, and clearly a nag who was going to fuck something up for us.

"No," I overhead the old-timer say in response to one of her whispered comments. "Everyone does not think you're a Nazi."

She scurried over to the bouncer, and as we were walking out we heard her ask, "So by 'no drinks allowed out of the Pub after the 8th inning'?does that mean before the 8th inning starts or after the end of the 8th inning?"

We walked out. We knew the answer to that question: the latter.

We adapted, and things were going relatively well. We found that making a quick run to the Pub for a gratis plastic cup with ice was actually more convenient than bringing the crappy paper cups of ice from the deli. And when sneaking a soda in didn't work, drinking our bourbon on the rocks wasn't the worst thing in the world.

Then recently, we found ourselves in need of a 7th-inning rally, so we went to the Pub. Where we were prevented from leaving with our beers in the middle of the 8th inning.

"You can't leave with those," the bouncer said.

"But the 8th inning isn't over yet."

The bouncer turned and pointed to a glistening new sign on the wall behind him: "No beverages will be allowed outside the Pinstripe Pub after the end of the 7th inning."

"But the rule was always the 8th inning. When did you change the rule?"

"It's not a new rule, it's a new sign," he said.

"?What?"

"It's not a new rule, it's a new sign."

"But?but the rule changed."

"I don't know," he shrugged. "It's a new sign. You can't bring that out there."

Right. And on and on and on?