In the big rock candy mountain.

 

It's amazing how fast you lose your moral compass when everything is free.

Wednesday night, I went to see your New York Yankees courtesy of my brother-in-law, a very nice guy and someone who has arranged his entire life better than anyone else I know. He has made a very good living, and raised a wonderful family, all by giving only the most worthy and deserving people in the world, their day in court.

Do not ask me how he has managed this. If I could figure it out, I would try to emulate him. At least, I like to tell myself that.

Anyway, my brother-in-law had tickets about two rows from the field, a little bit above third base—some of the very best seats I've ever sat in. 

(No, he hasn't made that much money defending only the righteous and the holy. They were a freebie from the bank that handles his firm's accounts. But I digress.)

The most stunning thing about these seats...was the complete access they give you to the Legends Suite Club. This is a two-level restaurant where everything except the alcoholic beverages, is free.

And this is...weird.

For instance, I went up to the lobster tails section (actual picture, above). I'm not making this up, there is a lobster tails section, between the crab legs and the mounds of shrimp. The incredibly cheery person behind the counter—the service is also amazing—asked me how many I would like.

"Uh, a couple," I mumbled. (Hey, they were relatively small lobster tails.)

"Okay, here ya go, love," she said—sweeping five lobster tails onto my plate. (No, I did NOT eat them all. What do you think I am? I gave one to my nephew.)

It was like that everywhere—and had quickly reduced normal human society to something out of a science fiction movie. In the bathroom, I noticed, someone had left their hot dog, in the little cardboard hot dog container they give you, next to the sink.

That's the thing: when all your food is free, you can just, you know, drop it anywhere and get some more.

And they had everything. Prime rib, sliced steak, those mounds of shrimp, all sorts of dessert pastries, ice cream sundaes. The proverbial works.

Probably the craziest feature—like something out of a Homer Simpson dream—was the Wall of Candy. Endless miniature M&M's, Snickers bars, Milky Ways, etc. All for free. Just take as many as you like.

It was nuts (you could get them, too). And so was the game.

The Yankees were playing out of their minds. I mean, this was on a 1998 level of total domination.

Rodón, you'll recall, was pitching a perfect game through five-and-a-third, with nine strikeouts.

The glove work behind him was as good as I've ever seen it from a Yankees team. Verdugo making that great, nose-into-the-fence catch in left field. Soto went up into the stands to make another outstanding one in right. Volpe with a great stop and throw, Rizzo picking a couple balls at first in a way that reminded me of the old Rizzo.

The hitting was just as good, line drives all over the yard. Soto seemed like he was everywhere at once, like a hero in some medieval battle saga. Pumping his chest, cheerleading, racing all around.

Judge was more locked in than I have ever witnessed. He hit that bases-loaded triple right past us, then on the next play beat a great throw to the plate, thundering down the third-base like a runaway freight train. When he slid across the plate there came an atavistic bellow from the crowd—something raw and primal and predatory. The Yanks were up, 8-0. With half a game still to go.

And for a moment there, I believed.

I suspect I was befuddled by all the free food. (Did you know you can also order anything from your seat down there? Like even two more lobster tails? NOT that I did that!)

But I have never in my life seen a more dominant half-game of baseball by your New York Yankees, and I thought—just for a minute!—Good Lord, maybe they ARE for real!

Outside the big rocky candy mountain, on a D-train full of contented Yankees fans, though, reality slowly slipped in like a deadly, noxious fog. 

Thing was, none of all that free food was all that great. It was just okay. And the Legends Suite level?  It was the only part of the Stadium where there were empty seats, all around us. All of this luxury around us was a sham—and so was this paper-thin ballteam, delightful as it could be.

I knew then, I knew somehow that I had witnessed the inflection point of the entire season. That things would never be that great again.

Now here we are, a few nights later, with Soto out—Was it that leap into the stands? One exuberance too many?—Schmidt on the DL for months still to come, Rizzo maybe soon to follow. The Stanton machine rusting up again, Gleyber back to being Gleyber.

This team is as real as the big rock candy mountain, inside the Legends Suite Club. It's fun, it's dazzling—and it's so many empty calories. We should enjoy it while we can, because it's going to melt away like those five, perfect innings.