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Saturday, June 21st, CIN @ NYY, 1:05 pm.
I've been here a hundred times. Yankee Stadium. The Cathedral. I was here when David Wells threw his hung-over perfect game, and when Alex Rodriguez drove in 10 RBI. I've heard the man with the recorder play the "Addams Family" theme for nickels, and Freddy Sez's spoon-and-pan is music to my ears. I've seen more groundskeepers dance to YMCA than you can imagine. But today is different.
Today I begin my job as a Cracker Jacks vendor.
The basement of the stadium is dark and musty. I report two hours before the game, mainly waiting around until the National Anthem. Experienced vendors shuffle about, making small talk with their co-workers of many years. "Yo, I hear we're looking at Ben Sheets!" "Nah, he's got an inner-ear infection." I shake my head and grunt in approval - I'm received with looks of confusion. Who is this kid? I bury my head in my copy of "Dreams From My Father," avoiding small talk until the game begins. One veteran hawker recognizes my greenness and approaches with a bit of advice. "Always ask the customer, 'How many would you like?' Trust me, kid." I nod, anxiously waiting for the game to begin.
My mood brightens as soon as I take those familiar, magical steps out to the seats. I watch the outfield grass appear, take a breath, and start my new job. I promised myself I wouldn't fake a Bronx accent, so I attempt to sell my product with full sincerity. "I have Cracker Jacks! Would anyone like some Cracker Jacks? Only $5.75!" No luck, no customers. I acquiesce. "Eyyyy, cracker jacks heeeah, getcha cracker jacks heeah!" Ears perk up, wallets come out.
A loud crack, a collective breath, then slow groan. I turn quickly to see that Corey Patterson just launched a home run off of Jose "Ramiro Mendoza" Veras. I'm suddenly reminded that I'm at a baseball game - it's harder to watch the game than I thought it would be.
I ask my next customer: "How many would you like, sir?" "Oh, um, now that you mention it - honey, you want a bag? - I'll have two please." Cha-ching! This job is an art form.
Down in the basement to refill my Cracker Jacks supply, I see manager Joe Girardi in the corridor. It's just me and him. I gather some courage:
"Hey Joe, you're the man!"
"Hey how's it goin'."
He doesn't slow down - the man has a bullpen to mismanage - but he speaks to me. What a legendary first day of work.
As the innings fly by, I realize I can stop trying to watch the game - Latroy Hawkins has taken the mound. Looks like Girardi has given up on this one. I focus on earning tips. I flip the Cracker Jacks behind my back and toss it to the kids - their grateful parents let me keep the extra quarter. Fans ask for the price, I reply empathetically: "$5.75, unfortunately." They smile and give me the quarter.
I wish I could take a semester off from school and keep this job, but my tuition-paying parents are reluctant. Apparently my "education" is more important than becoming a part of history. For when the dust has settled and the bulldozers are through, there will soon be a playground where Yankee Stadium once stood. I'm lucky to have played a part of this historic, final season - one "Prize Inside" at a time.
Ellis Rochelson '09 will never understand why Sidney Ponson plays baseball for a living.
