Legends: Explaining Why You Hate The Yankees, One Tuna Roll At A Time

legendsclubhouseBy Spencer Ackerman

The picture you see to your left is an iPhone-produced facsimile of the Legends clubhouse/restaurant behind the visitors’ dugout along the third-base line of Yankee Stadium. That is, new Yankee Stadium. The last time I went to old Yankee Stadium, I paid a lot of money for good seats to take my then-ill mother to Mothers’ Day at the Stadium in 2006. Two i-bank douches seated behind us talked very loudly for much of the game about their latest conquests, and as much as I figured they were actually cruising each other and deserved support during that brave moment in their lives, I don’t play that shit with my mother in tow. Many stink-eyes and one disappointing matchup later, I left the Stadium thinking it was consigned to be a redoubt of the overprivileged.

Then last night I attended — unexpectedly, and fortuitously — the amazing 11-inning second game of the Yankees-Twins division series. I won’t say anything about how I obtained the tickets I got, but suffice it to say I had no business sitting where I did, especially as the tickets were a Wonka-esque passageway to Legends. The silver wristband provided by those tickets allow access to a never-ending cascade of food and alcohol.

And this was high-end stuff. Two sushi chefs assembled and sliced a mass-production volume of spicy tuna rolls, perfectly fatty and delicate. I liked it so much I ate it all game, paired with fresh slices of salmon and fatty tuna. During my pre-game sushi, eaten in the clubhouse, I looked over my flight of Stella Artois and there was Bill O’Reilly. Suddenly I noticed people in our section come to an abrupt pause in their meals before breaking into deep, affectionate smiles. Turning around, I saw: Rudy Giuliani and Judith Nathan had arrived.

Depending on when you believe life begins, I attended my first Yankee game either six months in utero or three months out of the womb. You could say I’m a dedicated fan. And I have never hated the Yankees, and the sheer decadence they callously encourage, more than when I stepped in that clubhouse. To think I used to smirk at the post-Candlestick Stadium (Pac Bell Park? After all of this telecom consolidation, what’s it even called these days?) for serving garlic fries. I ate a New England-style lobster roll — it was so fucking creamy and refreshing I was only half-conflicted for ordering it (a New England confection in Yankee Stadium could be a recipe for a jinx) — in between my sushi, all of which was washed down with moats of Dewer’s and beer. I told my father what I ate. He shook his head. “You faggot,” was all he could say.

Now, of course I don’t hate the Yankees, especially not after a surprisingly powerful performance from A.J. Burnett; three RBIs from A-Rod; a stunning display of pitching from Dave Robertson to strand three Twinkies who loaded the bases with no outs (yes; Mauer was robbed by the ump, but nevermind that for now); and Teixiera’s worth-every-penny walkoff homer in the 11th. But I can no longer fairly object when you talk about the evilness of the Empire. Yes, my liberalism was offended by that clubhouse. But like Tricky said: My evil is strong.

2 responses to “Legends: Explaining Why You Hate The Yankees, One Tuna Roll At A Time

  1. Staples Center has three levels of luxury suites. That means the upper level sits a three-story building away from the lower level. Not long after it opened, I sat in my agency’s suite (showbiz was good to me then), looked up, and thought, the revolution can’t come soon enough.

    It occurs to me that this post could also be titled, “Your Tax Dollars At Work.”

  2. And it occurs to me that this post could just be titled “The Yankees and Why They Are A Mainfestation of Evil.” I mean, why beat around the bush? O’Reilly loves ’em. Giuliani loves ’em. It’s not the food — there’s no earthly reason for stadium food to be horrible, and no earthly reason to get so bent out of shape about protecting the horrible food that one would have a reaction such as your father’s. It’s the company you keep.

    I hope that New England lobster roll is a curse. And screw Jeter.

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