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Our first place High School winning entry is by James Sutherland, a student attending Briar Woods High School in Ashburn, Virginia. |
The ground crunched as the man’s boots marched across it. He stopped and breathed deeply, exhaling at the same time as the crowd of 50,000 exhaled just a few miles away, audible from Heritage Field, where the man was standing. He was an athletic man, despite being in his 70’s, attributed to his time spent on the NYPD force and as a state trooper; despite that, nothing came between him and the Yankees. They were his team. He had been faithful, trusting and loving. He had been a boy when the 50’s rolled around, with Mickey Mantle and Yogi Berra and Casey Stengel winning five straight World Series. He had stayed true in the 60’s, 70’s and 80’s, enduring the Miracle Mets, Baltimore Birds and the Big Red Machine. He had been a part of the “Bronx Zoo”. He had relieved his boyhood with the Jeter and Rivera in the late 90’s, as the Yankees filled the opponents with fear and awe like pouring fine wine into a paper cup. But now he found himself struggling. The team just was unbearable. “Prima Dona’s and Mendoza’s,” he would tell his friends. “That’s all they are. Just Prima Dona’s and Mendoza’s.” It was almost like a curse was on the Bronx Bombers; believe me, the thought hadn’t crossed Phil’s mind more than once.
Phillip Rizzuto Robinson. That was the man’s name. Some called him Phil, other Rizzy, others Robinson. His father named him after the father idol, Phil Rizzuto, one of the most prolific players in Yankee history. “A true pinstripe player.” Phil’s father had muttered before he died. Rizzy had grown up in awe of his namesake, and to this day believed that not even Jeter could compare. Well, maybe Jeter, but not that Ripken fool, he would reassure himself.
“Hurry up, Dad! We’ve got to get this stuff in the moving van in ten minutes!” shouted Phil’s daughter, Luella, named after Lou Gehrig.
“Alright, alright! Cool your jets, eh?” grunted back the older man, who was still making his way down the staircase. He finally reached the lobby, where his daughter was waiting. They both paused, looking out the windows towards Manhattan, where the Twin Towers had once stood.
“It sure looks nice, out.” said Luella. Neither wanted to verbalize the emotions they were feeling; this building had been home for Phil nearly his whole life. Luella had been raised their, her children had been raised nearby; Phil’s wife had died there, only a few years ago. “I really am gonna miss this place.” Luella finally spoke.
“But it’s time to move on,” said her father. He sighed deeply before continuing, “I was getting too lonely without your mother, and besides, I can’t take care of myself anymore.” They heard a loud car horn outside.
“That must be Greg with the truck. Let me go see.” she spoke.
“Alright. Imma go look around one more time. You understand, doncha?” he questioned.
The stairs creaked as Phil walked up them, possibly for the last time; Robinson was no dummy; he knew that the contractors were gonna tear down this place and build some mall or shop or something. He opened the rotting door for the last time, and wiped his feet on the welcome mat for the last time. He was going to stay at a hotel tonight, to avoid a night in an old, run down, empty apartment. “One look, that’s it.” Phil had told himself, as he climbed the stairs. “Can’t get to sentimental.” He entered the bedroom, feeling sad at abandoning the abode that had done him so good over the years. He looked up from the floor, and nearly hit the deck; there written in vermillion, across the wall, was a message as clear as day; HERITAGE FIELD. TONIGHT. 11:21. BE THERE. Rizzy was shocked; it was like an icicle to the chest. “Heritage Field? Where... wait, that where old Yankee Stadium was, wasn’t it?” he remembered suddenly. “Who would do this? I didn’t see anyone leave, or come in for that matter. Maybe they’re still here.”
“Dad?” Luella’s voice pierced him; it was like a defibrillator, shocking his heart to life. He moved quickly.
“She can’t see this.” he thought.
“Coming!” he replied. “Just got caught up in it all, I guess,” he said, closing the door tight. “Let’s go!”
That night around 11:00 Phil woke up, sweating profusely and with a headache. “Just need some fresh air, I suppose.” he thought. Phil got up, put a pair of sweat pants and a Yankees sweat shirt on. He was taking a walk for a couple of blocks, when he saw a sign for a bus. “To Macomb’s Dam Park/Heritage Field” it said. Phil, almost pulled by some magic force, got on the bus. It was 11:10.
The bus pulled up to the stop at Heritage Field at 11:19 precisely. As Robinson got off the bus, he had a strange feeling; it was like he was being followed. In fact, he was the only person to get off at that stop; that was somewhat unsurprising to him due to the fact that it was nearly midnight, and it was an empty park.
Phil had been to the field before; he had, at one time, made the journey nearly monthly, but now he was too old. As he neared the field, Rizzy again got that feeling, like something beside himself was in control of his body, manipulating and directing his movements and eyes to things it wanted him to see;
or perhaps away from things it didn’t want him to see. His feet hit the grass infield, and he glanced at his watch; 11:21. Suddenly he remember the writing on the wall. Then he heard the voice.
“So you did come. I knew you would.” it said. Phil turned slowly and cautiously, almost scared to see what waited for him. Then he saw what had spoken to him, and guided him. It was his namesake, Phil Rizzuto.
“Phil Rizzuto? You’re dead!” the younger of the two exclaimed.
“That’s a good way to greet your hero, eh?” Rizzuto grinned. “I’m dead, am I? That’s what they tried to tell me, I suppose. But a true Yankee never actually dies; they linger on, hear at Old Yankee Stadium. Steinbrenner even tore it down, but nothing can remove us from our roots. In fact, we are all still here.” Rizzuto pointed beyond Phil, and as he turned, Robinson’s eyes grew bigger than one would think humanely possible. There, on the field, he saw Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig chatting on the side. Whitey Ford was throwing some pitches to his old battery partner, Yogi Berra. Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris stood near the batter’s box, still discussing how to hit Ford. Reggie Jackson, Thurman Munson and Joe DiMaggio stood alone, and many more.
“Why am I seeing this? Why now? Why not years ago?” Phil questioned.
“Because it wasn’t proper yet. Now it is.” replied his namesake. “We were just as disappointed as you were. In fact, the Yankees have lost our blessing. Moving away from the old stadium was the straw that broke the camel’s back. George thought he could win without us, and did once, but he died knowing he had failed the tradition. Until the grievous faults over the years have been fixed, we won’t support and help the Yanks.” Rizzuto paused before he continued. “There are other faithful supporters here, and more are coming. They are gathering, waiting for the time when the Yankees will honor us.”
“I still don’t understand. What is the meaning of this?” Robinson asked.
“You might say it’s our field of dreams.” the second baseman said. “Speaking of which, we better hurry, ‘cause there’s a game on tonight, and you’re scheduled to start in left.” Phil took one last, weary look towards Manhattan, then turned away. He grinned, and joined the pinstripe legends on the field.
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