SECTION: Sports; Pg. 54

LENGTH: 543 words

HEADLINE: COCKEYED VIEW SIMPLY SWILL & DANDY

BYLINE: By FILIP BONDY

BODY:


Rob Setteducato splattered beer all over my pants in the bottom of the first last night, just before Bernie Williams knocked in a run.

"First beer of the night, too," Setteducato grumbled.

I might have popped him right then, except for two things:

I already had sat in bubble gum, so my pants were ruined. And besides, Setteducato of Red Bank was a right-field Bleacher Creature, just like me. A companion in slop.

I had some misgivings last night for Game 1, coming in by way of River Ave. The bleachers are a strange place; a shadowy, sloped landscape on the wrong end of Yankee Stadium.

But then Darryl Strawberry ripped a batting-practice drive into Section 41, past my left ear, and I understood everything.

I understood why Joe Dominguez, Row D, threw up for two days waiting for Game 1, and why he had a tattoo of Lou Gehrig on his ankle.

I understood why Ryan Murphy, another neighbor, dove into a puddle of soda on the hard concrete to grab a $ 10 baseball, and why his father, Bill, was pulling people off the top of the pile with this crazy look on his face.

"Reserved seats?" sneered Hector Riofrio, a bleacher brother from the Bronx. "That stinks. This should be first-come, first-serve, like every other day."

He was right. Reserved seats? That was for the wimps sitting behind the dugout. That was for Steinbrenner's best buddies.

Riofrio was at the park five hours before the game yesterday, expecting first-come, first-serve. Then he looked at his ticket and it had a row and number on it!

The problem, Riofrio and I figured, was that there were too many of these $ 85 ticket-service types around. Too many Willowbrook Mall people. Too many easy seats.

I did not tell Hector that I bought my $ 10 ticket from the Yankee public relations department four hours before game time, because I figured he wasn't interested.

Luckily, there were still enough of us authenticos to start heckling the Texas players.

"Who shot J.R.?" we chanted in song. That one confused several of the Rangers, which was exactly the effect we had been seeking.

I refrained from the "You are gay!" taunt, but I was right back there with, "Let's Go, Yankees," to the tune of "Let's Go, Rangers," at the Garden. It was OK to use that chant, because those are the other Rangers, the good hockey Rangers.

Somebody noticed that a few of the Willowbrook people weren't chanting along. Noise police were dispatched, whistling into these people's ears, waking them up.

Now, let's be upfront about this. The bleachers do not afford a great view of a baseball game, even if you are a far-sighted dyslexic. Everything is backward, and teeny-tiny.

There are games like last night's, when the other team keeps hitting homers to the wrong field and you can't even throw the ball back.

But you get a great view of the bunting, and you are able to sit among the loudest and wisest of guys.

By the time I left last night, the beer was dried on my pants. The bubble gum was more troublesome.

Didn't matter. I am a Bleacher Creature. Tonight, for Game 2, I may return with no pants at all.

"Come back tomorrow, I'll spill another beer on you," Setteducato said.

Through the suds and the gunk, we had bonded.

LOAD-DATE: October 03, 1996