SECTION: Sports; Pg. 70

LENGTH: 566 words

HEADLINE: HOW WE LEARNED TO HATE GONZALEZ

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:


GAME 1 WAS fine, but it was missing something.

Game 1 wasn't wet enough.

Game 2, on the other hand, was very wet in the right-field bleachers. There was a cleansing rain yesterday afternoon that washed away the beer from the concrete and the bubble gum from the seats. And then, unfortunately, it was still raining three hours before game time. "No umbrellas," declared Tina Lewis, from Queens. "No way. Absolutely no umbrellas. And no macarena."

Umbrellas would get in the way. So would the macarena.

They would wreck everything.

So I settled down into my puddle on the seat, sponged up the water with my pants, and got ready to heckle Juan Gonzalez.

I'm not sure when it was that I first started to hate Gonzalez, and all of Texas by association. I only know that since I've become the Bleacher Creature, I can't bear the whole, stupid state. I can't stand the oil, the longhorns, the politicians, the sorghum or the baseball team.

Most of all, though, I hate Gonzalez, the man who keeps hitting homers far away from us, two inches over the wall in left field.

In the bleachers, we call Gonzalez "Igor." That is because, as one of my new buddies says, "There is something way off about his face."

After his homers last night, I hate Gonzalez even more. I sit in water in the uncovered stands at Yankee Stadium, I risk a short-circuit in my laptop computer, just on the off chance that Igor will drop one fly ball in front of me.

Let me digress here: We creatures want the world to know that those bottles and batteries regularly cascading upon Gonzalez originate primarily from the upper deck, not from the bleachers.

"They blame us for everything," Lewis said. "OK, we make fun of the players. OK, we say some bad words. But we don't get that heavy."

We just hate Gonzalez, the way we hate umbrellas, marching bands, box seats and ties.

Ties, especially.

Mark Sobieski, a financial analyst for a nonprofit organization in Manhattan, walked into the bleachers last night with a tie. He might as well have been Gonzalez.

"I totally forgot where I was," Sobieski said apologetically, when he realized his terrible mistake and removed the tie. "I feel better already."

Sometimes, we like to stir things up a little. That is our nature. John McPherson, a big Yankee fan, showed up in the bleachers for Game 2 with a Texas cap.

"I know these fans," McPherson said. "I just wanted to agitate them."

It worked. People yelled at McPherson. McPherson, Row H, Section 39, smiled his devilish smile. He kept his Ranger hat on, wearing a Yankee jacket.

Someone yelled that this made him a bisexual.

McPherson took the hat off once Texas took the lead. He is not a sadistic man. Here is another thing about us that you should know: We are not always hard and spiteful.

Near McPherson last night, Row A, Seat 29, there was a fresh bouquet of flowers lying on a seat. This once was Ali Ramirez' seat. Ramirez died in May from an aneurysm. He was the cowbell man, the chief cheerleader in the right-field bleachers. He was the creature's creature.

THE YANKEES bought his seat when he died, painted "AR" on it. Now it is a shrine. The fans buy new flowers for every game. We do not fail.

We are not so bad.

We just hate Gonzalez. And we are sure there will be more action in the Bronx bleachers next week.

Notes: Bleacher creature

LOAD-DATE: October 04, 1996