SECTION: Sports; Pg. 88

LENGTH: 564 words

HEADLINE: STITCHED UP, OUT OF LEFT FIELD

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:


I AM WRITING TO you from a parallel universe, from the bizarro world of the left-field bleachers.

Like many of my fellow creatures, I had no reason to suspect that such a place actually existed until I looked for my Game 2 seat on the usual right-field side. It was then I realized there was no blue, plastic slab corresponding to my ticket number. I headed to left, where there were other exiles, already fuming.

"I wait on line, and they tell me they don't have any more right-field tickets," says Chad Niles, another outcast from Bridgewater, N.J. "I know they're lying, but you can't do anything."

Life in the left-field bleachers is something that must be seen to be believed. A whole new world of bleachers, the lap of luxury.

Yes, there are a few familiar touchstones: the faint smell of urine, the uncomfortable seats without backs, the overpriced "super pretzels," the fans with pierced body parts, the profane chants.

But there is too much room, too little peril.

I miss the edge.

"These are, like, the family bleachers," Niles complains.

Yes, the family bleachers. Maybe more Addams Family than Brady Bunch, but family nonetheless.

Before the game, wide-eyed parents and kids roam beneath our seats to view Monument Park, to pay homage to Gehrig and Ruth. Everywhere you look, there are flowers.

Flowers, actually growing out of the ground.

And do you know what the Yankees put out here with us, in Section 57? An entire marching band, from Huntington High, 200 strong.

"What are all those fuzzy people?" wonders Rebecca Meditz of Manhattan. The marching band is jeered, of course, by the right-field bleacherites. The members come back to their seats, try to start a wave.

They are too young to understand. The bleachers are where the wave comes to die, not to be born.

Nobody stands up for the wave. The band members try again. Nobody stands. They try again.

I am getting sick from this sight. Is nothing sacred?

I was so ready for Game 2, after so many roadblocks. I made it to the Stadium despite a seven-stitch gash in my forehead that turned me into even more of a Bleacher Creature. I was Messier, sewn up between periods and set to carry the team.

A bit dazed, I dropped my bleacher ticket outside the gate. It was returned by an honest pretzel vendor, Junior Thompson, who might have scalped it for $ 50.

All that, and then they seat me in left field, Row Z. The last row on Planet Earth. I am so far away from the Orioles, 550-plus feet, I might as well be sitting on the steps of the Bronx County Courthouse.

An existential riddle: if a heckle is not heard by the opposition, is it even uttered at all?

Give the creatures in left credit for trying. They taunt the Oriole bullpen. They cheer ump Rich Garcia, as if he were a Yankee. Anthony Mullamphy of Brewster grabs an Orioles cap from a Baltimore fan, climbs a fence and rubs his butt with the hat.

Good bleacher stuff, even by right-field standards.

"I'm such a warm guy, I'll give the hat back to the guy as long as he doesn't wear it," Mullamphy says.

Mullamphy cuts his finger climbing the fence.

"I'm going to sue the Stadium," he says. "I'm going to sue George."

A bad day all around. When I come back for Game 6, I must be back in right, harassing Bobby Bonilla.

The Yankees need me there.

Note: Bleacher Creature

LOAD-DATE: October 11, 1996