SECTION: Sports; Pg. 50

LENGTH: 548 words

HEADLINE: CHEER, JEER BUT SAVE YOUR BEER

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:


OH ME, OF little faith.

As one of the less spiritual creatures, I had all but given up hope that this Series would ever return to our bully pulpit, our bleachers. I already was making plans for an amusing weekend in Arizona, preparing to whack the Jets in print from a comfortable press box. Now, I am having trouble sleeping again, just thinking about how much fun it will be tonight to watch Ted Turner wear a Braves' cap sideways on his empty head.

He will be doing his racist chop, while Chipper is striking out.

"Whad'ya think?" we'll greet each other once more, in right field. And we'll be thinking four straight.

The multi-cultural fans out here have taken some heat recently for our behavior, and my sports editor wanted me to lecture ourselves about going too crazy.

I can't really do that. I won't co-opt the creature, one of journalism's great treasures. I am thinking Pulitzer, for community reporting. I can't become Mayor Giuliani. One Giuliani pointing fingers at the world is one prosecutor and 10 fingers too many.

Without moralizing, I must simply state that our recent tactics have not been very effective. We seem to be scaring the Yankees, not the bad guys. The Yanks are undefeated on the road during the postseason but 2-4 in front of us, their best friends.

I am somewhat concerned that Steinbrenner will have a talk with his Bleacher People and demote us all to Columbus. I do not want to become the Columbus Creature, at all costs.

I am a big leaguer.

So we must change our strategy, although I am not exactly certain how. Flowers instead of fists? Soda instead of beer?

Section 39 is not a perfect world.

Even among us frenzied idealists, there are always going to be a few knuckleheads. One fan paid a scalper $ 250 for his ticket to the bleachers for Game 2, and was bragging about it. Then he got into a beer-throwing contest and was ejected by the third inning.

"Have a nice World Series," we chanted at him, as security led him away.

Go figure. I just believe, in my heart, that the truest creature is one of the imagination. We wound with our words, with our suggestive taunts. Not with our beer cups. To do this, we bare our poetic souls, sometimes at dire personal expense.

Let me give you an example of this philosophy. David Brown, one of the core creatures who is at the bleacher entrance five hours before game time, was faced with a very difficult ethical decision earlier this season.

As a creature, he was obligated to heckle the pregame marching band from Deer Park, L.I. Bands do not belong on a baseball field. But his little cousin was in the band.

He jeered her, anyway. She heard him and cried. David's aunt was furious. There was a family rift.

"I'd do it again," Brown said. "You have to."

This is the sort of commitment I am talking about. We cannot be persuaded by conventional morality, or by sports editors.

We have our secret handshake, our special cowbell rhythms.

WE ARE all within one game of owning the ultimate baseball treasure: A bleacher ticket stub, from the Yankees' championship game.

We need our very best chants tonight. Our highest noise levels. Our luckiest tattoos.

If things go right, everybody goes home happy.

Note: Bleacher Creature

LOAD-DATE: October 27, 1996