SECTION: Sports; Pg. 74

LENGTH: 726 words

HEADLINE: OUR FINEST CRYING GAME

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:


CREATURES CRY.

It doesn't occur often in the bleachers, but it happened last night in Section 39. Tina bawled, and she hugged Chris, the security guard. Joey was crying. George was all red in the eyes.

We were falling all over each other, tumbling over the right-field seats and not feeling the bruises. People were rubbing my hair, and it was nearly impossible to complete our secret handshake. "I'm going to Disney World," George Chityat screamed, and he really was already there.

The creatures had reached that place on earth where there are no marching bands, no macarenas, no dress ties, no box seats, no Met fans.

We had ascended into bleacher heaven, traveling through a hellish ninth inning to get there.

Three outs left. Two left. One. We held up our fingers to show how many outs remained, how many separated us from eden; then, how many strikes.

"I've got no heartbeat," Tina Lewis said, while John Wetteland played with our minds. "I'm dead. Sometimes, I hate you, John Wetteland."

He teased us and taunted the Braves. Wetteland let us all think the Yankees might still blow this two-run lead in the ninth inning, might steal this evening from such well-behaved fans.

"My feet are soaking wet," John Zenes said, twisted around a guard rail. "They're sweating."

Finally, Charlie Hayes made the catch along the third-base stands. We rolled around like idiots, but we hurt nobody. It turned out the worst-behaved man in the house was Bobby Cox.

"Nobody was arrested in this section all night," said Chris Sebastian, the security guard. "Nobody."

How could we find the energy for such mischief? We had given it all to the team, from the moment a beach ball bounced down to us and one creature was forced to puncture it with his teeth.

"What do you think this is?" the biter said. "Shea Stadium?"

We took care of business out there, and the Yankees took care of baseball on the field.

Everybody could share in this championship. Even Ali Ramirez.

Ramirez, the revered cowbell fan, had died in May. Last night, there were flowers on his seat again in Section 39, and two of his grandchildren were standing and cheering proudly at the end.

"He knew they were going to win someday, and he said they had their best chance this season," said Luis Reyes, 14, who was there with Hector Alamo, 12.

"He's in our hearts and he's always in the bell," Reyes said.

The celebration spilled out onto River Ave., and the street looked like Mardi Gras. It sounded even better under the No. 4 train. Most of us still were wiping away tears.

Today, tomorrow, next week, we face the tough questions: What are we going to do with our lives, now that this ride is over? What happens now that the Braves are gone, and the frost attacks the pumpkin?

We are so confident and purposeful in our own environment, so certain of ourselves. We are not judged in the bleachers by the thickness of our wallets, or by the angle of our cheekbones.

Out there in the unticketed world, it is another matter. With the World Series over, we are no longer Bleacher Creatures.

We are just creatures.

"It's going to be the worst, the longest offseason," said Randy Ortiz of Manhattan. "It's going to be tough. We'll go over the old papers and articles. We'll have creature reunions. I'll play a second season on my Sega Saturn."

I will cover other sports. I will stare at my ticket stubs. I will hang my cartoon on the refrigerator.

Then, as far as baseball is concerned, there will be nothing but trade rumors.

The Creature can't heckle trade rumors. I can only report them.

I will have to do the right thing, reacquaint myself with the wife, children, dog.

Mrs. Creature has a list of errands, a mile long.

Bills are due. Now that we have spent our wages wisely on post-season tickets and the necessary refreshments.

"I might go back to work," said John McCarthy of the Bronx. "I might even open a school book."

Horrible, terrible notions. Bad thoughts to be put off for another day, put off until the parties and the ticker tape parade.

Last night, there was only the nervous, nutty countdown with Wetteland. There was the rolling in the aisles.

"I love you," John told George.

"I love you, too," George told John.

It was a Section 39 kind of love.

Notes: Bleacher Creature

LOAD-DATE: October 29, 1996