SECTION: SPORTS; Pg. 79

LENGTH: 854 words

HEADLINE: YANKEES' CLINCHER LESS THAN BUBBLY DEVASTATION DAMPENS CELEBRATION

BYLINE: BY FILIP BONDY

BODY:
Not a drop of champagne was shaken, spilled or sprayed in public view. A few bottles were carried off in bags into the deep recesses of the Yankee clubhouse, for private consumption, for somber toasts. The players hugged each other, briefly, then showered, dressed and moved on with their lives.

It could be no other way. The division title, their fourth straight, had been captured in the most joyless of fashions: A 4-0 loss to the worst team in baseball, a rare defeat for Roger Clemens, two weeks after the ugliest tragedy in the history of New York. The players, like the city, packed away the party hats for later, along with the bottles, most of them still corked.

"We're not big celebrators to start with," Mike Stanton said. "It's always hard to celebrate after a loss. And the whole night, with what it meant . . ."

Stanton had been on the mound when the scoreboard announced the championship, the Yankees' quietest of titles. He heard a brief, loud cheer from the crowd, and figured the Red Sox had lost to Baltimore.

He was right. One last Boston fiasco, a Tony Batista grand slam in the ninth at Fenway, had completed the math. Joe Torre knew about it minutes before Stanton. He turned to Derek Jeter, sitting next to him in the dugout, and congratulated his shortstop.

The game ended, before a crowd that had dwindled to maybe 10,000 fans. The players walked off the field. Clay Bellinger hugged Clemens, for consolation as much as for congratulations.

"Everyone's happy," Jeter said. "It's a first step to getting to the championship. Everyone's giving hugs. We just didn't feel this is the time for champagne."

A community of New Yorkers, of mourners, of Yankee players and fans, had gathered last night in the Bronx to test again their own capacity for joy.

Just two days earlier, this same, famous building was filled with grieving survivors and with plaintive prayers. Yankee Stadium, the House that Ruth built back when terrorists weren't knocking down city landmarks, had served as an open-air cathedral, mosque and synagogue.

Donald Simpson, a Bleacher Creature from Harlem who had been caught in the vortex of the terrorism on Sept. 11 while working at the World Trade Center, said he was not the same man, the same fan, as he was two weeks earlier.

"I'm scared," said Simpson, heading for Section 39 in right field. "I have seven friends gone, six co-workers missing."

This could never be just another game, this delayed reopening in New York by the city's showcase franchise. Hours before the first pitch, Torre's three bags were unzipped and searched by a security guard as the manager entered the Stadium. The guard apologized to Torre. The manager told the man it was all right, that he just shouldn't tell anybody how messy those bags were. Everybody was simply trying to do his job.

"Your emotions are all over the place, a four-wall handball game," Torre said.

Down below, in Pete Sheehy's clubhouse, Dakota, the bomb-sniffing dog, stuck its brown snout into Bernie Williams' locker, then knocked over a bottle of Carbo Rush onto the floor of Jorge Posada's cubicle.

Stanton sat back on his chair and watched this spectacle with bemusement. "I have five dogs at home," he said. "It makes no difference to me."

The agonizing pregame ceremonies at local sports events never seem to stop around here. The one last night at the Stadium was dignified, with more anthems and prayers and tears. Branford Marsalis played a haunting taps. Bob Sheppard's booming voice cut through the night air.

The players on the two teams lined the basepaths, escorted by police and firemen. Torre brought Rudy Giuliani to the mound on Primary Day, for an introduction and a heartfelt ovation. Then another baseball game started, the last one that really mattered in the standings.

In other parts of this country, it has become easier to get back to work, to smile. The Oakland A's celebrated their wild-card clinching with abandon. Already, elsewhere, sports columnists are ripping home teams for playing badly.

It will be a considerable while before that happens here around New York, where the mixed rubble of metal and ashes is still heaped high near the southern tip of Manhattan. The Yankees can't make people forget any of that, even with another championship run. They won't try. The organization will erect a memorial in Monument Park, to the victims of terrorism, to the fallen rescue workers.

In Section 39 last night, Simpson talked about a different kind of camaraderie, outside the lines. He had been at Ground Zero on Sept. 13, helping to dig out metal and bodies, when the guy digging next to him took off his mask. Simpson suddenly recognized Richie, another Bleacher Creature.

That was the world in which baseball games must now be played, from here into November. A little crazy. A little sad. More than a little inspiring.

"We still have something to congratulate ourselves about," Torre said last night.

The Yankees clinched. They would sip their champagne privately, through tight lips. They would toast the phoenix that is New York.

E-mail: fjbondy@netscape.net

LOAD-DATE: September 26, 2001