Yankees vs As June 29th

I finally made it to the Yankee Stadium, as the game was beginning after underestimating my knowledge of the Subway system, again. As I walked up person after person was leaving the Stadium talking of it being sold out. Luckily for me, the power of going to the game solo got me in, somehow. Little did I know that I wouldn't simply be watching the game, I would be immersed in the home of the Yankee Bleacher Creatures.
Bleacher creatures are the northern equivalent of Southern College football fans who never graduated high school. They are the most passionate fans because the team is not only representative of them, but the label which they define themselves as. The accents are different, the dress is different, and the chants are different, but it is all the same. The drunken high of chanting ridiculously inane cheers as part of a collective team of fans. Yankee Fans may be cheering for the winners, but I have a feeling that they'll never jump off the bandwagon.
While I was there I got to go near deaf from the nasal twine of Brooklyn accents comment on things that I couldn't decipher. This was during the free fall of the Yankees season, before the Yankees became the Yankees again. This was also during A-Rod's massive home run stretch, and I missed having him hit me a home run by 3 feet. What I didn't miss was the cheers serenading the Stadium from the Bleacher Creatures surrounding me. The Roll Call is a great tradition that should be spread to every ballpark in America. The other cheers are at best a little bawdy or, as I experienced, not exactly Politically Correct.

During the 6th inning, while the grounds crew is sweeping the dirt, Y.M.C.A. is played, with the grounds crews going through the motions with all the enthusiasm of a disgruntled Johnny Rocket's employee. The Bleacher Creatures, however, having been lying in wait for this moment, isolating and marking the presence of the opposing team's fans in the bleachers. When the moment comes, they pounce. Hands pumping in unified derisiveness, they point out the traitors in their midst. The old, young and weak are the first to crack. Some have been to these unfriendly confines before and are prepared. None are spared. The words of "Why are you Gay" spew forth from schoolmarms and Mafiosos alike, for here there are no vestiges of civility, nothing but Creatures. The younger ones mumble through the verses trying to remember them. The older ones lead the charge, pointing fervently, selecting their prey. With the outlawing of alcohol in the Bleachers, these Creatures' minds are sharp, and their words sharper. An alpha male emerges, his pointing more feverish than the rest, his words singing forth as if sung from the bowels of greatest opera singer of any generation. "Why are you Gay?" he implores, but not out of concern. Out of spite. The Oakland fans in attendance bow their heads in defeat. The alpha male turns back to his horde, the last lines of the song drowned out by the passing traffic. His smile does not linger, for before him stands the one enemy that no Bleacher Creature evades. His brethren give a mighty cheer as his destiny is fulfilled, to go out not as some shuffling fan dependent on the outcome of the game for his fulfillment, but as a fallen victor led from the Stadium by a cop.