Hooky, History, and Hugs at 8PM
We came to New York because one of Chad’s colleagues scored a suite at Yankee Stadium for a midday, midweek baseball game—basically a corporate-sanctioned hooky pass. Several of Chad’s law partners and their spouses joined, and we all made a break for it. We flew commercial this time, thanks to our ongoing saga with Teterboro and the FAA. Honestly, with the weather looking iffy, it was the smarter move—private planes were grounded, and that would’ve meant missing the game entirely, which was the whole reason we were here, adults playing hooky.
As it turned out, the stormy forecast scared off the other law firm, so we ended up with the entire suite to ourselves. Just eight of us, hanging out in this massive box like we were important or something. I was genuinely impressed by the Yankees staff, who managed to get the stadium ready despite the conditions—and by the diehard fans who sat out in the wind like they were being paid for it.
Inside the suite, Jimmy from Yankee Stadium was our designated food sherpa, keeping us supplied with stadium essentials: hot dogs, pizza, and popcorn that seemed to multiply no matter how much we ate. But Jimmy was also a tour guide in disguise. He walked me down the hallway pointing out photos and nudged me toward the Yankees Museum, where I learned that the current stadium is only 16 years old. It was built right next to the old one on city parkland, which they later gave back to the city after tearing the original down. Civic recycling, Bronx-style. The result is a shiny new stadium that still smells like legacy and beer.
Highlight of the game? Yankees rookie Jorbit Vivas hit his very first major league home run. It was the only score of the game, giving the Yankees a win over the Texas Rangers on a day so cold and blustery it felt like spring had asked for a postponement. When Jorbit’s face lit up on the Jumbotron—equal parts joy, disbelief, and pure kid-at-Christmas magic—it gave everyone goosebumps. The kind that aren’t entirely weather-related.
And then there was #99, Aaron Judge. The man is 6’8″ and makes everyone else on the field look like they wandered in from a Little League picnic. But that Thursday, he was as quiet as the wind was cold. I did appreciate his old-school uniform with the socks pulled over the pants—classic, understated intimidation.
After the game, we hugged the Felders and the Philips goodbye as they headed back to South Carolina, leaving Chad and me to extend our stay for two more days. That meant figuring out how to get back to Midtown. Our options: (1) subway or (2) taxi. And because we were in the adventurous spirit of public transportation—and also cheap—we chose the subway.
Thanks to Apple Maps and the magic of Apple Pay, navigating the subway is now only slightly less stressful than parallel parking a Cessna. Our friends Randy and Alisa were game to join us, so we all headed down to the platform, hoping the rain would hold off just long enough to keep us from looking like extras in a wet dog contest.
While we waited with the masses, I found myself behind a group of twenty-somethings discussing, of all things, how brutal yoga is. This made me chuckle because, well… it can be, but really? Then, right there on the platform, one of the girls pulled out a mini bottle and did a shot. Just casually knocked one back at 3:30 p.m., as if this were a college tailgate instead of the MTA. That too made me giggle. Maybe that’s why yoga feels hard.
The train arrived and we all packed ourselves in like commuters in a vacuum-sealed bag. There was no need to hold onto a rail—I physically couldn’t have fallen if I tried. At the next stop, some people shuffled off and a seat opened up. The girl with the mini bottle looked at me and asked, “Do you want to sit down?” I smiled and replied, “No, love. I think you need to sit down.”
A few more stops and we popped out at Grand Central—emerging from the grunge of the subway into the architectural equivalent of a tiara. The building is breathtaking, so naturally I wandered around snapping photos… and accidentally photo-bombing at least three couples trying to get their Instagram moments just right. Consider it a New York rite of passage.
We had a short walk back to the hotel, artfully dodging puddles and raindrops like we were in a Broadway tap number. On the way, we passed a man who appeared to be in an epic battle with gravity, and losing. A nearby New Yorker glanced at us, shrugged, and said, “Well, that’s New York.” He added that as long as the guy kept whatever was happening inside his own head, he had no problem with the life choices.
New Yorkers, I think, are pretty much like that—you do you, leave me out of it, and we’ll get along just fine. Maybe we all need to be a little more New York.
But the day wasn’t over. We had one more thing on the agenda: dinner with old friends.
Now, to tell this part properly, I need to rewind about 25 years. When Chad and I were thirty and intimidated of international travel, we signed up for a Perillo bus tour of Italy. It was us, two other young-ish couples, and a whole lot of retirees wearing money belts. One of those couples was Lori Ann and Anthony—funny, kind, and just as out of place as we were. We hit it off immediately, laughed through every stop, and even extended our trip to Paris together.
Fast forward a quarter-century, and between us, we’ve added six kids and a few gray hairs. We’ve kept in touch with Christmas cards and the occasional Facebook like, but this trip gave us the chance to reconnect. They live in New Jersey, and we arranged to meet at 8 p.m.—which, for the record, is about an hour before our ideal bedtime. But sacrifices must be made for friendship.
And it was so worth it. We picked up exactly where we left off. No awkward pauses, no weird small talk. Just the easy laughter of shared history and a great meal with good people.
It was a day of baseball, unexpected subway bonding, and rekindled friendships. Proof that sometimes playing hooky leads to exactly the kind of day you’d never plan, but will never forget.
Crosswind:
We’re staying at The Langham, New York, Fifth Avenue. It’s as posh as it sounds, but here’s the secret: book three nights and the third one’s free. Add the hospitality club, and not only do you get a much bigger room, but you also gain all-day access to food, drinks, and a cappuccino machine so good it might spoil you forever. Randy’s favorite part? The candy station. Full-size candy bars. No fun-size nonsense here—we’re living large.
Dinner with friends was at Benjamin Steakhouse, which was lovely—and let me just say, one meal is more than enough for two people. Trust me, it’s a mountain of food. Also, a pro tip: there are two Benjamin Steakhouses on opposite sides of the block, so double-check which one you’re headed to, or you’ll end up enjoying a brisk pre-dinner cardio session trying to find the right door.
