Yankee Stadium is always the same inside and out.
Day in and day out.
It is full of laborers and scalpers and ballplayers and hookers and dealers.
They are mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and sons and daughters.
They are dreamers and schemers.
The forgotten and forgiven.
The ordinary and extraordinary.
They make their way as waitresses and dishwashers and sluggers and masons and carpenters and base stealers and factory workers and gardeners and pitchers and electricians and utility players and doormen and cooks and cops and crooks.
They hustle along cracked sidewalks and sit on hard benches and ride crowded trains.
They are surrounded by broken glass and chipped concrete and peeling paint and wrinkled tin and trash heaps and empty lots.
They smell of old cigars and stale beer and urine and sweat and roasted meat and perfect French fries.
On summer days and nights when the trains and streets rumble and groan and scream and rattle they are one. It is a single human flow that oozes through the narrow halls and up to the light.
Where Yankee Stadium is always the same inside and out.