-- Four hours before the last game at Yankee Stadium began, I walked through the low-ceilinged innards of the place, winding past the clubhouse, finally catching the attention of a worker. I asked him if he could show me what insiders call the Gehrig room, one of the many legends that will be lost when the wrecking balls tear down 85 years of baseball history.
He motioned for me to follow.
"Don't tell," he says. "I'm not supposed to show you."
At the end of a hallway is room BS-003, filled with broken seats, miscellaneous chair parts, paper towels and a motorized cart. Once, it had another purpose. When Lou Gehrig was dying, in his last season, he needed a sanctuary. The story goes that he, too, followed the narrow tunnels until he came here, alone, to this room. A small mural is painted on a post near where he used to sit. "Yankee Captains Forever," it says. The mural will die with the ballpark.
The room will be destroyed soon.
All of this will.
He motioned for me to follow.
"Don't tell," he says. "I'm not supposed to show you."
At the end of a hallway is room BS-003, filled with broken seats, miscellaneous chair parts, paper towels and a motorized cart. Once, it had another purpose. When Lou Gehrig was dying, in his last season, he needed a sanctuary. The story goes that he, too, followed the narrow tunnels until he came here, alone, to this room. A small mural is painted on a post near where he used to sit. "Yankee Captains Forever," it says. The mural will die with the ballpark.
The room will be destroyed soon.
All of this will.
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