For Yankees Fans, This Bronx Bar Is the Place to Be
Tuesday at dusk, stepping off the train stop at River Avenue and 161st for game four of the World Series — a do-or-die Game 4 for the Yankees versus the Dodgers — commuters merged with the crowds that were spilling from the bars into the street under the elevated train tracks.
“Somos familia, and even if you’re visiting as a Red Sox or Dodgers fan, we might quietly make ugly faces at each other, but we’ll be nice. Everyone is great, except that guy down there,”
Ticketless Yankee fans from around the city (and the world) gathered at those two bars as is custom. Meanwhile, on a quieter corner, just two blocks away up 161st, fans from the immediate neighborhood watched the game from their own bar, as they have for 100 years: Yankee Tavern, the oldest bar in the Bronx.
Beside the bar, in front of murals of Yankee greats — Yogi Berra, Elston Howard, and Aaron Judge — a small group of men and women listened out for a sound coming from the stadium.
“Did you hear it?” one asked.
“There it is! I heard it.”
They peered through the door at the bar TV, counted to ten, then shouted, “Strike!”
“If you stand outside you hear the whistle coming from the stadium exactly ten seconds before you see it on TV,” a guy named Jeff explained. “Fifteen or twenty years ago it took longer. We used to have enough time to place bets.”
Jeff and several other customers milled outside, mostly to be connected with the stadium, not because the bar is overcrowded. It’s relatively easy to move around, order a drink, even on the night of a World Series game. A woman in her early 40s named Joannie Martinez kept going in, taking pictures of the TV screen, and then stepping back outside to text them to someone.
“I’ve been coming for 24 years. I’ve seen several wedding proposals here,” she said. She used to work here; she told me to order the chicken broccoli pasta. Her drink is a Long Island iced tea with pineapple juice.
The bouncer, Craig, a 15-year regular, hangs out here when he’s not working. He chimed in, “I like the wings, the pizza, or sometimes the pasta Bolognese.” Before I entered the bar, Joannie donned me with her giant plastic Yankees medallion.
The barroom is a narrow strip with a few high tops and bigger tables in a small room in the back. Colored Christmas lights dangle above several flat-screen TVs. Memorabilia on the walls mark the footprints (or beer rings, if you will), of famous patrons like Babe Ruth and Lou Gehrig who once were regulars. There’s a signed poster of Derek Jeter with a large rip in it hanging loosely from the wall where people kept bumping into it.
I ordered a pastrami sandwich on rye with mustard from the counter and sat at a high top, with the permission of a guy named Derrick, who was already sitting there. Derrick painted some of the interior murals and is a longtime regular. The pastrami was tasty, if a bit stringy, (I wasn’t expecting Katz’s). Afterward, I waited by the bar for my drink and found standing room by a woman named Barbara, who lives in the neighborhood and works for the United Nations postal administration. I ordered what lots of people were ordering: a Jameson, neat. After a warm Spanglish introduction, Barbara gave me the rundown, telling me she’s here every Friday and Saturday, and sometimes during the week. She said the bartender on this side, June Hall, has her drink ready whenever she sees her coming.
She continued, “Somos familia, and even if you’re visiting as a Red Sox or Dodgers fan, we might quietly make ugly faces at each other, but we’ll be nice. Everyone is great, except that guy down there,” she paused, staring at a man across the bar. “He’s the only motherfucking piece of shit; that motherfucking bitch malcriado.” She carried on, and I joked with her: “Want me to go tell him they’re giving out free tickets at the stadium?” She laughed wildly and hugged me.
As we talked, people came up to give her a hug or a kiss every few seconds like she was their godmother, and she introduced me to about six of them. (Barbara’s drink, for the record, is Grey Goose with cranberry juice and a lime).
In the bottom of the first inning, Dodger’s star outfielder Mookie Betts caught Gleyber Torres’ pop foul ball over the wall; then a grisly fan grabbed his glove and pried the ball loose. Betts rightly complained to the umpires and they subsequently ruled in his favor on grounds of audience interference. The fantastically brazen move from the fan brought dignity back to the bar full of Yankee fans who were feeling pushed around after three consecutive losses, and a weak response to Ice Cube’s galvanizing LA rap performance from Bronx Hip Hop rep, Fat Joe. The bar let out a war cry that lasted a full five minutes: The Yankees and their fans were ready for a win.
By the bottom of the first inning, the Tavern was alive, people got drunker, hugged even more, and let out vitriol when Dodgers slugger Freddie Freeman stepped to the plate. “Hijo de la gran puta, que se muere!” (“Son of the great bitch, may he die!”) screamed one woman, nearly crying, when Freeman homered — the sixth consecutive game in which he’s done so; that’s a record.
Ultimately, the Yankees gave fans a decisive Game 4 victory — and momentum for a Wednesday night at the tavern.
