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  It all started with the facade.

  To me, old Yankee Stadium was all about the frieze, or the facade as it came to be known. The signature feature of the House That Ruth Built wasn't flashy, like the Green Monster in Fenway Park, or the ivy and brick outfield wall of Wrigley Field. But it was no less distinguished—a 15-foot high white frieze, sitting above the bleacher section like a crown. I don't remember the first time I saw it, but I know I've looked for it ever since. I loved stealing a glimpse of it from my car every time I passed the stadium on the Major Deegan Expressway. Its pillars echoed the Yankee pinstripes. Simple yet regal.

  In 1923, when Yankee Stadium first opened, the facade was copper and ran along the entire upper deck of the grandstand. Osborn Engineering, the Cleveland-based firm that designed the park, installed the frieze to give it an air of magnificence. They didn't copy its distinctive look from another building; it was completely original. If you ask me, they were right on the money.

  When the stadium was renovated in 1976, the original facade was taken down to make room for 10 extra rows of seats at the top of the upper deck. The copper was sold as scrap. The concrete replica frieze that was erected and placed beyond the outfield wasn't quite as majestic as the original. But it towered over its share of Yankee dynasties in the late 1970s and late 1990s. It was still the most distinctive part of the stadium.

  There was no way I was going to let the facade be sold as scrap this time. Plus, I thought it would be an instant hit. What wealthy Yankees fan wouldn't want a section of the facade in their backyard?

  I was dead wrong.

  For one thing, it ended up costing half a million dollars to remove the frieze, section by section, making sure each concrete frame was preserved. It was an insane amount of work. Seeing that facade come down was like watching the “Crane Olympics.” Then, after that ordeal, we were left with 10 slices of the frieze, each one 10 feet high at the ends, and 12 feet long—and weighing 20,000 pounds!

  We had to set the price at $50,000 apiece just to break even.

  Of course, considering the cost of transporting one of those sections, any married man who wanted a piece of the frieze couldn't possibly get it home without getting divorced. I don't know that we could have paid most people $50,000 to take one off our hands.

  Only one person ended up buying a section of the frieze—Chick Lee. Chick is the CEO of a top media buying company, Icon, and a huge Yankees collector. He has a beautiful house in Augusta, Georgia, where the Masters is played. He wanted to put the frieze in his backyard.

  You don't want to know what it cost to get that hunk of concrete down to Georgia. Chick needed a flatbed and a crane just to move the thing an inch.

  I tried to talk Spike Lee into buying a section of the frieze for his country home, and there was a time when I thought he was close, but he ultimately decided against it. I suppose he did the right thing.

  Thousands of years from now, the world as we know it might be unrecognizably transformed, but a piece of the old Yankee Stadium frieze will still be standing where Chick Lee's backyard once was. And people will stare at it like Stonehenge.

  And Steiner Sports might still be losing money on it.

  Happily, a few months after the demolition, we came up with an idea that would help recoup some of the facade losses.

  We found a company to crush the frieze and melt it down. The mixture is poured into molds, and the end product is a scale model of the front of the original Stadium. Like the one on my desk. Ninety-nine bucks a pop.

  These models might not cancel out the cost of the frieze on paper. But we took a big loss and turned it into a cool product, and in the process, found yet another way to deliver a little piece of magic from the old Stadium to Yankees fans.

  Actually, as of this writing, it looks we might make some money on the frieze, after all. We currently estimate that we'll sell 20,000 units. That would be a million dollars in sales—on a mistake.

  Still—if I could do it over again, I wouldn't go near the thing.

  The Original Bricks

  Born in Haverstraw, New York, in 1850, Philip Goldrick came from a line of brick manufacturers. In the course of continuing the family business, he revolutionized the industry in the Hudson Valley. At the turn of the century, thirty million bricks a year passed through his factories and brickyards in Kingston. A towering entrepreneur and community leader, Goldrick built an entire hamlet for his 250 employees in Ulster, New York. Known as Goldrick's Landing, it was composed of homes and stores of the most modern design, and even boasted a beautiful Catholic Church. Phil Goldrick obviously knew how to ask What Else?

  Goldrick's son Thomas rose to become production manager of the firm, and his other son Merton ran the sales and finance side. In 1922, producing red building brick exclusively, Philip Goldrick & Sons was the largest individual manufacturer in the Hudson Valley, and operated its own fleet of barges to ship bricks to New York City.

  One of Philip Goldrick & Sons' biggest projects was the original Yankee Stadium. The firm supplied all of the bricks used in the original park.

  I wanted those bricks badly.

  Except we couldn't find any of them.

  We had to submit to the contractors several lists detailing the pieces we wanted to save, and where they were located. We combed the stadium, up and down. We singled out seatbacks, concession signs, and lightbulbs. We took entrance turnstiles and even found speakers for Bob Sheppard, Yankee Stadium's venerable announcer, to sign. We put a hold on everything but the kitchen sink. I felt that if something important wasn't saved from the garbage heap, it would be my fault. I had a responsibility to Yankee fans like myself. But every brick we saw turned out to be from the stadium renovation in 1976.

  A few days before the demolition was set to begin, my search carried me into the batting cage in the basement.

  The batting cage was housed in the Columbus Room of the stadium. That was an informal name, as in, “If you don't get your swings in, they're gonna send you back down to Columbus (home of the Yankees triple-A team).” The batting cage wasn't exactly state-of-the-art; in fact, it was a pretty decrepit-looking facility. Anybody who saw it knew that the Yankees were overdue for a new stadium.

  I was in the Columbus room, looking around, when all of a sudden I noticed the ceiling was composed of faded red bricks. It was them, I thought—they had to be the originals. I grabbed one of the contractors and asked him if he could take a brick out. Sure enough, the other side was stamped GOLDRICK.

  Countless parts of a stadium are naturally replaced in the course of nine decades. And the 1976 renovation made sure that most of the original Yankee Stadium was lost to the dustbin. In my eyes, the Goldrick bricks were the closest thing to finding the butt of one of the Babe's old cigars, smoldering in an ashtray. I know it sounds corny to speak lovingly about a brick, to say a brick is sexy—but this is about as nice a brick as you're ever going to find. It's a sacred cathedral brick.

  We found around 5,000 Goldrick bricks in total.

  The “I want to Thank the Good Lord for Making Me a Yankee” Sign

  Early on, even before the first pencil had been removed from old Yankee Stadium, Derek Jeter made it clear to everyone that he wanted the iconic sign that hung above the entrance to the Yankees' dugout. Painted blue with white lettering, it bears the famous Joe DiMaggio quote: “I want to thank the Good Lord for Making Me a Yankee.” I can't tell you what he paid for it, but Derek got the sign.

  While we were digging around the stadium, we found a duplicate Thank the Good Lord sign hanging outside the press room. We put that one up for auction, and in the end, Hideki Matsui won it. He hung it up in the Hideki Matsui Baseball Museum in Ishikawa, Japan.

  The Black

  On October 18, 1977, the Yankees hosted the Los Angeles Dodgers for Game 6 of the World Series. The Yanks were up 3 games to 2. During batting practice, Reggie Jackson, the Yankees electrifying and polarizing right fielder, smashed 18 balls over the outfield wall.


  “Save some of those for the game,” second baseman, Willie Randolph, told him.

  “There are more where those came from,” Reggie responded.

  Sure enough, Reggie went on to enjoy one of the most spectacular individual games in baseball history, mashing three consecutive home runs. The action began in the fourth inning, with the Dodgers up 3-2.

  As Thurman Munson stood on first, Jackson nailed Burt Hooton on his first pitch sending the Yanks ahead with a 4-3 lead. Later in the fifth with two outs and Willie Randolph on first, Reggie launched another rocket off Elias Sosa that landed in the right-field seats. Finally, he electrified the home team crowd of 56,407 by leading off the eighth with the historic blast into the center-field bleachers. Mr. October indeed. Riding on the five runs batted in (RBIs) of their slugging champion, the Yanks showed a glimpse of what Yankee baseball was and held on for the 8-4 victory that earned their twenty-first World Series title. It was the first crown for the Bronx Bombers since 1962.1

  Reggie's final blast was a 475-foot moon shot to dead center. The ball landed in The Black of Yankee Stadium. This was the famous empty section of the bleachers behind the center-field wall, painted black to protect the batter's sightline, and forever off-limits to fans. Only the most mammoth homers reached The Black, whereupon the little white ball would ricochet around that giant space like a pinball. Only a handful of sluggers reached The Black in any given season, and no one reached it as many times as Reggie. Because of this, he was called the Mayor of the Black.

  We weren't planning to remove The Black, but one day we got a call from the mayor.

  “What are you doing with The Black?” Reggie said. “I want to partner with you on that black. I did a photo shoot out there, and I think it was a key part of my career.”

  That call was all we needed. We knew what we had to do. We cut out square-inch swatches of The Black, and framed each one with an autographed photo of Reggie, and a descriptive plate. They've sold surprisingly well.

  Reggie also bought the giant blue metal and Lucite letters that sat atop the ballpark, identifying it as YANKEE STADIUM.

  The Foul Poles

  Johnny Damon called about a foul pole. He wanted to partner with some of his Yankee teammates to buy a foul pole, and donate it to a public park. We saved it for him for a little while—until Johnny found out that local ordinances in the California town where the park is wouldn't allow him to install something that tall.

  Even I hadn't originally considered the foul pole to be something we could sell. It was so big. But in the end, I realized it was no different from the other oversized items. We cut it up into hundreds of pieces, and sold each piece in a glass case, with a descriptive plate. Turned out to be one of our best-selling items.

  I have a length of the old right-field foul pole in my house.

  It's the coolest coat rack I've ever seen.

  The Clubhouse Carpet

  About that clubhouse carpet George Steinbrenner and Roger Clemens once stood on, spraying each other with champagne?

  It was too large to sell to one person, but needless to say, that didn't stop us.

  We cut up the carpet and sold it as doormats and car mats.

  1 From The Baseball Almanac http://www.baseballalmanac.com/ws/yr1977ws.shtml

  Chapter 15

  Nothing but a Dreamer

  People ask me, “What makes a successful entrepreneur?” But I think a better question is, “Who makes a successful entrepreneur?” The businesspeople I know who have risen to the top all have highly active and creative minds. They're daydreamers, and have been since they were young. The question of What Else has always come to them intuitively.

  When I was a kid growing up in Brooklyn, I was responsible for my own entertainment most of the time. I was the kind of kid who would walk down the street and slam into a lamppost because my mind was off on some adventure. Then I'd look up at the lamppost and think, “Would you look at this thing? There's nothing on it. I bet I could make some money with it. It's an opportunity!” Because money was always scarce in our family, it was constantly on my mind. My daydreams were usually about making money.

  For the most part, the way I think hasn't changed much since I was that kid. I still talk to myself all the time, still daydream. My mind is always racing: 24/7 365. And while it often takes me to some deep, dark places, I usually come out with some really weird, interesting ideas. People don't even understand what I'm saying because I've gone so far down the rabbit hole in my own head. My right-hand man, Eric Levy, likes to say I have “Idea Tourette's.”

  A few years ago, Mara and I took our two kids to Israel. We were going to see the whole country. We landed in Jerusalem, and our first stop was the Wailing Wall. Part of an ancient temple, the wall was built in 19 bc.

  When we got there, part of it was being restored and although it was partially blocked with scaffolding and tarp, the Wailing Wall was still a really awe-inspiring sight.

  We stood in front of the wall and listened to the tour guide tell us its history. It was built by King Solomon and survived occupations during the Roman Empire, the Middle Ages, and the Ottoman Empire. Jewish people make pilgrimages from all over the world to see it.

  Staring at the wall, I couldn't help but start daydreaming. While everyone else was marveling at these ancient ruins, entrenched in their history, I was playing out a completely different scenario in my twisted mind.

  I started making believe that somehow I got fired at Steiner. And as if I were living in a Hitchcock thriller, someone took away all my money and I had to leave the United States immediately. How would I earn a living abroad?

  Standing in its long shadow, I looked up at the Wailing Wall.

  “This place could be a souvenir gold mine,” I thought. “I can't believe they're missing it.”

  I played the whole scenario out in my head.

  I would move to Israel, convince the tour guide to partner up with me, and start a new business.

  “We're going to start a collectibles gift shop,” I'd tell him. “Right at the base of this wall.”

  I thought of all the different products we could create around the wall, the whole biblical site. There were thousands of years of history and meaning people could have a piece of.

  By the end of our tour, I had already built an entire store in my head. And there was a line out the door. I could see it all so clearly.

  We got back to the hotel, and I thought, “That was a weird daydream.” But then I wondered, “Is there something there I can actually work with?”

  The next morning, I called my friend Paul Packer. I had met Paul a few years prior, working on a Derek Jeter–funded program that sent disadvantaged kids to summer camp. Paul manages an equity fund in New York, and is on the Pro–Wailing Wall Committee, which promotes Jewish rites at the wall. He has some good connections over there.

  I proposed we create a Wailing Wall product line, complete with paperweights and key chains filled with authentic sand and dirt from the site. Those sorts of things. Maybe we could sell some of the bricks and stones themselves. People who weren't lucky enough to see the Wailing Wall in person could at least buy a keepsake with an authentic connection to it. We could donate a healthy portion of the proceeds to the renovation. We'd give it a shot in the arm, and make a little money ourselves. Everybody wins.

  We're working on this project even as I write this.

  In the States, “new” Yankee Stadium is my holy land. I've been to the new building hundreds of times, but I still look at it with fresh eyes. “What's missing here? Which players are getting the biggest reactions from the fans?” I look at every aspect. “Could that billboard be relocated? Could that banner be sold?”

  I look at Mariano Rivera sitting on the bullpen bench, and I think, “Can we get that bench and sell it? Wouldn't that be cool? What about the bullpen phone? If you owned a restaurant, wouldn't it be cool to have the Yankees bullpen phone in it?”

  I get in those phases, I start daydreaming,
and everything looks like that lamppost I thought about when I was a kid.

  Fresh Eyes

  Finding the little kid in myself is something I work at, too.

  After my son left for college a couple of years ago, I befriended the son of my good friend and Scarsdale neighbor, Jim Ross. Jim's son Alex was around 10. I took him to ball games and athlete appearances and events whenever I could. I wanted to see the world through his eyes.

  My wife used to laugh at me.

  “You know,” Mara would say, “that's not your son.”

  But that's my business. Finding the little kid in everybody. That way of looking at the world—with a sense of wonder and imagination.

  When I go to a game, and a kid stops me, I always listen to what he has to say. Then I pitch him ideas. I tell him to e-mail me if he thinks of anything I can use.

  We have so much to learn about all areas of life from kids. No matter how old we are or how much experience we have, we can always learn something from each other—even from the youngest of us.

  Chapter 16

  Sandlot Wisdom

  When I was growing up in Brooklyn, I often relied on my friends' parents for words of wisdom, a place to hang out, food—all sorts of things. Due to my family's circumstances, I was a bit more wanting than my friends, but we all relied on—and got to know—various adults in the neighborhood. People made it their business to contribute to the betterment of the community, particularly the kids. That was just routine. The whole community was healthier for it.

  In this way, my old neighborhood was very much on my mind when I volunteered to coach my son's Little League team. In addition to wanting to pass my own love of sports to another generation, I wanted to pay forward all of my old Brooklyn mentors. And I knew working with the kids would help me stay grounded. Helping children is spiritually nutritious.