The love-hate relationship between Yankees fans and their favourite (or least favourite) disgraced superstar

By Shannon Proudfoot in New York City
Photography by Matthew Tammaro

Every head and camera in the vicinity swivels toward Alex Rodriguez as he bounds up the dugout steps for batting practice. Everywhere he goes on the field, he moves in a Tigger-like jog, as though he’s just so happy to be there. There’s a smattering of applause and cheers from the fans already in the park on opening day when he steps up for his first regular-season batting practice session since—well, you know. A man in the field-level bleachers holds up a No. 13 jersey like he’s fluttering a red cape at a bull. “A-ROD!” he screams, a Yankees cap barely containing the top of his wild blond mullet. Rodriguez, issuing a steady stream of sunflower seed confetti, ignores him. “SMILE!” mullet man bellows. “Smile, Alex!” He puts the jersey on to mug for photos with fans, then goes back to waving it wildly at the object of his questionable affection.

Such is the state of fandom for the man who was so desperate to fill out the pinstripes from the moment he arrived in New York—cheering for the 39-year-old is a punchline, an extravagant performance delivered with a wink to the camera. Rodriguez is back, all right, only now he’s the human equivalent of an ironic hipster T-shirt. There may never have been an athlete or celebrity who has so clearly revealed his private insecurities and soft psychological underbelly. Rodriguez just can’t seem to stop himself—it’s like the endless preening of a showboat child who keeps mashing the piano keys and demanding approval at an adult dinner party.

Yankees fans are stuck with him, and pretty quickly, their opinions sort themselves into a familiar framework. There’s denial (“I never liked the guy”); anger (“He needs to go away, I hope he gets hurt”); bargaining (“Maybe they’ll just eat the contract and cut him”); depression (“I never thought they’d bring him back”); and acceptance (“If he hits well and shuts his mouth, he can stay”). Yankees fans are working their way through the stages of A-Rod grief.

Denial Take the Durantes—brothers Paul, 57, and Mike, 54, and their nephew Anthony, 41—who are grabbing beers not far from their season seats in section 131 before the home opener against the Toronto Blue Jays. They all work for Mike’s telecom company, and they’re warm and mouthy, talking over and around each other the way people who spend a lot of time together do. Paul and Mike grew up in the Bronx and saw No. 7 retired at their first Yankees game on June 8, 1969—Mickey Mantle Day. Yankees fandom wraps around the branches of the Durante family tree like tendrils of ivy. Their mom, Mary, spent 20 years feeding and charming the ink-stained herd in the press box restaurant at the old stadium, and their aunt, Ann Mileo, was long-time secretary to one of the Yankees suits. When Ann retired, they gave her a 1977 World Series ring that she wore to every family function until her death in 1999. The Durantes lost Mary in 2007, the year before the old stadium closed. “We were across the street for the last game, and probably one of the dearest memories we all have is just sitting in there and remembering my mom,” Mike says. “That was a pretty sad day.” He pauses to blink back tears.

When asked what they think of Rodriguez, Paul says, “I was never really an A-Rod fan,” then adds in an offhand tone: “We had Derek Jeter.” And this is one of the main problems with A-Rod: He isn’t Jeter. He could never be Jeter. And everyone knew that—except A-Rod. If you picture Jeter’s towering reputation as an oversized cardboard cutout, from the moment A-Rod joined the Yankees in 2004, he kept sidling up to it, stretching as tall as he could, jumping up and down to measure himself against it, looking silly and presumptuous in the process. “I mean, he’s a good ballplayer, don’t get me wrong, but he’s not one of the greatest,” Paul says. He doesn’t speak with malice, just a quiet matter-of-factness that gets Mike and Anthony fired up. “I was pissed what he did to Jeter, the way he tried to step on him,” Anthony says. “Once he did that, we never liked him. Even when he does something good, we don’t clap.”

Not that he ever did much good. People say he won them the 2009 World Series—please, Mike sniffs. A-Rod never showed up when it counted, but he was always good for a couple of homers when the team was already up 12–1. Anthony spits: “Good job, fella.”

If A-Rod had pulled this garbage while George Steinbrenner was still around, he’d be gone and so would the $61 million and three years remaining on his contract—they’re sure of it. “I seriously think they’re doing something behind the scenes that you just don’t hear about,” Mike says. “It’s really a disgrace,” says Paul. “He should donate this year’s salary.” Mike jumps in: “I was just gonna say that! It should go to the homeless or some kids’ foundation in New York City.” But immediately after they land on this idea, the three of them agree it would end up looking phony. “I hope A-Rod twists his ankle in the first inning and we don’t have to talk about him for the rest of the season,” Anthony says, hastening to add: “Nothing bad—just so he can’t play.” Mike is willing to entertain the possibility of Rodriguez having actually grown as a human being, under the shovelfuls of PR. “At this point in his career and his life, he should learn to be a team player. If he can do that, maybe that will make a lot of people happy.” Including, Mike says, “Maybe himself.”

Acceptance (mostly) Over near first base, Chris D’Onofrio, 34, and his brother-in-law, Benny Barbato, 33, are standing in the bleachers. In contrast to mullet guy, D’Onofrio’s A-Rod shirt is sincere. “He can put it all behind him, have the whole stadium against him and still produce, and do it with a smile,” says D’Onofrio, who works in digital advertising. “I don’t agree with what he did, obviously. But I’m loyal and I stand by a guy, and I can forgive.”

That’s interesting, because if you ask whether he thinks A-Rod is actually sorry, D’Onofrio says “No,” with a little laughing snort. “The biggest problem is he’s not very genuine. It’s like he’s reading off a cue card: ‘This is what everybody wants me to say,’” says Barbato, a lawyer. “If you want to be a jerk, be a jerk! I’ll respect you more if you just be yourself.” D’Onofrio responds gently, like a kindergarten teacher explaining the behaviour of the class problem child: “I think he tries to be himself; I think he’s a little socially awkward.” This is life with A-Rod: Every discussion turns into armchair psychology, puzzling over what, exactly, is the guy’s deal.

Angry denial Over in sections 203 and 204 above right field, a back-slapping, fist-bumping, hollering reunion is underway. This is the den of the Bleacher Creatures, the hardcore Yankee fans who consider cheering and heckling their vocation. They haven’t seen each other all winter—opening day is their first day of school. “You see these ‘FORG1V3’ T-shirts out here?” says Miles Seligman, 45, gesturing to Creatures in the rows in front of him. “I can’t get behind that because I don’t see any redemption possible.” Seligman works in a warehouse but looks and talks like a Ph.D. student; he finds A-Rod both phony and mystifying. “A man who was given every gift at birth, and it still wasn’t good enough for him. It just boggles the mind,” he says. “I don’t have this profound hate for him—I kinda feel sorry for him.” But seconds later, he seems to open a vein of anger he didn’t even know was there, furiously venting about the disgusting legal campaign Rodriguez waged. “So, f–k him,” Seligman concludes, almost nonchalantly. “I’m not gonna boo him or flip him off, but I’m not gonna cheer for him. I want him to do well, because it’s my team.”

Just anger A couple of rows down, Tina Lewis’s blond curls bounce as she polishes a brass plaque mounted on the bleachers, which commemorates the cowbell-toting “original Bleacher Creature,” Ali Ramirez, who died in 1996. Lewis, who’s in her 50s, is known as “the queen of the bleachers,” and she pauses constantly as she cleans to offer hugs and cheek kisses to the Creatures who file past. She speaks in a raspy staccato, and her way of stitching together thoughts feels like one of those Family Circus comics tracing the little boy’s progress through the backyard and the wreckage in his wake: You can see how A-Rod’s sins pile up on each other. “He was a talented player, and I don’t think he needed to do what he did to achieve what he achieved. For him to say something against Jeter—just arrogance. I think maybe I would have given him a little bit more respect if he just came out and told the truth,” she says. “And another thing—he needed to take a page from Jeter and just be quiet and play baseball, OK? Quiet, play baseball, maybe you’ll get my respect. I don’t have to cheer for him.” She utters that last sentence with both defiance and satisfaction, like she’s reminding herself she can just sit there and ignore the ever-loving hell out of Rodriguez for the rest of the summer.

Acceptance Out on the field, they introduce the starting lineups. When Rodriguez’s name is called, 48,469 fans offer up louder cheers than they did for the other Yankees, along with a fat bassline of booing. Yankee starter Masahiro Tanaka delivers the first pitch, and the Bleacher Creatures launch into their most sacred ritual: the roll call. “Bald” Vinny Milano conducts his people like an orchestra: He silences them with a wave of his arms, screams the name of centre-fielder Jacoby Ellsbury to kick things off, then leads the Creatures in chanting the name of each player on the field. Designated hitters are not normally included, but today, the Creatures holler for A-Rod and he delights them by tipping his cap from the dugout. “That guy gets booed at the supermarket, for Chrissake,” Milano explains. “So if I can do anything to show that he’s got somebody in his corner, I’m happy to do that. A little support—that’s what we’re here for.”

Milano, 39, wasn’t fond of A-Rod either, until he met him at a charity event in 2010. Rodriguez knew Milano was “that guy” from the bleachers and spent a few friendly minutes talking baseball with him. “From then on, I was an A-Rod fan, because he was a real guy,” he says. Milano was the one who printed up the “FORG1V3” T-shirts, and he has some blunt advice for the people who keep wailing about A-Rod’s betrayal: Grow up, and please disembark from your soapbox. The way Milano sees it, A-Rod didn’t lie to anyone but his boss, and he did it to cover his ass—who hasn’t done that? “‘He disgraced the pinstripes!’” Milano imitates in a pearl-clutching whimper. “I hate that. It’s a little much considering the history we’ve had.”

Besides, he says, A-Rod is an underdog now. The guy is about to turn 40, he’s got two bad hips and, sure, more money than God, but he’s never going into the Hall of Fame, and his name will forever be a joke. A-Rod has already punished himself plenty, Milano argues. “But to go out there and try to prove somebody wrong? That’s what you’re a fan for—how do you not root for that?” he yells good-naturedly, his voice all gravel and broken glass from his roll call duties. “The guy’s out here breaking his ass for your entertainment. Get behind him, get on the bench and cheer for him!”

Depression Across the aisle from Milano’s seat in the heart of Creature country sits Michael Kraft, a 35-year-old state trooper, wearing a pissed-off smirk. He was so certain the Yankees would find a way to get rid of Rodriguez that it turned into a bet with the regulars around him. “He has to wear an A-Rod jersey to every game he comes to,” explains Dennis Hinnaoui, 41, turning from his seat directly in front of Kraft to mock him with lip-smacking pleasure. “Every game,” Kraft echoes wearily. The day the Yankees signed A-Rod, Kraft was so excited they were getting the best player in baseball that he drove down from Connecticut to buy that jersey. The guy quickly swan-dived off his pedestal. “I heard the way he was to the rookies,” Kraft says. “How he treated players as a teammate—I can’t stand that. To me, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” He figures $61-million is pocket change for the Yankees—and can’t believe A-Rod is still here. “Just pay him to stay away,” Kraft says, practically begging.

In the bottom of the third, the Jays are leading 5–0 and A-Rod steps to the plate for his first at-bat. Kraft is mid-rant, but he rises out of his seat with everyone else and applauds. He shrugs, defeated. “He’s got no choice,” Hinnaoui crows, cackling again. Jays pitcher Drew Hutchison eventually walks A-Rod, and Hinnaoui bellows, “MVP!” Kraft just keeps shaking his head.

The score is still 5–0 in the bottom of the fifth when A-Rod takes his second at-bat. He hits a line drive to centre field, and Yankee Stadium explodes; the Yankee bats have been so anemic, the fans seize on this as a major plot development. But three quick outs and the pinstripes are back in the field and still not on the board.

More anger Chris Stoll is standing along the railing on the third-level concourse late in the sixth with a raucous bunch of friends. There’s a woman at work who reminds him of A-Rod: She’s great at what she does, but he spends a ridiculous amount of time showering her with praise to head off the anxious barrage of questions about her job performance. As for A-Rod’s apology tour, Stoll, 43, doesn’t buy it. “I think it’s just a personal recovery thing, like you see a lot these days. When somebody gets in trouble, it’s like, ‘I’m in rehab and I apologize,’” he says. “He’s a drama queen: ‘I need attention!’” Then, shouting to be heard over “God Bless America” in the seventh-inning stretch, Stoll perfectly sums up the maddening nature of the guy: “If you want that spotlight, you’ve got to live up to it.”

Hey, guess what? More anger. By the bottom of the eighth, the score is 6–1, and Jacquelyn Woodworth is about ready to cut her losses and leave the stadium. For her, the only redeeming thing A-Rod can do now is exit stage left. “At some point, you say, ‘I’ve made a lot of money, I’m going to retire for the benefit of everybody and my own dignity,’” she says. “I think that should have been the end of it.” The problem, of course, is that if he was the type of guy to take a hint, she would never have disliked him in the first place. And while Woodworth acknowledges that it’s entirely possible that she and everyone else have A-Rod all wrong and he’s the sweetest man who ever graced the Earth—well, at this point that seems unlikely. “I can’t say that he’s not, because I’ve never met him, but his public persona sucks,” she says, hissing the last word with cartoonish disgust.

So much acceptance The 6–1 score holds, and by the bottom of the ninth, Yankees fans are streaming out of the exits. Dina Rajski, 50-ish and with the warm face of a favourite aunt, stands on the field-level concourse, gazing out over the now-empty diamond from the midst of a beer-soaked flood of humanity. She loves A-Rod, she says simply and sweetly—always has. “Everybody makes mistakes, and he’s a kind-hearted guy. I’m not OK he did steroids, but we need to forgive him because he is a big face of the Yankees,” she says. “He’s got a good attitude and he’s funny. I think he’s a good team player, I think everybody likes him.”

This is where you wait for the sitcom-style “Oh, wait, you said Alex Rodriguez?” punchline. But Rajski means it. Asked if she realizes this is the opposite opinion that everyone else seems to hold of the guy, Rajski just smiles wearily and nods. “I see him as a team player because he’s always kidding around with everybody,” she says. “I’ve watched him for a good couple of years. I think he’s a great guy.” She has either achieved monk-like acceptance or committed to Olympic-level denial. “If he starts hitting home runs and winning games for them, he’s going to be a star,” she says. “He’s going to be a hero again.”

That’s where most other Yankees fans agree with her: Nearly everyone admits that on some level, their love can be bought—or at least their loathing tamped down—if A-Rod performs. This Yankees team needs him. And he started off the season with what may be the biggest clutch performance of his career, hitting .344 with four home runs-—including a 471-footer that was the longest in the majors at that point in the season—and 11 RBI in his first 10 games back.

The harshest stage of all But at the end of opening day, with the ghost of Frank Sinatra leaning into the final crescendo of “New York, New York” on the loudspeakers, no reasonable prediction is calling it like that. You find shades of the classic stages of grief in everything Yankees fans think and say about A-Rod, and there’s a sixth emotion that overshadows it all. It’s there in the weirdly consistent physical reaction that greets the mention of his name: a wry grin, a puff of air out the nose and a shake of the head. Beyond acceptance, it seems, is apathy, that bored and surly teenager of feelings. “I don’t really have a lot of emotion for him. He’s just there,” says Ann Musselman, watching the pinstriped masses stream past. “I’m not gonna hate him. I guess everybody is entitled to mistakes. But he seems to have made them over and over and over again.”

Musselman lives in New Orleans and always has, but when she was a kid, CBS owned the Yankees and the games were always on TV, so the Bronx is where her baseball allegiance landed. She cares enough to hold season tickets, and she and her husband—both retired teachers—make it to a couple of dozen games a year. Like Paul Durante, Musselman speaks of A-Rod with no animosity, but instead a gentle sort of distaste that makes her assessment of his legacy all the more devastating. “Jeter was the face of the Yankees—still is,” she says. “Right now, they have no face.”

Above her, late afternoon sun gilds the Great Hall, the dramatic open-air corridor that hugs the perimeter of Yankee Stadium from first base to right field. The hall’s soaring arches and the massive banners depicting Yankee greats—the recently beatified like Paul O’Neill and Don Mattingly in full colour on one side, grainy black-and-white Old Testament legends like the Babe and DiMaggio on the other—transform it into a cathedral. Jeter is already represented on a wall, and that he will one day end up on the Yankee Stadium version of a stained-glass window seems inevitable; that Rodriguez might have wished to be there too seems both obscene and tragic. That kid at the dinner party can go on pounding the piano forever—no one’s really noticing; they just wish he’d go to bed.