I wish I could say I grew up in a Yankees household. My dad was an old school Dodgers fan from their Brooklyn days and thus hated all things Yankees. My brother somehow turned out to be a Mets fan, so our baseball bonding happened over NES Baseball. Incidentally, I was six when that game came out and was just learning the basics of being a baseball fan. My brother told me a the higher ERA a pitcher had, the better he was. It took me a year to figure out why he kept rocking my NES pitchers.

Living in a household of seven left little extra money for things like trips to major league ball parks. I saw my first live ball game at 14 when we went to see the New Jersey Cardinals, the local minor league team at the time. Tickets were only a few dollars and my parents were able to take us to games without breaking the bank. But I was a Yankees fan, the only one in my family, and I was desperate to see my boys play. I watched them on TV whenever I could and everything I read about the Yankees mentioned something about the stadium and its storied history. The House That Ruth Built. It wouldn't be long before I could experience it first hand.

When I was fifteen, I decided it was time. I had my own money from my $5.05 an hour job at the mall and my best friend and I convinced our parents to let us go to a game. We made our way to the Bronx and up to the stadium, a stadium that was nothing like I had expected. It was a concrete fortress. This massive and intimidating gray facade that gave you no peeks as to what was inside. But I already knew what was inside. The Yankees.

We got to the the ticket window and found out the game was sold out, so we decided to buy tickets from a scalper. A few minutes and $20 a piece later, we were in. As I climbed the ramps to our section and walked up the entry way, I was completely unprepared for what I was about to experience. I emerged from the tunnel into the stadium for the first time and I was in breathless awe. It was a few moments before I could even register a thought beyond "Wow". I looked down at the interlocking "NY" on the field, at the seats slowly filling with fans in Yankees jerseys, and at my best friend who was grinning from ear to ear. This was home.

Over the next few years I went to as many games as I could. I spent four years in college in south west Virginia, before the time of MLB extra innings and DirecTV and so spent four years pining for games, only getting to see them when they were on national TV. I promised myself that when I got back home after school, I would buy season tickets. And I did. The only ones I could afford were in the bleachers but that was OK. I've spent the years since going to 40-50 games a year and loving every one.

Now, six years later, I've said good bye to the stadium that has been my second home for the last 15 years. As I stood there on Sunday with tears in my eyes and watched the pre-game ceremony celebrating the greatest Yankees to play the game, I realized something. This wasn't the house that Ruth built. It was the house that Yogi and Joe and Mickey built. The house that Lou and Goose and Thurman and Don and Maris built. The house that Bernie and Tino and Paul built. And yes, the house that Jeter built.

We're moving across the street to a new house. No doubt everything will be shiny and sparkling and state of the art, but there will never be another Yankee Stadium like the old. Not next year, not ever. Sure we'll make new memories, win some pennants, and crown new stars. But the team's history, and my respect, love, and gratitude, belong to Yankee Stadium.