Going, going, gone -- good riddance

The media and fans in these parts are all gushy and mushy with their weepy memories of Yankee Stadium, which closes down Sunday night. As a fan of any team playing the Yankees, I'm here today to anti-gush.

No parking. Overpriced beer. Awful food. Nazi ushers.

Dirty, dark walkways. Some of the smelliest bathrooms in major league sports.

But anyone can tell you that. Here are my stories.

One of my first games at the stadium was Opening Day against the White Sox in 1991. It was rainy and roughly 41 degrees in our seats in the right-field upper deck, the place where the rats get vertigo and the home team resembles dust mites in pinstripes.

The game featured three homeruns. I missed them all while in line for nonexistent food items. I could understand being out of hot beverages by the fourth inning given the weather that day. But how do you run out of hot dogs in the first inning of the first game of the season?

During the mid-1990s, My Love and I took in several Yankees games whenever the Baltimore Orioles were in town. We'd sit on the third-base side, just past the infield, so she could have the maximum desired viewing angle … of Orioles' shortstop Cal Ripken Jr. and his, uh, assets.

One day, though, her ogling time was severely hampered. A bunch of drunken bikers, who might have been auditioning to play Hell's Angels in an off-Broadway version of Gimme Shelter, posed a distraction.

"Ugh. They keep hocking and spitting in the aisles," she said. "Ugh. I'm going to be sick."

"Stop looking at them. They're two sections away. The game is to your left."

"Can't. Turn. Away. Like. Wreck. On. Highway."

My favorite memory, though, wasn't at a game, it was before one. Back in my reporter days, I had the chance to cover a children's baseball clinic being hosted by Yankees pitcher David Cone. This gave me access to the field, the bullpen, Monument Valley and the abuse of the Yankees' head of media relations.

"You, you! What are you doing here? Off the grass! Out of here!"

"Uh, I'm covering the clinic. I'm with the newspaper," I said, holding up the press credentials that dangled from around my neck.

"I don't care. Off the grass!"

I made my way to the bullpen where I met up with David Cone's wife, Lynn. I'm sure we had a fascinating discussion about something. Yet, all I recall is her wearing the tightest pair of ecru-colored pants to ever grace such a deserving body. I suspect she flew the Honduran child-laborers right to her Greenwich mansion that morning so they could stitch her into them.

Kids, you earned every penny. All 14 of them.

Koo-koo-ka-choo, Mrs. Lynn Cone, Uncool loves you more than you will know. Whoa, whoa, whoa.

My Love was fully aware of my drooling. After all, I got her onto the field by her posing as my photographer.

After the Yankees' media director disappeared to find a homeless veteran he could berate, we ventured to the outfield grass behind second base. I began picking up loose baseballs and wondering how big of a Bronx welcome I would receive from security if I attempted to test out my double-play pivot.

Then one very tall, dark and muscular Yankee emerged from the dugout with a leather bag over his shoulder. He started out toward us.

Or rather, should I say, toward My Love.

"Hey," he said. He gave her a good look, up and down, without breaking his long, loping stride.

I sidled over to her.

"Honey, you know what? You just got checked out … by Doc Gooden."

"Really," she said, thinking about it for a second. "He was carrying a man purse."

Ooo … strike three, looking.