from the New York Times

October 16, 1998

By BUSTER OLNEY

Enter the front door of the rectangular-shaped clubhouse at Yankee Stadium, and Bernie Williams's locker is located to your right, in the corner. This used to be Don Mattingly's locker, and as the team's elder statesman, Williams had first dibs when Mattingly retired. Every other locker is about five feet deep, but Williams's space has enough room to envelop the center fielder, his chair, the guitar Williams likes to play and a small amplifier. Stop by early in the afternoon and sometimes Williams peacefully strums out familiar songs like "Purple Rain," wearing his own purple sunglasses.

Other than the days David Wells is pitching, and he blares heavy metal music, the Yankees' clubhouse is usually calm -- quiet enough for Williams to sometimes lie down in his locker, extend his legs and close his eyes.

Williams would not be left in peace if his locker were located on the opposite side, in the row that contains Derek Jeter's and Tim Raines's lockers. Jeter is among the youngest Yankees and Raines is the oldest, and they continually jab at each other good-naturedly, with Jeter reminding Raines of his age and Raines recounting Jeter's most recent mistake. When Raines fell over after making a catch last month and hurt his neck, Jeter imitated Raines's fall in the confines of the clubhouse; Raines's response, high-pitched laughter, resonated from one end to the other. (Raines has got the sort of laugh, Manager Joe Torre once said, that makes everybody smile, even if they do not know what he is laughing about.)

Across the front of his locker, Jeter may have the largest collection of shoes this side of Imelda Marcos, though Jeter's tend toward the baseball spikes variety.

A stroll through any major league clubhouse illuminates the personalities of the players, their relationships and the quirks and personal preferences that highlight their individualism. In the Yankee clubhouse, it also reveals some of the passion and professionalism that have put them in a position to be rated among the greatest teams in history.

Scott Brosius's locker is located at the end of the Jeter-Raines row, but he occasionally retreats to hidden quarters to play bridge with Paul O'Neill, Joe Girardi and the bench coach, Don Zimmer; the four of them always play when the team is on the road, Brosius and Zimmer versus O'Neill and Girardi. Brosius also likes to solve crossword puzzles.

The entrance to the showers is between Brosius's locker and Darryl Strawberry's. Since the outfielder was found to have colon cancer, flowers and cards have been placed next to his chair, to be taken to Columbia-Presbyterian Medical Center.

O'Neill likes to lounge in his street clothes, leaning back in front of his locker, occasionally asking reporters about the latest news from other teams, or laughing with Girardi, whose locker is nearby. O'Neill does not like answering questions about himself, often standing and walking away as he responds to a question, an effective way to end an interview. But when the Yankees are playing poorly, or if O'Neill is slumping, he is among the first from the players' lounge to face reporters.

Girardi seems on the move constantly, preparing for that night's game. He will hit off a tee at 4 P.M., stretch, take batting practice, stretch again, and then lift weights wearing shorts, a weight belt and a gray T-shirt. He is genial and helpful, nodding assuredly as questions are asked, but his face will tighten with anger when teammates are indicted indirectly. There was nothing wrong with pitcher Andy Pettitte, Girardi said repeatedly in September.

An unoccupied locker between that of Girardi and Jorge Posada, the other catcher, contains some of the equipment that overflows from their lockers. Hanging from a side wall of Posada's locker is a picture of the late Yankee catcher Thurman Munson, a quote from Munson above it: "Look, I like hitting fourth and I like a good batting average. But what I do every day behind the plate is a lot more important because it touches so many people and so many more aspects of the game."

There are also pictures of the Hall of Fame outfielder Roberto Clemente, who, like Posada, called Puerto Rico home. From here, Posada will yell across the room at Jeter, his best friend on the team.

Hideki Irabu often sits and chats and laughs with his interpreter, George Rose. Orlando Hernández, the Cuban defector who joined the team in June, sometimes engages his teammates in broken English, but spends most of his time alone. Ramiro Mendoza, who rarely speaks, is an enigmatic figure in the clubhouse and known by the nickname El Brujo, the witch doctor. Still, Cone has noted that Mendoza spends hours watching American television in the players' lounge, and laughs at every joke.

Between the lockers of Chuck Knoblauch and Cone is a corridor that leads to Torre's office, where the smell and smoke of cigar is thick and where the phone rings continually. Wearing an undershirt and baseball pants, he sits behind a brown wooden desk, shelves behind him; on the second shelf rest small caricatures of the 1927 Yankees, from Ruth to Gehrig to Huggins. His 2-year-old daughter, Andrea Rae, once pointed at them and asked Torre, "Is that you?" To which he replied, "I'm not that old."

If Cone is at his locker, odds are a reporter or two or more will be with him. Cone is analytical, self-deprecating, direct, gregarious and articulate, always looking the questioner in the eye as he answers. When he pitches well, his eyes brighten, but he does not seem to wholly trust the results -- Cone, after all, is 35 years old and coming off multiple surgery. After he has pitched poorly, his shoulders seem to sag, and will until he wins again.

Two lockers down the line from Cone, Wells often spends the late afternoons handling the growing stream of memorabilia-related requests, which has increased perhaps tenfold since Wells pitched his perfect game on May 17. He goes through boxes and boxes of mail, sometimes signing Beanie Babies -- the item given away by the Yankees on the afternoon Wells pitched the perfect game -- and baseballs and some baseball cards. (Sending an item without a self-addressed envelope is to guarantee your own disappointment.)

On his scheduled pitching days, Wells will unleash heavy metal music from his portable stereo about two hours before the game. Wearing a navy T-shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulders, Wells will sit in a chair in front of his locker, facing the music point-blank, like a sentinel leaning against the torment of a thunderstorm.

Chad Curtis, primarily responsible for organizing the team's Christian prayer circle, sits two lockers away from Williams, near the back-right corner of the clubhouse, reading intensely and sometimes propping up his legs on a shelf in his locker. Curtis eventually rises and circulates among the other players, telling them what time they will meet. Mike Stanton, among the last to arrive every day, will slip in briefly before going to stretch, rushing to change into his workout jersey, tying his shoes furiously.

Then the Yankees begin filing out of the clubhouse, carrying bats and gloves, Jeter prattling at Raines. They are ready to go to work.