TAKE YOURSELF OUT TO A YANKEES BALL GAME WHILE YOU’RE IN NEW YORK CITY. IT’S A HELLUVA PARTY.

Rest assured all you lovers of picnic-rug- on-the-hill footy – our sporting codes aren’t being Americanised ... not by a long shot. Sure, we talk about “metres gained” a lot more than we used to, and the video ref is still more razzamatazz-NFL than suburban NRL. But, as one discovers when they take the train from Grand Central Station in Midtown Manhattan to East 153rd Street Station and take in a New York Yankees home game, Australian sports are ­ really ­ about as American as a brand-new Sherrin.

If New York City is The Big Apple, the new $1.2-billion Yankee Stadium, in use since April last year and a replica of its famous predecessor of the same name, must surely be its core. Built, almost cruelly, just across the road from the Yanks’ former digs, it’s actually an exact replica of the old girl, complete with white-picket trimmings across the top of its stands as a tribute to the Bronx’s famous fallen angel.

Each and every one of the Yanks’ 81 home games is a virtual New York pride parade on grass, with no expense spared. On the early afternoon that Inside Sport is a guest of the Yankees’, the Bronx Bombers are in the middle of a hot streak. Their 5-2 win over the Texas Rangers this particular day completes a three-game sweep which has A-Rod and his team-mates pumped and New York’s baseball fraternity in no doubt whatsoever as to who’s rocking Major League Baseball this week.

Their fans’ street-cool, gangster-style “Go Yankees” hoodies and pin-striped Derek Jeter replica jerseys house fierce attitudes and baseball-savvy hearts and minds. Each panel of the perspex walls covering the rat run from the trains to the stadium’s surrounds tells you of an upcoming Yankees game, its date and start time. This afternoon, before you start wondering what happened to the old cauldron, opened in 1923 and closed in 2008, the skeleton of one of its main stands hits you in the face like a fouled fly ball. The ex-stadium’s been demolished, but lays there like a curledup, squashed and forgotten dead spider which someone forgot to bin. “There it is. It’s a shame,” a Jeter fanatic consoles his pals.

“It’s a sin. It’s a fucken sin,” his rugged friend emphasises. “Babe Ruth’s in there.” We know what he’s trying to say.

Place any baggage you’re carrying on the long, rectangular desk open for inspection, be full body-scanned by security and you’re in. Your first port of call should be one of the enthusiastic kids carrying a “Can I help anyone?” sign. It’s all too easy, like walking into a house party and being shown where the fridge is – and told to make yourself comfortable. At Yankees games, at least in the $175 padded seats our butts are parked in, a friendly staffer will be along soon with a menu and a list of merchandise for you to choose from.

Recognising that getting up out of your seat is for schmucks, you are still free to leave the comforts of the almost lounge-stand seats 16 rows back from third base and go exploring. The girl behind the hot dog stand will ask “what are ya havin?” She’s not there to muck around. Neither’s the merchandise staff ­ there are far too many Yankees cap-hunting tourists to process for any small talk. They will stand patiently, though, while you choose between 19 shades of dark blue until you find the cap your relos want you to take back to Oz. Take your Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio and Alex Rodriguez souvenirs back to your seat, mind your own business and keep a sharp and focussed trajectory – the Yankees’ fans aren’t here to muck around, either. “I’m walkin’ here,” is what you’ll get if you collide with one.

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