The lion in winter

As a longtime Yankee fan whose family were season ticket-holders, I have many memories of George Steinbrenner, whom I first encountered when I was a teenager and he was the team's new owner, a lion in his prime.

I can still see him sitting at a front table at the Stadium Club at Shea Stadium (during the years in exile, 1974-'75), loudly berating his players. I remember then thinking he was an overbearing father figure. Later, I came to view him as a person of tragic, almost Shakespearean conflicts -- a vulnerable human being whose terror at that vulnerability drove him to despise it in other brilliant, damaged men, namely Billy Martin and Reggie Jackson.

My last memory of Steinbrenner has some bearing on an arts blog as it took place a few years ago at what was for me an artistic event. I was waiting to interview Ralph Fiennes about his film "The Constant Gardener" during a press junket at Manhattan's Regency Hotel when Steinbrenner -- who stayed at the hotel during the baseball season -- strode through the lobby.

As I subsequently wrote, the crowd of tourists, young people and hotel employees parted as if he were Lorenzo de' Medici holding court in Renaissance Florence.

"How ya doin', Boss?" people said. "We're going to win tonight, Boss." And especially, "Thanks, Boss."

Even Fiennes and company were intrigued. Fiennes stood there watching the proceedings and chatting amiably with his colleagues, his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his cream-colored pants, his pale-pink shirt untucked. He struck me as someone waiting for the jitney to the Hamptons -- a latter-day Gatsby still in search of his Daisy.

There was something elegiac about that warm summer evening. Or perhaps the mind merely ascribes to the past the emotions of the present.

"Who is that?" Fiennes' party wondered.

"That's George Steinbrenner," I whispered, "owner of the New York Yankees, the most successful team in American history."

No acknowledgment, so I tried again: "The team has some sort of partnership with Manchester United."

Smiles of recognition. Fame is both great and limited.

For his part, Steinbrenner took little notice of the sleek movie star, the other film people milling about, the teenagers giggling on the couch, the exhausted tourists and their hungry children, even the eager well-wishers.

Like a character out of F. Scott Fitzgerald, he got into the waiting limousine and sped off into the night.