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“We were all anticipating it, and the season was running out,” Stanton said. “So obviously, each at-bat was getting bigger and bigger. We all kind of downplayed it and suppressed it as teammates; it was our job to make it as comfortable as possible, and not make a big deal about things. We just tried to be normal. Everyone else was changing and acting differently, but we had the behind-the-scenes view of it, and we knew all the ins and outs. It was great to be a part of and to be able to see every day.”
None of the Yankees’ hitting coaches saw the homer in real time. They were still picking up baseballs in the cage, where Judge had just completed taking his practice swings. Dillon Lawson saw Tinoco on the mound and Judge at the plate on the in-house television feed. “We looked at each other, like, ‘Did the game just start?’ ” he said. “We took off running. The double doors were open from the clubhouse to the dugout. We got there just in time to hear the crowd gasp. We got to see the ball land, but we didn’t see it hit.”
Neither did Kyle Higashioka, one of the few players still in the clubhouse. “To be honest, the chase had dragged on for a bit. I was searching for whatever I could do to make it happen, superstitionwise. Everybody wanted to be out there, so I was like, ‘I’m going to stay inside.’ Sure enough, he hit it, and I was like, ‘I’ll sacrifice that for him to get 62.’ ”
Hanging back to let the celebration breathe a bit, Boone said that he was thrilled, not only for Judge, but for Judge’s family and teammates. The manager declared that Judge’s 2022 would be remembered as “a historically great season, and one we’ll talk about when we’re long gone,” the way feats accomplished by Ruth and Maris have endured. The American League (and Yankees) record for home runs finally belonged to Judge, who had clubbed the seventh-most home runs in a single season, behind Barry Bonds (73 in 2001), Mark McGwire (70 in 1998; 65 in 1999), and Sammy Sosa (66 in 1998; 64 in 2001; 63 in 1999).
“It’s a big relief,” Judge said. “I think everybody can finally sit down in their seats and watch the ballgame. It’s been a fun ride so far.”
* * *
Homer No. 62 soared for 5.7 seconds from bat to seats, clearing the fence between painted advertisements for Estrella Jalisco beer and State Farm insurance. In Section 31, Row 1, Seat 3, Cory Youmans heard Judge’s blast before he saw it, the thirty-five-year-old Dallas native beginning to track the ball as it soared over shortstop Corey Seager. A friend had offered Youmans a ticket, and he’d accepted, mostly interested in a chance to see Judge in person.
Having changed in the parking lot from his workday suit and tie into a black T-shirt and a blue Rangers cap with the club’s “T” logo on the front, Youmans was about to become the luckiest of the 38,832 souls to pass through the turnstiles that night, the largest crowd in the stadium’s brief history. Youmans had hesitated to bring a glove into the ballpark, but he said that a friend told him, “If you were ever going to, this is the one you do it.”
Youmans tucked the glove under his armpit with a hint of embarrassment, then relaxed once he reached the left-field seats. “When I got to the outfield, everyone was on the same page,” he said. “Whether you were a kid or an adult, these people were ready to rock. There was a buzz; everyone was talking about what they were going to do if they caught it.”
Scanning his surroundings, Youmans watched the first two pitches. Three seats were still open to his left; perhaps those fans had been held up at the beer lines, or by the lengthy waits at security screening. He squinted into the LCD lights, noting how bright they were, and tried to calculate the distance between himself and home plate. It was far. Then Tinoco wound and delivered. The sound of ball against bat echoed throughout the yard.
“Once I heard the crack, I’m like, ‘Oh, this thing’s gone,’ ” Youmans said. “I didn’t know where it was going, but I knew it was a home run. Then I saw Seager look up, look over his shoulder, and I was like, ‘Oh man, this thing’s probably coming in our direction.’ I was so nervous because it was coming straight at me. I knew I was either going to have to catch it, or I was going to drop it and something embarrassing was going to happen.”
He’d been more of a basketball player in his youth, though he played some outfield and first base in middle school. Youmans put his old moves to the test, shuffling a few feet to present his glove. The ball thudded into the pocket with a loud pop. A different fan, one section over toward the left-field foul line, leapt from the grandstands and tumbled to a service walkway below—his plan, apparently, had been to secure the ball if it bounced out of the seats. Meanwhile, Section 31 became an instant party, fans slapping Youmans on the back and exchanging high fives.
“That’s a feeling I’ll never forget,” he said. “I’d never caught a ball at a game before, let alone a home run ball. That was awesome. I didn’t know how to react; it was just pure joy, pure excitement. It felt like the whole stadium was looking at me. I’m an introvert. I don’t like public speaking, I don’t even like my birthday. But I think I did some fist-pumps, and that’s something I’ve never done in my life before.”
Security swiftly hustled Youmans through the concourse to a private area, past a television camera operator who asked what he planned to do with the ball. Youmans replied that he hadn’t thought about it yet. “Which was the exact truth,” he said. “In retrospect, I didn’t realize that those cameras were on and that would be the footage on the news. I feel like I was walking silly and just blowing by people.”
Accompanied by a couple of Arlington police officers, Youmans found himself behind a curtained-off area in the center-field concourse, sparsely decorated by picnic tables and empty folding chairs. Youmans paced for a few minutes. His phone wouldn’t stop ringing. There were too many text messages to count. “That’s when the joy of the catch started to transition to like, ‘Oh man, this is going to be a big deal,’ ” Youmans said.
An authenticator checked the markings on the ball, which had “C 13” written in black ink, surrounding a blue logo commemorating the Texas Rangers’ fiftieth anniversary. It was also examined under a black light for secret markings, confirming that it was indeed the pitch that Tinoco had thrown. The ball was marked with a holographic sticker that read “YP 188527.”
Eddie Fastook, the Yankees’ executive director of security, entered the room and shook Youmans’s hand. In a chat that spanned about five minutes, the broad-shouldered, mustachioed Fastook told Youmans that the team would be happy to offer memorabilia, photograph opportunities, or tickets for the ball. “If you want to sell the ball,” Fastook said, “that’s not going to be us.” Youmans described their conversation as pleasant, but Fastook sensed that no deal would be brokered. No. 62 would probably not wind up in Judge’s trophy case.
Youmans asked if he could leave; he was free to do so. He was steered through the stadium’s interior in a golf cart, a journey that included a brief encounter with Ray Davis, the Rangers’ owner. Behind the wheel of his vehicle in the Globe Life Field parking lot, he received a disturbing telephone call from his wife, Bri Amaranthus, a sports reporter who covers the Dallas Cowboys and Dallas Mavericks.
“Hey, are you close to home?” she said. “Our address is floating around online, and there’s some people outside our apartment. I can’t tell if they’re supposed to be there.”
As Youmans soon learned, social media had jumped to conclusions about his identity, including his net worth. Bob Nightengale, a USA Today columnist, tweeted that Youmans “doesn’t exactly need the money,” citing his position as a vice president at Fisher Investments, “which manages $197 billion worldwide.” But Nightengale’s Google search only told a portion of the story; Youmans was a vice president of sales; he did not own the firm or manage personnel. His status symbol was a Costco card.
“I started to get worried,” Youmans said. “People think you’re worth $25 million, and you have a $2 million baseball in your pocket, but really, you live in an apartment. I don’t own a gun. I’ve got a kitchen knife and there’s strangers all over my building. It got complicated.”
Youmans walked through the door and hugged his wife, who had already packed an overnight bag and had their dog ready to go. They arranged to stay with friends a few miles away. As they traveled, Youmans’s phone continued to buzz and ring. ABC’s Good Morning America wanted to arrange an interview.
“I was like, ‘I’m trying to figure out where my family is going to sleep,’ ” he said.
He began fielding numerous offers for the baseball. There was a legitimate offer for $3 million, buried within a stack of sketchy proposals, some sent by Instagram direct message. One person claimed to own a car dealership, promising Youmans he could select any four vehicles on the lot. Another boasted of an old cattle rancher with $2 million waiting in a safe on a South Dakota ranch; that sounded like the plot of a bad movie.
Youmans needed help, and he signed on with Dave Baron, a Palm Springs, California–based attorney who knew Amaranthus’s parents from college. The ball was parked in a bank’s safe-deposit box as Baron investigated the private offers.
Ultimately, the couple opted to send the ball to the Goldin auction house, preferring a transparent process. Coincidentally, news of the rejected $3 million offer broke on the same evening that Judge was crowned the American League’s Most Valuable Player.
“It’s a lot of money,” Judge said. “I guess he’s got a better plan or thinks he can get some more, but he caught the ball. He was the one that made the play out there in left field, so it’s his right to do what he wants with it. Hopefully he’s making the right decision for him and his family.”
Judge said that he wouldn’t bid on the ball, joking that it would be “out of his price range” until his next contract was secured. The most expensive baseball ever sold at auction was Mark McGwire’s 70th home run in 1998, which went for $3.05 million to Todd McFarlane, the comic book artist best known for creating the Spawn series.
Eight days before Christmas, Judge’s 62nd sold for $1.5 million, to a collector identified only as “Joe from Wisconsin.” Youmans said that he planned to use the proceeds to purchase his first home, for some international travel, and to build an automotive workshop for his father in Oregon.
Looking back on the episode, he is grateful and appreciative, but also stung by how his identity and reputation were portrayed by some members of the media. He would never be another Sal Durante, the teenager on a date who’d puffed on a couple of Camel cigarettes with Roger Maris in the Yankees’ clubhouse.
“You look at Sal, and that’s a very romantic story. I totally get the appeal of that,” Youmans said. “I had hoped to be involved and participate in as much of the story as I could. I wanted to be a good sport, and I feel like I had a respect and appreciation for the moment. But there was just something about me that was different than Sal. I don’t regret catching the ball; I’m very thankful for the money.
“But I’m just a little bit disappointed in, it was distilled down to ‘catching baseball equals money.’ I had hoped there would be something else.”
* * *
After witnessing a dozen games in New York and Toronto, including Judge’s 60th and 61st home runs, Roger Maris Jr. had peeled off the home run chase. Watching the game from his Gainesville, Florida, home, Maris used his Twitter account to announce that he considered Judge the “clean” single-season home run champion, adding that Judge is “all class and someone who should be revered.” Though Judge continued to state that he considered Bonds’s record valid, he thanked the Maris family for their support.
“I know it’s a tough situation; it’s your dad’s legacy and you want to uphold that,” Judge said. “Getting a chance to meet their family, they’re wonderful people. Having my name next to someone who’s as great as Roger Maris, Babe Ruth, and those guys, it’s incredible.”
When Maris had hit his 60th and 61st home runs in 1961, telegrams from fans and celebrities alike had been delivered to the home clubhouse at Yankee Stadium. The 2022 equivalent was a tweet. Celebratory words were sent across the country, prompting congratulatory messages from movie stars, Hall of Fame ballplayers, and President Joe Biden, who said: “History made, more history to make.” President Bill Clinton thanked Judge “for giving baseball fans everywhere a thrilling season,” and longtime Yankees fan Billy Crystal said that watching Judge’s 62nd “made me feel like I was 13 all over again.
“I was such a Mantle fan, but I was thrilled that [Maris] did it,” Crystal said. “I loved the fact that Roger finally did do it and became a big fan of his, and learned to appreciate his overall ability. What’s missing from this [2022] chase is that there’s no Mantle. There’s no co-conspirator. It’s interesting that this guy we’re watching play is so good, and so polished. This is a finished product of so much hard work, and to make it look so easy and graceful, it’s an extraordinary athlete that we’re seeing.”
Watching from afar, Hal Steinbrenner applauded his team’s best player. “I wasn’t alive in ’61, but I know enough about it,” he said. “Anytime you’re talking about a Yankee record of that magnitude, with somebody like Roger Maris involved, it was incredible.”
Even the Empire State Building lit up in Yankees pinstripes to celebrate the blast, with blue and white lights sparkling at the top of the 102-story skyscraper for sixty-two seconds. The public nods from Judge’s contemporaries seemed to mean the most.
“There’s no higher honor in my book,” Judge said. “That’s what it’s always been about for me; my teammates and my peers.”
* * *
Chants of “M-V-P!” greeted Judge as he took his position in right field during the next half-inning, and Judge tipped his cap, acknowledging the many fans wearing Yankees paraphernalia. Judge expressed regret that he could not achieve the milestone at home; more than 137,000 fans attended the Yanks’ final three regular-season home games, hoping to witness history.
“They were booing pitchers for throwing balls, which I’ve never seen before,” Judge said, chuckling.
The Rangers defeated the Yankees, 3–2, but the final score hardly mattered. As players returned to the visiting clubhouse, there was a long table with a black cloth in the center of the room, and dozens of small plastic cups awaiting the popping of bottles. None of the bubbly was sprayed on this occasion; this was a day for pouring and toasting, honoring Judge and Cole together. Rizzo produced an impressive Rolex watch for which the Yankees had pooled funds; an appreciative Judge immediately strapped it on his wrist.
“It was an amazing thing that I’ll tell my kids about for years,” said Jose Trevino. “I’m going to be able to tell that story forever. I might even get to pick an actor who’s going to play me in a movie, you know what I mean? I’m sure Billy Crystal is out there right now, scheming it up. It was incredible. He deserves it, man. He works so hard, day in and day out. He just deserves it.”
A bit overshadowed by Judge’s 62nd, Cole had struck out nine batters over six innings, establishing a new single-season franchise record. Ron Guidry had set the previous mark of 248 during his Cy Young Award–winning season of 1978. Anthony Rizzo took command of the celebration, announcing that “Louisiana Lightning” was on the phone.
In words broadcast to the entire team over the clubhouse’s Bluetooth speakers, Guidry told Cole, “I’ve been waiting ever since you put the Yankees uniform on for this moment, because I knew you were going to do it at some point in time. You’ve earned it.”
“When you think about the Yankees, often times we’re reminded of the legends that live in Monument Park and the accomplishments they’ve had,” Cole said later that evening. “Even just to tie the record, let alone break it, it’s a bit surreal. Obviously, on a night like tonight, it’s like, ‘Whoa.’ That’s a lot of history going on.”
Judge posed for photographs on the field with friends and family, joined at times by Cole, who was basking in the afterglow of his accomplishment. Micah Parsons, a linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys, also found his way to the Judge party in shallow left field. Parsons was a professional athlete who had played his sport at the highest level, but he was a fan in this moment. Parsons produced his ticket stubs from the club level along the first base line, and Judge graciously swirled his signature with a black Sharpie marker.
“I’m just a fan of greatness,” Parsons said. “He’s just great at what he does. He did something in his game that took him to the next level. I just wanted to talk to him. The thing I was really excited about was, he knew who I was.”
Five plastic cups still rested on the large table about an hour later, as Judge finally unbuttoned the gray jersey with NEW YORK embroidered across the front. He was only beginning to absorb the accomplishment, planning to share the moment with his family and wondering aloud about what might come next.
Judge didn’t think he would be able to fully appreciate No. 62 until after the postseason, saying, “That’s really our main goal and our main focus.” But his teammates wanted him to soak it in: Stanton said that the team rented out a private space at their hotel, the Four Seasons Resort and Club Dallas at Las Colinas, keeping the party going for just a little bit longer.
“We all hung out,” Stanton said. “We just told him, ‘You got it done. Don’t worry about tomorrow. You can finally take a day off, and now go get ready for the playoffs.’ ”
* * *
There was one game remaining on the schedule, and it felt a lot like the last day of school before summer vacation, the clubs speed-walking through nine prescribed innings. Boone toyed with the idea of having Judge serve as the designated hitter, considering his fading hopes of chasing Arraez for the batting title, but ultimately decided to let his star rest. The record would show that it was Arraez over “All Rise,” .316 to .311.
