It’s several hours before gametime and I’m at this brunch buffet maybe ten blocks from Yankee Stadium, talking to Cousin Brewski, who says it’s the best deal in town. He’s with a small group of buddies he meets there regularly on weekends, people he came to know at the ballpark while doing his job, a couple of whom are mutual friends of ours.
Cousin Brewski, or the Cuz, is really Rick Goldfarb. Or maybe I should say Rick Goldfarb is really the Cuz. It gets to be like that with legends, hard to separate the public from the private personas, and this man is a legend of his own kind at Yankee Stadium.
Next season will be his 40th as a beer vendor there. Four decades, his first day at work having been Bat Day 1972. To put that in perspective, you had Ron Blomberg, Gene Michael and Horace Clarke in the infield back when he started on the job. Bobby Murcer, Johnny Callison and Roy White in the outfield. Thurman Munson catching Mel Stottlemyre and what seemed like a cast of thousands back then.
All these years, and the Cuz has stayed on the active roster, outlasting even the original ballpark across the street, carrying his big, heavy cooler of ice cold beer up and down the aisles during games. Like all veterans, he’s had to make some adjustments. Age never makes things easier, and every now and then you’ll see him use a magnifying glass to count out his change. But he still loves being out there, and none of the good-humored enthusiasm has waned from his signature call, “Thanks for catching a buzz from the Cuz.”
The trade name, Goldfarb will tell you, was borrowed liberally from Cousin Brucie, who might be the most famous disc jockey in the history of New York City. “When I was growing up, I listened to the Top 40 and all, and, so . . . a beer is a brewski. Thusly, I became Cousin Brewski.”
And the tag line?
“Cousin Brucie would say, ‘Thanks for giving the Cuz a buzz.’” Brewski explains. “But because I was selling beer, I would say, ‘Thanks for catching a buzz.’”
I look at the large, warm smile on his face and can almost hear him yelling out the words, the way I’ve heard him in the stands since I was very young. Somebody in the food court business once told me a ballpark should be a warm place. Not exactly a home away from home, but a place where you feel like invited company. He explained how McDonald’s yellow was an welcoming color, talked about Colonel Sanders as a folksy icon, things of that sort. They make you feel comfortable, feel like you want to come back.
To me and thousands of others who’ve hung around Yankee Stadium for a long period of time, Brewski’s that kind of an irreplaceable fixture, so I tell him that over my steaming coffee cup, ask how it feels to be a grandstand superstar.
He gets this twinkle in his eye that tells me he’s heard that question maybe once or twice before, and launches into his answer. Brewski reminds me a little of the Catskill mountain resort comedians I saw as a kid, and that’s no insult. You ran into those guys offstage, say in the lobby waiting for an elevator, they knew how to flip the switch in a blink, give you a quick snippet of their repertoires before the doors opened.
“When I started, beer was sixty-five cents, and I was too young to sell it!” he says. “I’ve been working here thirty-nine years and all I am is Vender Number Twenty-One in seniority. And the only way you move up in seniority from here is through death!”
I look at the Cuz and know I’m going to be the straight man here. Martin to his Lewis, Rossi to his Allen, Abbott to his Costello.
“Death?” I ask
“Because nobody quits the job,” he says, doing his buildup. “Number One is eighty-six years old, he’s been there since Babe Ruth! He sells scorecards as you walk in. He survived a heart attack, diabetes and a gunshot wound from Number Two.”
“Seriously?” I keep playing along. “Number Two shot him?”
The Cuz delivers the punch line. “He wanted to be One!” he says with a broad grin.
Ba-boom.
Everyone at the table laughs. The truth is, though, that seniority is a big deal for the Stadium’s beer vendors. In this day and age, where everything and everyone seems to come with an early job expiration date, it’s worth every cent of their monthly union dues, no joke.
I look at the Cuz. Four decades. Schlepping beer around in those forty-pound cases is a physically demanding job, and nowadays the moving vendors get all kinds of competition from beer stands in the open concourses, which are much more accessible from the seats than they used to be. I wonder how it’s changed for them since moving from the original park.
“Well, at the old Stadium, we were allowed to sell beer on the lower level,” he says. “Now they don’t sell beer in the lower level except in the outfield portion, so that’s a big difference. And it’s many, many, many more steps. To get down to the lower level you have to walk down six flights of steps and walk up. The amount of steps in the new place is a lot.”
I think but don’t say that I’ve noticed him hauling his cooler up and down those gazillion or so steps. The coolers haven't gotten lighter, nor have things gotten easier for the Cuz or any of the other beer vendors. I’m guessing they weren’t consulted when the new Stadium’s design plans were worked out.
Nobody ever gets younger, yet there’s no hint of complaint in the Cuz’s voice as I ask what continues to continues to fuel his gusto.
“The adrenaline comes from the fans,” he says. “I’ve met so many people . . . I’ve networked better than any human being on earth. My dentist was a season ticket holder on the first base side. My accountant was a season ticket holder. I met friends from Rhode Island and all over the place. It’s been the greatest experience. I’ve met people that I never would have met in my normal course of life. And they’re so happy when I come down the aisle. They wait for me, and only buy beer from me.”
Which brings to mind something I’ve thought about before, looking at Brewski and the other vendors. “You’ve been at Yankee Stadium for all these historic moments, but you’re always busy,” I say. “Do you ever get to enjoy them?”
Brewski’s smile widens. “The fans make them for me,” he replies after a second. “When everybody stands, you can’t be selling beer anyway, so you turn around and see what’s going on. Be it Reggie Jackson’s third homerun {versus the L.A. Dodgers in Game 6 of the 1977 World Series}, or Derek Jeter hitting his home run {for his 3000th hit}. Y’know, you catch the moments. You can tell by the fans when it’s time to turn around.”
I ask about some of his favorites.
“Game Seven of the ALCS, in 2003, when the Red Sox had the lead, and they kept Pedro in too long, and we made the comeback, that was electric,” he says “I mean, you couldn’t hear yourself think you were so excited. It was just unbelievable.” He mentions the Reggie three-home run night again, then pauses, his face growing reflective.
I’m not really surprised by the shift in mood. You can tell the Cuz has that serious side, like all great comedic showmen. Can’t make us laugh unless you’ve known what it is to cry.
“In 2001, after 9/11, when they had the first game at Yankee Stadium, it was inspirational beyond belief,” he goes on at last. “And the night that they had the tribute to Thurman Munson . . . only the Yankees could have done it as good as they did it. They left the catcher’s spot vacant. Everybody took the field, and they just left the catcher’s spot vacant. And they shined the lights on it . . . and you just . . . it was the saddest moment for me. But it was a unifying moment because everybody felt the exact same pain. And it was just unbelievable.”
I stay quiet a second or two, thinking. A guy like the Cuz, I can listen to him for hours. You can read all the books and articles in the world but they will never tell a story the way his eyes, expression and voice tell it. It’s history from the ground, and to let it pass us by would be an immeasurable loss.
“You’ve been around ever since I’ve started going to the Stadium,” I say. “The population’s changed in New York . . . do you still see people that you’ve known for ten, twenty years or whatever?”
The Cuz shrugs. “I remember faces,” he says. “I don’t remember names, mostly. But people come up to me and say, ‘I remember you, the game in 1982, you were serving the beer!’ I don’t really remember but they get all excited, and then they’ll buy a beer from me.” He chuckles as he brings up 2008’s All Star FanFest at the Jacob Javits Center, which he attended with some his friends at our brunch table. We’re walking around . . . . and there were people yelling, ‘Cuz, Cuz!’, and it was really great.”
I sip my coffee. The Cuz seems happy and I give him a chance to bask. Across the table, then, several members of the group coax him to tell me about a trip they’d taken together to RFK Stadium in Washington DC, when the Yankees had their first series there to play the Nationals in 2006.
“Oh,” he says, shaking his head a little. As if that one had just happened to slip his mind. “There were all Yankee fans there. I’m walking around, people are going ‘Cuz, how are you, Cuz?’” He shrugs. “I wound up . . . I bought a couple of beers that I served to some of the longtime fans.”
Suddenly the Cuz gets quiet, which I’ve quickly come to sense isn’t his style at all.
“You should tell him the rest,” one of his friends says across the table.
The Cuz looks kind of self-conscious and says nothing.
“Go on,” urges another member of the group. “Tell him.”
The Cuz hesitates. “There were fans from the bleachers, and they were calling my name—”
The guy across from me cuts him off with a wave of his hand. “That isn’t the story,” he says. “The story is you’re the one who invited us on that trip. You got us all our tickets.”
The Cuz makes one of those gestures that’s part shrug, part headshake. “Okay,” he says, “I invited my friends . . . ”
“You invited my brother-in-law, nephew, Tom, Lou . . .”
“Well, my girlfriend lives in Silver Springs, Maryland!” the Cuz interrupts.
I try not to crack a smile. His girlfriend has nothing to do with what we’re talking about, which, I realize, is the whole point of his changing the subject. The Cuz wants no part of taking credit for doing anything special, taking a small army of friends and their family members to Washington D.C. for that interleague series. And seeing he’s uncomfortable with it, I decide to let it go. Besides, he’s already been in and out of the restaurant after dropping a quarter in the parking meter out front, and his additional few minutes are surely about to expire, and he has to get over to the ballpark. To which he’s offered to give me a lift in his car.
I decide it’s time to wrap this thing up. “You’re part of the Yankee Stadium experience,” I say. “What are your thoughts on that?”
The Cuz again becomes visibly thoughtful. “The fans make it fun for me,” he says. “I feed off them. I do my little shtick, and they laugh, and I try to make people have a good time at the game. If people say ‘I had a really good time,’ then I did my job, and it’s wonderful. Yankee fans are the greatest fans in the whole world, and it’s been a blessing to be part of it now for thirty-nine years.”
I look at the Cuz, thank him, click off the voice recorder. Thirty-nine years at Yankee Stadium, I think, and not for the first time that morning.
Following him out to his car, I only wish he’ll be there thirty-nine, forty, fifty or a hundred more.
Thanks to my friend Soozenyc for her introduction to, and great photos of, the Cuz.
Follow Jerome Preisler on Twitter at @YankeesInk
