Those falling over themselves to praise the lattes and sushi bars at these new venues mostly wouldn’t understand. Would these fans even enjoy a trip to the game’s remaining gems, Wrigley (built 1906) or Fenway (1912)? A day at Wrigley — a sunny one, preferably — takes a guy back to a time when dads wore suits to the ballpark, when the time between pitches was punctuated not by crappy music samples, but the sound of the game. At Fenway (a place I prayed and hoped to hate), the Citgo sign, that great paean to Venezuela’s petroleum, and the green monster, combine to create the kind of intimacy I’ve only experienced one other time at a sporting event — at Craven Cottage in London, the ancient, wonderfully decrepit home of the Fulham football club. And in both Wrigley and Fenway, the tragedy of the 20th century is visceral, even if the script was spoiled recently by Red Sox success. Luckily, their fans are as miserable winning as they were losing.

Many of them wangled seats at Yankee Stadium over the years, and even as they suppressed jealousy at “The House that Ruth Built,” they see the tear down mentality as part of the Yankee mentality.

“It’s totally not surprising that the Yankees tear down the old one,” says Stephen Turcotte of Newport, R.I. “The Yankees always were about money, they’re still about money. There's no heart.”

Among the tens of millions who have cheered the great events at Yankee Stadium, that’s going too far. But they’re not happy. Over the years are the fans of Section M-18, just north of third base, “between third and short-stop, great view of Jeter and A-Rod” as a southern lady I know once adorably described them. Good, decent seats for good, decent people, they’ve watched the more recent of these moments without any particular desire to see “modernizations,” and they fear now they will find themselves priced out of any of the “Sunday plans” or other ticket packages they have loyally subscribed to since, well, the Yankees finished last in the AL East in 1967.

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“I’m worried what they’re going to do,” says Jack Sullivan, a guy who left the final game of 1973 along with two of the old wooden chairs they renovation had slated to “modernize.” “There’s something just not right about this, and it’s not going to be the suits who suffer. They’ll get their corporate boxes and postseason tickets. Me? They’re not saying yet, and that makes me nervous.”

Next year at this time, the denizens of Box 18 no doubt will be found scattered around the new stadium. None will have better seats, and most will probably give up their season plans. They won’t know their neighbors, either, at least for a while. But this is progress, right? This is America, where nothing stands in the way of progress. National pastime be damned!

Mr. Steinbrenner, tear down those walls.

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