Longtime Stadium clubhouse man Zabransky honored by family and friends
The body of Charlie Zabransky, a World War II veteran and retired gatekeeper of the home clubhouse at Yankee Stadium, is at rest in a casket at Hodder Farenga Funeral Home on McLean Ave. in Yonkers. It is Monday morning. Rain pounds the roof; high winds blow as mourners enter. They shake off their umbrellas in the lobby and take their seats. His granddaughter, Keri Haynie, stands to read his eulogy as family members fill the chapel’s front rows. It is their second funeral service in four weeks. Zabransky, 95, lost his wife, Bernice, 88, to cancer on March 17. Their 70th wedding anniversary was to be celebrated on May 29.
“He never let a night go by without giving my grandma a goodnight kiss,” Haynie says.
Black rosary beads are by his side. A Yankee ring is on his finger. He is dressed in a white Yankee windbreaker and matching navy blue turtleneck. On his head is a hat that identifies him as a Seabee in the United States Navy. Medals and ribbons are pinned to it. On the front, the hat recognizes his two theatres served: “N Africa-Sicily WWII Saipan-Okinawa,” and military honors are to come in an hour at Woodlawn Cemetery. In death, he ranks as a Woodlawn legend, known in the Irish neighborhood of the Bronx, from Kepler to Katonah Aves., for his ties to the Bombers down the No. 4 line at his old post inside Yankee Stadium. Next to his casket stands a large arrangement of flowers. It is from the New York Yankees. “Our Deepest Sympathies,” it reads. Family surrounds Zabransky as his coffin is closed. Heads bow; prayers are recited. Photos of Zabransky dot the room. In one, former Yankees manager Joe Girardi stands on his right. Derek Jeter flanks his left. David Cone, Goose Gossage and Don Mattingly all share a picture’s frame with Zabransky, as well. They are friends from his days standing sentinel at the clubhouse door. He never smiles among the stars in the frozen images, his lips revealing no reverence. All of 5-foot-4, he stood out for his courtesy and loyalty to all he encountered. His daughter, Louise, alerted Girardi and former Yankee Willie Randolph when her father fell ill following her mother’s death. The old Yankees responded by phone calls and text messages.
“He was that little boy peeking through the fence to catch a glimpse of Babe Ruth or Lou Gehrig on the field,” Haynie says. “His boyhood dreams came true as he associated with Yankees players and coaches for 25 years.”
It isn’t all cotton candy in Zabransky’s past. There are the breadlines he witnessed in the streets and the stint he worked at the Brooklyn Navy Yard until it was decommissioned in 1966. In his photo albums, there are images of war that range from smoke billowing in the air over torpedoed ships to Japanese soldiers’ skulls and mangled flesh. He risked court-martial to record history, and worked shirtless under a hard sun most days, laying brick and smoothing cement. In Port Lyautey, his unit erected eight barracks and a mess hall. He never saw combat, but was preparing his tent one night when a German attack plane screamed overhead. Zabransky believed he was a goner, but the plane lacked machine guns. “We were dead if he did,” he said. There were battles to fight stateside years later. Zabransky liked to regale visitors to his place with the story of being laid off by the Yankees. It was June 1996 when Steinbrenner cut 20 low-level Stadium staffers, including Zabransky because attendance was low. Zabransky was in his 15th season, and he was making $103.25 per game, about $8,000 per season on top of his pension. He had glaucoma in both eyes, and returned to his position when players pooled their money together to pay his wage and override The Boss. Zabransky stayed, and Steinbrenner struck up a relationship with him thereon. On his living room wall, Zabransky kept a framed photo of him with Steinbrenner seated to his right and Joe DiMaggio to his right.
“To my pal and chief adviser,” Steinbrenner wrote on it.
Zabransky leaves two daughters, five grandchildren and eight great grandchildren. There are memories of Whiffle ball games and Zabransky’s ability to eat like a teenage boy well into his 90s. They talk of Charlie and Bernice, known also as “Blanche,” pushing their walkers side by side. They cruised across the open seas, and tuned in to “General Hospital” religiously. They flew regularly to Utah, where Louise raised her children. One of his last requests was made to his granddaughters.
“To put chocolate chip cookies in his casket,” Haynie says. “In a Ziploc bag so they wouldn’t get stale.”
There are years of Yankee observations that he takes with him, as well. His extended family includes players he protected, as well as the old timers who met him later. While the team dressed in pinstripes at home, Zabransky’s uniform changed over time. He typically wore a red sport coat, white dress shirt and navy blue tie, but the numbers on his hat ranged from Nos. 23, 35, 45, 71 and 129. Manager Billy Martin recognized his dedication. Informed that Zabransky only heard the progress of games by word of mouth since he stood down the tunnel, Martin let Zabransky borrow a miniature television he kept in the bottom drawer of his desk to watch games in the clubhouse. Martin told Zabransky he could borrow it whenever he wanted, no questions asked. “I was brought up to ask,” Zabransky said. Zabransky’s counsel still echoes in friends’ ears. “Believe me when I tell ya,” is how he started each issuance of advice. He didn’t need a scorebook to know the odds he beat, from Okinawa to two bouts of cancer. He appreciated the respect shown him by the ballplayers, and he continued to visit Yankee Stadium through last season. Girardi, who knew Zabransky when he played catcher in the Bronx, would respond to Zabransky’s requests to return to the clubhouse and leave his name at the gate when he was manager. One day in April 2013, Zabransky opened a shopping bag and pulled out an envelope addressed to Girardi. Inside was a mass card for Girardi’s late father, Jerry, who served in the Air Force in Korea and worked as a bricklayer. He had died the previous October after a battle with Alzheimer’s.
“It’s all about family, Joe,” Zabransky said then.
Zabransky’s brood knows the sentiment. They leave the funeral home and proceed down Webster Ave. in a cortege led by a silver Cadillac hearse to Woodlawn Cemetery. Family members gather around once inside. “Taps” is played by a uniformed Naval officer. Two other officers start folding the flag when he is done. They draw tighter and neater every time until the flag is reduced to a triangle.
“It was very hard for him to lose her,” Louise says. “He knew she was sick. He wasn’t ready for her to go. Once she was gone he just kind of fell part. He just didn’t want to go on.”
James Gannon stands nearby. He goes back with Zabransky. They moved into the same co-op building on E. 238th St. in the same month, January, in 1992. One floor separated them the last 26 years. Gannon, the superintendent, lived on the fourth, Zabransky and his bride on the fifth. Bernice invited Gannon up for meals, and Gannon served as Zabransky’s chauffeur down the Major Deegan to the stadium. He readies to leave and watches Louise pay her final respects. She carries the folded flag in her left hand. To say goodbye, she kisses her fingers and places them on her father’s casket, which is covered with roses.