One of the friendlier places I know is the upper deck of Yankee Stadium. It has less to do with those old battery mates beer and cannabis -- though the scents of both are strong in the nosebleed seats -- than with the communal appreciation and knowledge of baseball. The fans up there don't need catcher cams to see the break of a slider or replays to know if the runner is safe or out. They just know.

That's where we were sitting for Hideki Irabu's debut against the Tigers last year. The congregants in our section directly behind home plate -- the Japanese-American teens, the Dominicans from the neighborhood, the suits from Wall Street, even the tourists from Australia -- were all suitably impressed with Irabu. But there was more to the game than his coming-out party. In the late innings, another rookie entered the contest, a Detroit lefthander named Roberto Duran. He proceeded to walk Yankee after Yankee after Yankee until I could take it no more. I stood up and yelled, "No mas! No mas!"

I immediately regretted my impetuous display. Nobody would notice that the pitcher's name matched that of the famous fighter; nobody would understand the reference to the terms of a long-ago surrender. I was just some big white turkey shouting bad Spanish. But after a short beat, I was being patted on the back by the guys behind me. A group of Latinos in front nodded their approval and began chanting, "No mas! No mas! No mas!" By the time Duran was mercifully removed, I had a beer in my hand, courtesy of my new friends. Best of all, we started talking baseball. The elegance of Bernie Williams. The dirtbag lovability of David Wells. The beauty of the ballpark in the Bronx.

That instant camaraderie is one of the chief reasons why going to a game is better than going to an appliance. All sorts of barriers -- psychological, socioeconomic, racial -- break down when you realize you're not among strangers, but among friends. The simple act of passing money down the row to the vendor and passing change and the hot dogs back is a display of community. It doesn't have to be Yankee Stadium; it can be Pro Player or the Oakland Coliseum or Lambeau Field. At the NFC title game in Green Bay a few years ago, I saw Packer fans donate hand-warmers and blankets to some Carolina Panther fans who had underestimated the impact of 10 degrees below zero.

Only a tiny percentage of fans are yahoos. The overwhelming majority are only too happy to talk to you, to share the experience. What's the fun of sitting in a crowd of 60,000 if you're alone? That older gentleman next to you might have seen Cousy play. That married couple in front with their four kids might have had their first date in that very stadium. The 12-year-old keeping score might point out to you that there are only two degrees of separation between Paul Waner and Juan Samuel -- former Mets teammates Warren Spahn and Tug McGraw.

Over the years, I have collected as many remembrances of nice people as I have of great plays or great games. The ex-referee who helped me get into my car when I locked my keys inside. The woman who regaled us with tales of Bobby Valentine's days as a ballroom dancer. The scout who let my son work the radar gun. Shared umbrellas, refreshments, stories.

A few seasons back, I was watching a Red Sox-Orioles game at Camden Yards from a seat along the rightfield foul line. The middle-aged man next to me struck up a conversation and let it be known that he was once a bat boy for the Yankees. After a few choice tales, I asked him, what line of work are you in now? "I make candy," he said, as we exchanged business cards. "Remember those Reggie! bars a few years ago? Well, Billy Martin was a friend of mine, and right after his fight with Reggie, I made a great big Billy Martin bar for him." I asked him, how big? "Big," he said.

A week later, a carton arrived in my office. Inside was a "Steve Wulf Candy Bar." It was big. And sweet.

This article appears in the July 27-August 10, 1998 issue of ESPN The Magazine.