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The stench of disgrace that recently threatened the great game of baseball actually began rising on opening day. The location was fabled Yankee Stadium, the date April 5th. It was during the changeover, just before the top of the 8th inning, when an unhinged female hopped the rail and bounded onto the field of play before the eyes of 59,000 Yankee fans. Her motive? To accost star shortstop Derek Jeter with her phone number, then sprint to right field and escape capture.

This was the public's introduction to Kristielee Wilcox, 26, of Long Branch, New Jersey, a Manhattan shop girl, a Derek Jeter fan, and as it turned out, just another everyday, regular, estrogen-burning nut-job seeking headlines and her proverbial 15 minutes of fame.

Wilcox intended to slip out of the stadium and eventually back to her home. That's where she would wait by the phone for the big league All-Star to dial the magic numbers and transform her confused life into a whirlwind of money, travel and hot-button celebrity sex.

Instead, the hare-brained adventure lasted no longer than fifteen seconds and landed her in a whole new world of trouble. Kristielee did her waiting not by the phone, but sobering up with the refuse of society inside a grimy cell in the Bronx jail. You see, after dropping her mash note on the unfazed Jeter and faking out one guard with a halfback move, Wilcox was nabbed by security and led from the field to the cheers of thousands.

How do I know so much about the predicament of Kristielee Wilcox? Because I was sitting next to the now notorious game-crasher at Yankee Stadium, way down in the third base box seats. To state a fact, The Man on the Scene was the last person to warn her against doing exactly what she had been drunkenly blabbing about doing for hours.

Wilcox was a friend of a friend I met a week before opening day. We converged again at "the bat" at Yankee Stadium just after 1 pm, a group of us uniting several minutes before the first pitch. Kristielee told me she had been drinking since 11 am, had consumed several beers, and was feeling quite a buzz. Pretty standard stuff, or so I thought.

We entered the Bronx Zoo, the stadium crawling with hardcore New York fans anxious to open the home season. We grabbed some $8 beers and $6 hot dogs and found our $55 box seats down the third base line close to the field. We were basking in the glory of the springtime sun for all of two minutes before Kristielee began running her big mouth about how she wanted to go out onto the field.

She said she was in love with the Yankee mystique. And she always wanted to go on the field. She said it was her destiny. She wanted to do this since she was five years old, she said. She wanted to go on the field to be part of a game, just one time. She talked a lot of nonsense about the energy of the crowd and how there's no day like today to do something.

I told her she was crazy. She was a little sloppy and we had a few hours, so I told her a thing or two about going on the field. I advised her that The Man on the Scene has attended several hundred sporting events and no one who has ever dared breach the sanctity of the playing surface has ever escaped. They are always caught and often greeted with a major league billy club to the kidneys. I told her she'd certainly get the express check-in at the gray bar hotel, in the Bronx of all places, and that she'd definitely face a heavy fine. She laughed me off, saying she could run fast, and that they wouldn't catch her. I wasn't buying it. The Man on the Scene ain't no rookie.

By the middle of the seventh inning, it seemed maybe Kristielee had sobered up and returned to reality and abandoned the ill conceived 'I'm gonna sprint on the field' concept. She hadn't said a word to me about it since I told her she would go to jail. But I wasn't positive. In fact when she tried to leave our row just before the top of the eighth inning, I refused to move. I didn't trust her, I said. "You're gonna run on the field."

She scoffed at me, hollering a profanity, then said she was just going to talk to a friend a couple of rows in front. The Man on the Scene made her crawl over him to get out of the aisle, letting her know I wasn't going for the old okey-doke. I knew damn well what she was up to. A moment later I look down the aisle and there's Kristielee – but like she said, she's only talking to someone. Maybe I over-reacted, thinks the Man on the Scene. I return to my conversation with some of the pinstripe mafiosi behind me.

That's when I hear the crowd noise erupt into the rafters, people shouting, cheering, jeering. My head snaps back to center in time to see the panty lines of Kristielee Wilcox chugging like a 2-stroke engine across the infield directly towards Derek Jeter.

Thirty times I told her not to do this. Then the people in the rows behind us begin to put it together. "Hey! That's the girl who was with them! Holy shit! That's the girl from that seat right there!" People were laughing and razzing us. "Jeter! Jeter! Jeter!" They begin chanting. There was no satisfaction in being proven right when security pounced on her. Far from it. For those in Kristielee's party, the stink of disgrace was foul in the air. We felt disgusted. I was ashamed that I knew her, the village idiot, the class clown.

Also let it be known that she wasn't met with warm cheers by the sellout crowd at Yankee Stadium when she was taken away — no, they gave her what she deserved, a good old fashioned Bronx-strength raspberry. Like some obnoxious stalker chick that runs on the field would ever have a shot at the stud captain of the biggest team in sports. A sitting Democratic President, maybe, but not Derek Jeter.

In short, sixty thousand New Yorkers were able to watch a baseball game in a civil way and the person sitting right next to me wasn't. In the annals of crazy things crazed women do in public – Farrah Fawcett's drugged-out babbling on Letterman, Winona Ryder's five-finger discount on Rodeo Drive, Anna Nicole Smith's acting in "Skyscraper" – this was one for the books. Worse, it was a disgrace to the legacy of Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio and Mickey Mantle.

So I'm calling for an old-fashioned blackball. That's right, a lifetime ban of Kristielee at Yankee Stadium. It's about time someone does something in the best interests of the game of baseball. Kristielee Wilcox is a public nuisance and a security risk. It's time she gets the special treatment she deserves.

Issue One
Previously on Five-O
Evel Knievel & more!
hitman elvis
Dark Elvis
Compelled to Kill
by the King!
swingtime strippers
Swingtime Strippers
Babes Ahoy!
isaac hayes
Isaac Hayes
Shaft vs. South Park
at the Hollywood Bowl
jason priestley
Jason Priestley
Man of Action!
The Five-O Salute
mexican wrestling
¡Viva el Santo!
L.A.'s Lucha Libre
Cinema Slam
stanley rubin
Ace Producer Stanley Rubin
With the RKO
Studio Scoop!
 werner herzog
Werner Herzog
Plotted to Kill Kinski!
Condemns Psychoanalysis!
Five-O July/Aug
Evel Knievel & more!
jeter girl
Jeter Girl
Kristielee Wilcox
From Box Seats
to the Bronx Jail!
lawrence tierney
Lawrence Tierney
Noir Superpower
The Five-O Farewell
burning man
Burning Man
Pagans Take Nevada
Five-O Undercover
40 Years
August/September 1962
Playboy Magazine
jermaine jackson
30 Years
Jermaine Jackson
Debut Album
20 Years
william shatner
10 Years
William Shatner
National Lampoon's
Loaded Weapon
my bloody valentine
10 Years
My Bloody Valentine
U.S. Tour 1992
theron productions