Who Did You Think Would Answer The Door, Charlton Heston?

Writer Franz Lidz, knowing full well what would happen, looks anyway*:

For more than a month, I have been trying to get an audience with George Steinbrenner III, the principal owner of the New York Yankees. His son-in-law and designated heir, the infelicitously named Steve Swindal, was arrested on the night of Valentine’s Day for allegedly driving under the influence and is now divorcing his way out of the team hierarchy. I want to ask Steinbrenner who will succeed him at the helm of the most famous franchise in American sports.

But the once bold and blustery Boss, as he often calls himself, has been in nearly silent retreat since fainting at a friend’s memorial service in 2003. He has been slowed by a bum knee, and his nearly uncontainable energy has ebbed noticeably, some say alarmingly. At 77, he attends his club’s games less and less frequently. He hasn’t been sighted at Yankee Stadium since opening day, April 2, and on that occasion he looked unsteady and hid from public view. The Bronx Bloviator, who used to love sparring with sportswriters as much as bullying employees, now speaks to the media in canned statements issued through his designated mouthpiece, the New York P.R. guru Howard Rubenstein. Steinbrenner’s Howard Hughes-like reclusiveness has fueled rumors that he is, at best, recovering from a mild stroke, at worst, in the early stages of Alzheimer’s.

He has only added to the mystery by refusing interview requests and instituting a gag order on the Yankees front office and his relatives. His own publicist declines to discuss him. “Mr. Rubenstein is not available to talk about Mr. Steinbrenner or his team,” the flack’s flack told me. “Nor will he be available in the near future.” (Rubenstein later told Condé Nast Portfolio, “I speak to George each day, and he seems okay to me.”)

I seek out Tom McEwen, the onetime sports editor of the Tampa Tribune. He and Steinbrenner have been golfing buddies since 1973, the year the Boss bought the Yankees and moved his family from Cleveland to Tampa, Florida. But they haven’t talked to or seen each other in more than a year. “I’ve heard all the speculation,” McEwen says. “I hope he’s okay.”

The 84-year-old McEwen doesn’t get around much anymore himself. Circulation problems in both legs have confined him to a wheelchair. Still, he offers to accompany me to Steinbrenner’s home, which borders the Palma Ceia Golf and Country Club in downtown Tampa. “I don’t care if George gets mad,” he says. “At this age, what can he do to me?” So on a bright, cloudless day in June, we pull up to the Steinbrenner compound, a stucco palace with thick white columns.

As my rental car idles near the entrance, the black wrought-iron gates part and another car drives out. McEwen says, “Let’s go in.” We do. A portly gardener in a Yankees T-shirt leans against a huge white anchor that dominates the front lawn. McEwen asks him, “Is George home?”

The gardener nods. “Tell him Tom is here to see him,” McEwen says. The gardener disappears into the house. We park in the circular driveway, and I help McEwen out of the car and into his wheelchair. Then I push him to the front porch. We stare into a dark alcove and wait.

Five minutes later, a solitary figure emerges out of the shadows, limping toward us. It’s 2 in the afternoon, and George Steinbrenner is wearing slippers, silk pajamas, and a terry-cloth robe — all Yankee blue. A diamond-encrusted World Series ring nearly as big as a Ritz cracker obscures his wedding ring.

When he sees McEwen, a big, goofy grin spreads across his face. “Great to see ya, Tommy,” he exclaims.

“Great to see you, George,” McEwen says. He introduces me as a writer working on a story and asks about Steinbrenner’s wife, Joan.

“Great to see ya, Tommy,” Steinbrenner says.

McEwen asks about his sons, Hank and Hal.

“Great to see ya, Tommy,” he says.

McEwen asks about his daughters, Jennifer and Jessica.

“Great to see ya, Tommy,” he says.

McEwen asks about his health.

Steinbrenner sighs heavily and mutters, “Oh, I’m all right.”

He doesn’t look all right. In fact, he looks dreadful. His body is bloated; his jawline has slackened into a triple chin; his skin looks as if a dry-cleaner bag has been stretched over it. Steinbrenner’s face, pale and swollen, has a curiously undefined look. His features seem frozen in a permanent rictus of careworn disbelief.

. . .

I ask Steinbrenner about the Yankees, who are struggling mightily at the time. The grin turns into a snarl. “They’ll come around,” he snaps. It’s the first sign of the old George.

I ask Steinbrenner whom he wants to succeed him. He ignores me. That’s the last sign of the old George.

A few minutes later, Steinbrenner starts repeating himself again. “Great to see ya, Tommy,” he says in response to every question. “Great to see ya.”

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*We are all Franz Lidz!