I've been to cathedrals.

I've been to Notre Dame in Paris, St Paul's in London, St Peter's in The Vatican, and The Cathedral of The Holy Cross and St Eulalia in Barcelona.

And while New York City has its cathedral - St Patrick's - most people will tell you that the true cathedral in the City That Never Sleeps is the one in the South Bronx.

Yankee Stadium.

If you talk to real Yankee fans, they don't like talk about the 'new place', with its Mohegan Sun, Hard Rock Cafe, and the fact that it feels more shopping mall than baseball stadium.

But the old one? They'll happily break your ear off talking about the old one.

They'll talk your ear off about Monument Park, where the spirits of Ruth, DiMaggio, Maris and Mantle can see the games going on in front of them. They'll talk about short porches, and bombs to the black. They'll smile, remembering about the historical facades and the fact that you could look into the field just as you pulled into the Yankee Stadium subway station. They'll talk about how they could get a beer at Stan's at jump into the stadium 15 minutes later, or wait a few minutes' more and fight with their buddies in the bleacher's, or yell at the fans who jumped out of their chairs for a home run that was simply 'nothing but a long fly'. They'll talk about Bob Sheppard - the gravelly, iconic voice of the Yankees- calling the players in. They'll sing along to Frank Sinatra's version "New York, New York" when the Yankees win and not when Liza Minelli's voice is piped through.

I have those memories, too. I don't know the record of wins to losses, save to say that I saw David Wells throw a Perfect Game on a day that was meant to be a battle for Beanie Babies in 1998, seeing Aaron Boone hit the game-winning home run in the American League Championship Series in 2003 when came down into bedlam. I was in that bedlam on the third base line.

But the player from the Bronx Church of Latter Day Yankees that every fan of the pinstripes will agree on is the shortstop of Kalamazoo, Michigan - Derek Jeter.

And in a baseball world that has been inhabited by steroids, pills and cheating, Jeter was a symbol of greatness.

His wonderful plays. The tip of the hat. The jump throws. The compact swing that spawned the priceless play-offs hits, home runs , and clutch plays, as well as over 3,000 hits and over 260 hits. They always said that batting over .300 would get you in Cooperstown, and he batted .310.

On his final game he had the game-winning hit at the bottom of the 9th, with his parents and his nephew there to celebrate it. It was so......Derek Jeter.

His number has been retired by the Yankees. He's got a plaque in the new Monument Park alongside the greats of Yankee history.

And on January 21st, 2020, he was elected to the Valhalla of Baseball - The Hall of Fame, with 99.75% of the vote. There's not a hunting party out there to find out who it was, but Twitter's getting close.

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When I heard about Jeter's election to the Hall, my grin was wider than home plate to deep center. Of course it was predictable. Jeter was going to get in as soon as he retired.

But that didn't make it any less special.

Maybe it was because I used to say: "There's nothing sweeter than Derek Jeter" when No.2 did something cool.

Maybe it was because I was wearing a blue Yankees practice jersey with his name on the back when I got mugged. I kept my wallet, but didn't exactly keep my dignity.

Maybe it was because he was an icon of many successful Yankees teams that I cheered on and also ones that ripped my heart out plenty of ones too.

Or maybe it was the memory that I once told my late wife Suzy that I would call our kid - if we were ever to have one - 'Jeter'.

Half-jokingly, of course.