I never made it to Yankee Stadium, except in my dreams. But a good chunk of my boybood was spent there, hanging on the words of the Old Scotchman, Gordon McClendon, as he described the action in the House that Ruth Built — action that would take the Yankees to five straight World Series, then an off year, then four more.

I absorbed most of the Yankee glamour while sitting on the front porch of our three-room unpainted shotgun in a Carolina hollow, but I was transported to The Stadium on a radio beam and became an ear-witness to baseball history.

There was Joe DiMaggio, my greatest hero of all, standing at home plate with his patented spread-eagle stance, calmly waiting for the pitch that he would belt out of the park. Yeah, The Stadium was designed for the left-handed Babe, but the right-handed Yankee Clipper never complained about that. It was his home for his entire major-league career, and he gilded its walls with glory.

There was Phil Rizzuto, the little Scooter, scooping up grounders like a vacuum cleaner as he patrolled shortstop territory. “Rizzuto to Coleman to Mize,” the Old Scotchman would call out as the Yanks scotched another rally with a double play. There was Scooter bunting DiMaggio home from third. Scooter surprising everybody with a World Series home run after hitting for the distance only four times during the regular season.

There was Yogi, the off-field clown who was a superb catcher and a notorious bad-ball hitter. He was dubbed “the Neanderthal man” because of his squat physique, but next to the Clipper and the Scooter, he was my favorite.

There was Tommy Henrich, one of the washed-up veterans who were supposed to finish fourth in the American League in 1949, stepping up to the plate as lead-off batter in the ninth inning of the first game of the World Series. Tommy blasted a Don Newcombe hit into the stands, winning the game for the Yanks, who went on to take the first of four straight World Series victories. Hank Bauer and Gene Woodling were other has-beens who led the Yanks past the mighty Red Sox into the Series.

There was Chief Wahoo, Allie Reynolds, one-quarter Creek Indian, acquired from the Cleveland Indians to bolster a less-than-spectacular pitching staff. He pitched a no-hitter against his former teammates in 1951 and followed up that same season with a pennant-clinching no-hitter against the murderous Red Sox bats.

For most of the glory days, I had to piece together World Series games between high-school classes and over arduous bike rides on a two-mile uphill course between school and home. But the principal allowed us to congregate in the auditorium during study periods and listen to the play-by-play on the radio. And the route from school to home was well populated with little bungalows, their front doors and windows open to the autumn air, their radios religiously tuned to the World Series broadcast .

Whitey Ford, Mickey Mantle and Gil McDougal came along before I finished high school. You may not remember McDougal, but he was the American League’s Rookie of the Year in 1951, Mantle’s first year with the team. He helped the Yanks to the third of their four straight Series triumphs. He had a quirky batting stance and a superb on-base percentage, .395.

When I came back from college, Don Larsen was on the scene, ready to pitch his perfect game against the Dodgers in 1956. Then came Roger Maris, Thurmond Munson, Reggie Jackson … but my boyhood had played out by then. I was a middle-aged editor, watching the World Series from a hotel room in Detroit’s Renaissance Center, when Reggie slammed his five Series home runs.

By the time I was beamed into The Stadium in 1949, it was already crawling with ghosts. My Dad belonged to the Murder’s Row generation, and he filled me in on the great feats of the Babe, Bill Dickey, Frankie Crosetti, Bob Meusel, Lefty Gomez, Red Ruffing, and, of course, the great Lou Gehrig.

Derek Jeter, who was to break Gehrig’s record for the most hits in The Stadium, maintained that when the new stadium was erected nearby and the old Stadium fell to the wrecking ball, the ghosts would just move across the street.

It was Jeter who delivered the valedictory Sunday night. It should have been Rizzuto, who served as the voice of the Yankees for decades after his playing days were over. But little Phil scooted into eternity last year. The Babe’s daughter, Julia Ruth Stevens, 92 (can she be that old?), threw out the first pitch. Appropriately, Jeter was the last batter. And just as appropriately, Mariano Riviera, the masterful closer, retired the final batter. The Yanks won the first game they played in The Stadium (against the Red Sox) and won the last one, against the Baltimore Orioles. But there’ll be no more World Series in the House that Ruth Built.

Maybe, it’s well that I never had a chance to make a physical visit to The Stadium. That way, the ghosts in my memory won’t have to move. The faces of Yogi Berra, Whitey Ford, Don Larsen, Reggie Jackson and Willie Randolph will not be lined with age as they were when the lights went out. There’ll be no need for stand-ins representing the M&M Twins, Thurmond Munson, Billy Martin, Catfish Hunter and other bygone greats.

The voice of Gordon McClendon ringing through memory will keep them and The Stadium vibrant and alive.

Yogi said it : “It ain't over till it’s over.”

And Yogi, it ain’t over as long as some of us are still around to remember.

Readers may write Gene Owens at WadesDixieco@aol.com