Published: March 12, 2009

The Rose Hill gym, cramped and ancient, can become deafeningly loud when the Rams are in the midst of a successful Atlantic 10 season. But no matter how loud the student section grows, or how enthusiastically the band plays “The Fordham Ram,” a single sound is always discernable over the racket. It is metallic, but uglier than the ring of a cowbell; percussive, but often without rhythm.

The same sound can be heard nearly 81 nights a summer just a few miles from Rose Hill, though the clanging is a little more difficult to hear over 50,000 fans at Yankee Stadium. But when they hear it, and the roar of the section that welcomes its arrival, veteran fans know: Freddy “Sez” Schuman is near.

Even at 83, Freddy is a more dedicated sports fan than most. He has missed but a handful of Yankees games in the past 21 seasons, and his Fordham Rams hardly play a home game without him in attendance. Marching around the perimeter of the gym or tirelessly climbing throughout the decks of the ballpark, Freddy, and his devotion to his teams, is unmistakable. And while most fans are content to let a hat or even a jersey stand as their symbol of faithfulness, Freddy is famous for his Roy-Hobbsian construction of love and loyalty that he lugs throughout the House That Ruth Built.

Over three feet high, the backbone of Freddy’s rig is a sturdy two-by-two, capped by a pair of poster boards emblazoned with words of encouragement rendered in sometimes nonsensical verse, always preceded by the phrase “Freddy ‘Sez.’”

But below the placards hangs Freddy’s true calling card: a deeply scarred, well-worn, handle-less frying pan adorned with a painted-on, green, leafy emblem of good luck (Just don’t call it a shamrock—“It’s a four leaf clover!” Freddy insists. “I’m only Irish on St. Patrick’s Day.”)

It is from the collision of Freddy’s mangled old spoon and this frying pan that the cacophony springs, a unique rallying cry for the Bronx teams he loves. The current pan is the 13th to endure Freddy’s abuse.

Sometimes Freddy will whack the pan himself, usually when his team is down and the fans need a boost, as is often the case with his Fordham basketball team this season. But more often, all Freddy has to do is hold onto the rig and let others swing away, each fan rapping out his or her own frantic version of Morse code.

When the Yankees open their new ballpark this year, Freddy will be there to begin his 22nd season riling up fans. He was not always popular, though.

“When I first started, the Yankees were in very last place,” Freddy recalls. “They couldn’t do any worse than they were. The very first year, I can’t use the language the grown-ups used to tell me to get lost. It was the kids, however, that it was fun for. They continued to do that throughout the whole season, and the next opening day at Yankee Stadium, the grownups started coming up to me wanting to take pictures.

“The Daily News and the other papers started to write stories, so I guess I became what you’d call a celebrity. It blossomed into a kind of full-time sports job.”

It says a lot about Freddy that he can’t name the litany of celebrities who have undoubtedly taken a whack.

“I know there were famous people I’ve met,” he says. “But I guess they knew me more than I knew them.” To Freddy, everyone at the Stadium is just another fan, just another person to entertain.

One spoon-swinger Freddy does speak reverentially about is former NYC Mayor Rudolph Giuliani, whom Freddy describes as the number one Yankees fan and a personal inspiration.

Giuliani came to see Freddy as a mascot for the team, a symbol of unwavering loyalty, so when the team won its first World Series in 18 years in 1996, Freddy was a personal guest of the mayor for the victory parade and at the mayoral residence in Manhattan.

It was there, Freddy said, that George Steinbrenner took his first whack at the pan, though the master of the Yankees’ universe couldn’t muster more than a weak clang.

“Mayor Giuliani comes over and says ‘You’re doing it the wrong way,’” Freddy recalls. “He knew where the sweet spot was, he had hit it so many times.”

The kids, really, are the ones who most appreciate a good whack on Freddy’s pan. He makes sure each youngster gets a shot, taking the time to instruct the smallest ones how to swing the spoon that sits so big in their hands. For Freddy, his connections with the young fans are a way of remembering his own son, with whom he no longer has a relationship.

Divorced, Freddy has lost touch with his only child.

“I don’t know how old he would be 40 or 50,” Freddy said. “He is a smart guy, smarter than his daddy. He’s fluent in French, and he’s been all over the world. I’m happy just to stay here [in New York], but I’m happy he’s been able to do that. But Father’s Day is a very sad day for me. I’ve tried finding him, but I can’t. I have no idea where he is—maybe I’m a grandpa. I would love that.”

And so Freddy’s near-perfect attendance at his two adopted homes in the Bronx is less dedication to a player, or even a team, than it is a way for him to bring thousands of strangers together through the games he loves. When a section of fans gets riled up, convalescing behind the ringing of the pan, it forms a family with Freddy as the patriarch. For the leader, winning is hardly important.

“For Freddy, I don’t really see it as dedication to a program,” said Andres Correal, a Fordham alumnus and administrator of the popular fordhamfans.com forum. “He likes going to games; it’s what he does. The quality of the program does not seem to be much of a factor. As time passes, you realize he’s there for the love of the sport.”

It is ironic that Fordham’s most famous fan did not even graduate from Rose Hill. Much like his love for the Yankees, Freddy’s Fordham connection was forged by his growing up in the Bronx. He graduated from Teddy Roosevelt High School on Fordham Road in 1941 and admits he did not have the type of grades needed to get into the Jesuit school.

Despite Fordham basketball’s woes and the closing of the Yankees’ hallowed home, Freddy has no plans to slow down.

“As long, God willing, as I have, I’ll be going to these games—as long as the ticker is working,” he said.

Age is just a number to Freddy, who bristles when asked how old he is.

“Rephrase the question!” he insists. “I’m 83 years young and on May 23 I’ll be 84, and they told me they’ll be having a celebration at Yankee Stadium for me.”

So Freddy marches on, his posture slightly more stooped than his first year at the Stadium and his eyebrows a little bushier over the void where a 1930s stickball accident necessitated the removal of his right eye. His voice might be a little hoarser, too, but that doesn’t stop him from cheering. All he really needs is his pan.

“I try my best,” Freddy said. “I don’t win games; I don’t lose games. I try to get in front of the people and make them have fun.”