Paul O’Neill – The Warrior’s Last Salute to the Bronx

The chants started long before Paul O’Neill stepped onto the field.
They rolled down from the upper deck, bouncing off the steel and concrete of Yankee Stadium, building into a roar that was part nostalgia, part gratitude, and entirely Bronx.
“Paulie! Paulie! Paulie!”

It was a sound O’Neill knew well. In the late 1990s, that chant often followed a line drive to the gap or a throw from right field that cut down a runner by inches. But this afternoon, the cheers weren’t for a game-saving hit or a tumbling catch. They were for a man in a suit, not a pinstriped uniform. They were for a number — 21 — about to be taken out of circulation forever.

On this day, the Yankees officially retired Paul O’Neill’s jersey, enshrining him among the franchise’s immortals. For a player who prided himself on grinding out at-bats and playing with fire, it was a rare moment to pause, to look around, and to let the emotions win.

A Warrior’s Legacy

O’Neill’s career with the Yankees spanned from 1993 to 2001, a nine-year stretch that coincided with one of the most dominant eras in baseball history. The Bronx Bombers won four World Series titles during his tenure. His .303 batting average with the club, his relentless competitiveness, and his knack for delivering in big moments made him a fan favorite.

But numbers only tell part of the story. What cemented O’Neill’s legend was attitude — the scowl after a strikeout, the way he slammed his helmet in frustration, the sheer refusal to concede even a meaningless at-bat in May. Manager Joe Torre once said, “Paul played every game like it was the seventh game of the World Series.”

That approach earned him the nickname “The Warrior,” bestowed by late owner George Steinbrenner. In the Bronx, it stuck like pine tar.

The Ceremony

When O’Neill walked to the podium, his family trailing a few steps behind, the sun broke through a patch of August clouds. His eyes darted toward the right-field corner, where he had spent so many summers patrolling the grass.

A massive “21” banner hung from the stadium façade. On the videoboard, highlights played: O’Neill lacing a double down the line, diving to his right to rob a hit, hugging teammates in champagne-soaked celebrations.

The crowd was on its feet for minutes before he could even begin speaking. He waved once, twice, then brought a hand to his face — wiping away tears that had no chance of staying hidden.

“I’m not sure I deserve this,” O’Neill said, his voice catching. “But I’m sure glad I played for you.”

Back to the ’90s

For those in attendance, the ceremony wasn’t just about O’Neill. It was about memory. About the smell of popcorn on warm summer nights. About watching Jeter flip a ball to Posada for an out at the plate. About the sense that the Yankees would always find a way to win.

In the stands, fans wore throwback jerseys and caps faded by decades of sun. Fathers leaned over to explain to their kids why No. 21 mattered, recounting the hits O’Neill collected in Game 5 of the 2001 World Series, when he stretched a single into a double with nothing on the line but pride.

The Warrior, they explained, never coasted. Not once.

The Player and the Person

Teammates past and present sent video messages. Derek Jeter called O’Neill “the ultimate competitor.” Jorge Posada said he learned what intensity looked like by watching him in batting practice.

Even opponents weighed in. Pedro Martínez, the Hall of Fame pitcher who faced O’Neill dozens of times, joked in a clip played on the scoreboard: “He made me throw every pitch I had — and then some I didn’t.”

O’Neill smiled at the memories. But as he spoke to reporters afterward, he kept circling back to the fans. “The energy here was like nowhere else,” he said. “They demanded everything from you. And if you gave it, they gave it back a hundred times over.”

Closing Moments

When the ceremony ended, O’Neill posed for photos with his family and held up a framed No. 21 jersey. The chants started again. This time, they carried a tinge of finality.

As he made his way down the dugout steps, he stopped, turned, and raised his right hand high above his head — one last salute to the Bronx faithful. It was the same gesture he’d made after the Yankees’ final home game in 2001, when 56,000 fans stood and refused to sit until he acknowledged them.

Two decades later, the scene was almost identical. Only the uniform had changed.

Why It Matters

Retiring a number is more than a ceremonial gesture. In Yankees lore, it’s an act reserved for the truly unforgettable. Babe Ruth’s 3. Lou Gehrig’s 4. Joe DiMaggio’s 5. And now, Paul O’Neill’s 21.

For the fans who grew up in the ’90s, this was validation — a reminder that their memories of O’Neill’s grit, passion, and clutch performances weren’t just sentimentality. They were history.

And for O’Neill, it was a moment to see that history through their eyes. To understand that “The Warrior” wasn’t just a nickname. It was a promise he kept every time he stepped onto the field.