My weekly memory dumps about baseball in my pre-teen years end for a while after next week. But, first, I harken back to turning thirteen years of age. And what's so important about that particular benchmark?
It was the age where I had started to go to baseball games by myself. Well, not alone completely. But clearly without adult supervision. Specifically, my father.
Think about it. The time was not that long ago when a couple of new teenagers could pop on the NYC subway without a single worry. These days, if you'd find a thirteen-year-old on the subway by himself, the parents would be expecting an emergency call from Social Services. Back then, we didn't blink an eye. And, frankly, neither did our folks, who were clearly not ogres. It simply was a different era for all of us.
The summer of my thirteenth year found us with this wonderful and new independence. Waiting around for my father's vacation day in order to get to a Met game in Queens turned out to be a drag. Jeez, I'm old enough. I'm already taking public transportation to get to confirmation class and church in the Bronx. Shea Stadium would just be an extended trip. A little bit longer ride.
A 90 minute subway ride to be exact.
Amazingly, the aforementioned argument sailed past the parental judges without a pause for lengthy deliberation. Yes, you can go. As long as it's a day game. And as long as you don't go by yourself.
Well, of course not. Duh. What fun would that be?
As was usually the cases in those days, my typical part in crime and fun was Leo, my buddy from "up the block." He apparently had been rewarded the same clearance from his folks and was primed for a foray into parts of the NY metropolitan area unknown. We worked out a handshake deal on our baseball travels. If he, as a Yankee fan, would go to a Met game with me, I would reciprocate with an excursion to the House That Ruth Built. Such diplomacy and civility is uncommon in society today.
All treks would commence at the 241st Street Subway station, which was a mere blocks away from our homes. Setting out for a baseball game was akin to prepping for a climb up Mount Everest. Once we boarded the trains on the elevated tracks shown above, we would be casting our fates to the gods. And spending a helluva lot of time underground.
The first ten or so minutes on the train was familiar to us. We knew the stops from our past travels to the Wakefield Theater on 233rd Street or my church on 219th Street. Once we got to the first major hub of Gun Hill Road, we steeled ourselves a little bit tighter on those dirty gray seats. We were on less familiar turf.
After we passed through the West Farms Square station heading into the South Bronx, all bets were off. As far as we were concerned, we might as well have been going on an African safari. Unarmed. There were so many stations and train stops. At platforms that scared us just a little. We were not in Mayberry anymore.
174th Street. Freeman Street. Simpson Street.
Hmm, red lights in some of the windows? We were young, but we knew what that meant. Even then.
Intervale Avenue. Prospect Avenue. Jackson Avenue.
We were still on an elevated track. We could see all the treachery around us. We waited for the cool and dark vastness of the subway tunnel at 149th Street and Third Avenue. Sure, the evil would still be there. But, at least, we wouldn't have to see it anymore.
To get to Shea Stadium, we needed to change trains for the Flushing Line at Time Square. You couldn't miss those subway cars headed for Queens. They were painted an ugly pale blue color that now reminds me of an Al Sharpton leisure suit. While figuring out how to maneuver this intricate deviation in travel direction, we would try to get a snack in a place that was virtually snackless. You could try and step over a bum to get a hot dog from a vendor that hadn't cleaned his grill since LaGuardia was mayor. There were gum and candy machines. You might pull the lever for Juicy Fruit and wind up with a package of Sensen.
And, of course, there were the soda machines. Not like the ones we know today with the cans and the bottles. These gave you a cup with some ice. But it was really as dicey as the most crooked roulette wheel in Vegas. You'd put in your coins, pulled the knob for the soda flavor of your choice, and then held your breath. Down came the cup. No ice. No syrup. Only seltzer.
Try it again. Down came the syrup. Down came the ice. No cup.
Try it again. Down came the seltzer. No syrup. No ice. No cup.
One last time. Ice tumbled onto your shoes. And that was it.
We usually found up getting to our baseball game with a critical case of dehydration.
The first time Leo and I journeyed out to Shea, our timing was way off. Who knew how to efficiently manage time in such far off locales? We wound up getting to Shea Stadium two hours before the game. Not even the Mets were there yet. We mounted up to our seats in the Mezzanine and found ourselves squarely next to a drunken Puerto Rican guy. There was nobody but groundskeepers on the field. But, that didn't stop this liquored-up idiot who might have boarded our train at Intervale Avenue.
"Lezz go Mezz. Lezz go Mezz!"
We moved the first chance we got.
The second game at Yankee Stadium was a little easier. First of all, the subway ride was shorter. We changed trains this time at 149th Street-Grand Concourse for the one stop uptown on the Jerome Avenue line. Before you knew it, the grand fortress of Mickey Mantle & Company loomed up like Godzilla rising from the ocean.
On that hot July day, Leo and I had scored some sweet seats in the front row of the field level just past first base. The only problem was that we were not alone. This time, in place of a pickled Puerto Rican, we had gnats. Lots and lots and lots of gnats. They loved our clothes. They loved our ears. They wanted to travel up our nostrils.
Despite the infestation, it was still a great day. Because we were now on our own. Going to baseball games. And, moreover, we could be trusted to get home in one piece.
A change-of-life moment. And one that made it a slamdunk for the next stage of my baseball existence.
The following year was my very first in those Loge Section 7 seats at Shea Stadium every Saturday afternoon. Two chairs that would be with me for most of my life.
Dinner last night: The pre-game buffet at Dodger Stadium.
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