The Sunday Memory Drawer - My Very First Day in Baseball

It is October and playoff baseball is in the crisp fall air.  Except in Los Angeles, where it's still over 90 degrees.  

But, here at Dodger Stadium, there are still bats and balls in play.  And I am headed there today for Game 3 of the 2013 National League Division Series.  I'll make my baseball tote bag.  I'll likely wear my Mattingly jersey.  And begin the process of going to a game one more time.

How many have I been there for?  Maybe 2,000.  Or closer to 2,500.  An addiction that doesn't render me incoherent nor does it impair my driving.  But it all keeps me happy and relaxed, despite the ridiculous tension of a ninth inning rally by the other team.  Or a great, big comeback by your guys in the same inning.

For me, without it, there would be no life.

And I think back today to when it all started.  The very first baseball game I ever attended.  Decades ago.  A day when I had no real idea where I was.   

Except that the photo above was exactly the view I had.  Yankee Stadium.  161st Street and River Avenue.  

What is this thing called baseball?

Well, on this Wednesday afternoon in May, the specific details are as follows.  The Yankees beat Camilo Pascual and the Minnesota Twins, 4-3.  Mickey Mantle hit a home run.  The winning pitcher was Bill Stafford in relief of Ralph Terry.  The game lasted a relatively short two hours and fourteen minutes.  That would be amazing in 2013.  For me as a little child, that was probably way too long.  And, along with me, there were 14,176 people in attendance.  Lots more empty seats than fans.

But, embedded in all the data, there is a story.  

I knew nothing of this thing called baseball.  Except that it was a frequent intrusion in my small world which spun on an axis around my late afternoon Popeye cartoons on Channel 11 WPIX in New York.  I'd flip on the set, excited for one more adventure with Popeye, Bluto, and Olive Oyl.  Only to be grossly disappointed on some days when I would see this guy...

Somebody named Mel Allen and he was always talking to somebody else wearing pajamas like this.  Where was Captain Jack and my cartoons?   How much longer was this going to last?  I could tell time on the living room clock.  If this doesn't go off soon, I might even miss Officer Joe Bolton and the Three Stooges, who are supposed to come on next.

Shit.  Or whatever was equivalent for a kid of my young age.

It was a New York Yankee day game that had ended and these idiots were still talking about it.  Over and over and over.  

For me, at that juncture, baseball was an annoyance.

I saw little evidence of the sport in my house.   From time to time, my dad would put it on the car radio.  But I almost never saw it on television in the house.  I once asked my mom about it, likely because Mel Allen had just killed Popeye for me one more afternoon.  Her answer was simple.

"Your father is a Yankee fan."

Okay, so be it.  But it's not like he went out of his way to introduce me to the sport.  If I had shown an interest, he likely would have.  But, for me, baseball was simply in the way.

Then, one spring week in May, it all changed.

I had been off from school since Monday.  A nasty ear infection.  So, for me, it wasn't just late afternoon cartoons.  It was television all day and in every way.  But, on Tuesday, my mother dropped a bombshell.

"Your father's taking off tomorrow to take you to the Yankee game."

Huh?  What?  Why?  And I'm supposed to be sick?

My dad's cousin owned an oil burner business in the Bronx.  My father even worked there part time.  Well, this company had access to Yankee season tickets and there were four seats bookmarked for us the next afternoon.  It would be Uncle Augie, his teenage son Donald, my dad, and me.

If I had an argument in me, I didn't really present it.  My mom had the illness problem covered.

"We'll put plenty of cotton in your ears.  And, as soon as you get there, your father will buy you a cap to wear."

So, there you have it, trivia fans.  My very first baseball cap was that of the New York Yankees.

While I remember every little detail of my very first trip to Shea Stadium, I can't recall a single thing about how we got to Yankee Stadium that Wednesday afternoon.  I know we didn't take the subway.  The very first memory I have that date is getting stuck in the stadium turnstile as I was entering the ballpark.

Billy Crystal and others always talk about their first visit to Yankee Stadium and they all recall just how green it all appears to be.  Of course, most TV games were still in black and white.  For me, the lasting image I had was of ramps.  

Ramps and ramps and more ramps.  There were no escalators in this old claptrap of a ball yard.  So you meandered through this phalanx of ramps to get to your seat level.  The climb seemed to go on forever.  

Once in the seats, I saw the image above.  And was completely mesmerized not by the green grass, but the big black scoreboard.  It had tons of details, none of which made any sense to me.  But I remember the sign for Ballantine Beer.  Hey, that's always the commercial on television when Popeye is supposed to be on.  That Mel Allen is always talking about Ballantine.  A few years later, I would learn that Mel did more than just talk about the beer.

When the game began, I peppered my dad full of questions.   What's this guy doing?  Where's that guy running?  Who are the four men in the black suits?  What's the difference between a ball and a strike?

It was ugly.  But he was patient.  

Meanwhile, as the game played out in front of my incomprehensible eyes, I glanced over at Donald.  He had purchased this program.  And writing in it with a pencil that was no longer than my pinky.  I asked him what this was all about.

"I'm keeping score of the game.   Want to learn?"

Um, er, okay, sure.

"Well, the last ball was a ground ball to second base.   He threw it to first for the out.  So I write for that batter, 4-3.  So the guy before him strike out, so I put down a K.  And this guy just hit a flyball to Mickey so that's an 8."

I was lost at the fair completely.  I quickly ended my conversation with Donald, perplexed that anybody would waste so much time writing down stuff at a baseball game.

Of course, this very date and outing to a baseball stadium would give birth to a rule that would be observed over the years whenever Dad would take me to a game.

"You can buy ONE souvenir."

Of course, the actual process of making this hallowed selection sometimes lasted two innings.  At my first game, I had no clue what to look for.  Granted I was already wearing a cap, but that was more a necessity than a fun souvenir.  So, after much deliberation, what did I choose as my very first baseball souvenir at my very first game?

A Yankee megaphone.  Well, exactly, it had a dual purpose.  It was filled with popcorn.  And, once you had gobbled all that up, you could shout through it the rest of the game.  I was delirious.  For my father, Uncle Augie, and Donald, this got old in a hurry.  And, after I brought it home, the megaphone mysteriously disappeared within three days.  I always suspected my grandmother.  

If it wasn't for the Retro Sheet website, I would have no clue what happened on the field that day.  And, for me, it didn't really matter.  I still had no feel for this game called baseball.  It would be a while longer before I got really sucked in.

And, this afternoon, I will get sucked in for perhaps the 2,500th time.  Not needing a megaphone to shout.  Wearing a blue Dodger cap.  With my scorebook open to a new page of memories.  

Where would I be without any of it?

Dinner last night:  Knockwurst, baked beans, and cole slaw at Greenblatt's Deli.