I decided on a night at the ballpark. I’ll do that every so often; take a train to Flushing or the Bronx and buy a bleacher seat. It’s cheap if you don’t buy the beer, or food for that matter. Funny thing is I’m not a New York baseball fan. In fact, I’m not a fan of any pro team. There’s nothing and no one to praise in this day and age when people can buy ball teams. It’s just a product. People tell me I have to have a team, and I tell ‘em no ball team’s worth my allegiance. That seems to screw with their heads enough to leave me alone.
What I really love is old time baseball. Not the dead ball era. I’d say between 1920 and 1960. Ruth’s dominance to Williams’ exit. Yeah, I know there were other greats I’m leaving out. But I’m not talking about the people; I’m talking about time. A time before California baseball. Before there were teams in Milwaukee, Kansas City, and even Baltimore. When Brooklyn had its Bums and the Giants played in the most ridiculous field you’d ever seen. And no, I’m no racist. Hell, I wish Gibson and Bell had been in the majors; it would have made for some great games. But I ain’t got the power to turn back time. I only wish I had the chance to see an old time ballgame in an old time park.
The Yanks are playing Toronto, I think. Whatever. I just hope it’s a good game. I board the ‘D’ and take a seat. I see a few Jeter and A-Rod shirts. Some Posada and Pettitte jerseys. A Mattingly, Jackson, and Gehrig here and there. It’s essentially an express train, but after a long day of studying and working I fall asleep.
I feel a poke. The old timer’s got his wooden cane in my chest, and he ain’t bein’ gentle. I shake my head, blink my eyes.
‘You’re here,’ the old man crowed.
There was no one on the train. And I didn’t hear anyone outside on the platform either. Not normal.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked.
The old man pointed out the door. ‘Time for the game, boy. You’ve almost slept through it. A good game, I reckon, too. Best be getting yourself to the field.’ He pushed the young man in the back with his cane.
‘Cut the shit, old man,’ I yelled.
‘No need to get vulgar. Stay here for all I care. I’d like to see a ballgame.’ The old man hopped up the stairs like a kid and was out of sight.
I probably would’ve stayed on the train if it weren’t so creepy. Plus, I wanted to see the game. So, I walked out through the turn-styles and up the stairs. The old man was nowhere to be found. The whole scene looked funny, like I’d never seen this part of town before. But I’d been to Yankee Stadium hundreds of times. No one was around, another weird thing on the day of a game. I looked at the street and cross street. 155th and 8th. I was still in Manhattan. Barely, but still. I could see the Stadium across the river. But that’s not what I was looking at. I was looking at a huge oval-looking thing in front of me. And I knew it could only be one place: the Polo Grounds.
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