I had gone to New York once before with my father. We took the train down, and stayed at the Commodore, and took the subway to Ebbets field. This time, just turned fifteen, I went alone.
I was visiting in Lynbrook, and took the Long Island Railroad into Penn Station. I lingered in Penn Station for a while, feeling the size and space. Feeling as if I were at the center of civilization with the throb of great engines animating the space. I smelled it: the steam, the peanuts, the energy. Underneath the vast high ceiling of the central room, I was enclosed and free, and small, and adult, and overwhelmed with confidence. Alone, fifteen, in New York City.
I was visiting alone. I’m not sure my parents ever knew.
I took the subway to Broadway and went downtown, reading the maps. I knew I probably didn’t have to come into Manhattan at all. I knew I was going a long way round, but it was the way I remembered going with my father, and my newly evolving self wouldn’t let me ask directions. The names of the stations were exciting. I’d heard them on WHN. I read about them in The New York Times: Astor Place, Bleeker Street, Bowery. This was New York. I was in its heart.
I can no longer remember how I went. I probably couldn’t go there now. Somewhere around Canal Street I changed trains, and somewhere around Prospect Park I got off and followed the crowd. Brooklyn wasn’t as tall as New York. But it was no less urban. It was late afternoon, before a night game with the Braves. The people were on the street selling programs and peanuts and hot dogs. And the crowd was already gathering. Fathers and sons. The fathers often wearing felt hats, dressed in suit and tie. The sons often with baseball gloves, often with baseball hats. There were women in the crowd and rarely, little girls. There was also a large mix of Negroes. I stood at the intersection of McKeever Place and Sullivan Place in front of the field. I could see the light towers above the stadium. The name EBBETS FIELD in white lettering built into the front at the top. The arches, the Palladian windows, the brick façade, the awning-striped canopy over the entrance. I went into the rotunda and bought my ticket and walked up the stairs and out into the interior grass, red clay infield, blue sky above, some white clouds, the players in their uniforms. The Dodgers in home white, blue lettering, blue hats; the Braves in road gray, red lettering, navy hats with red bills, on their chests a tomahawk.
I bought some peanuts and a program and found my seat on the third-base side. I watched batting practice. I watched infield practice, and the long lazy fungoes being hit to the outfielders. I watched some of the players run sprints in the outfield, and as the sky darkened and the lights took hold, I watched the two pitchers go to the bullpens and begin their warmups. Ralph Branca for the Dodgers. Warren Spahn for the Braves.
I was sitting among Negroes, between two heavy black women. I was alone, a slender white boy too young to shave. They asked me where I was from. I said Boston. They asked me what I was doing there. I said I was a Dodgers fan and wanted to see Jackie. One of the women announced this loudly to the group.
“This boy done come all the way from Boston to see our Jackie.”
She made Boston a long word. Everyone applauded. Some cheered. I imagined that Red Barber, high up in the catbird’s seat, might notice and remark that they’re tearing up the pea patch over there in the stands behind third. The world exfoliated around me. The Dodger Sym-Phony was marching back and forth. Hilda Chester was ringing her cowbell. Eddie Bettan was blowing his whistle. I was here, unaccompanied, unsupervised, alone, limitless and free, under the lights, in Ebbets Field, watching the Dodgers, applauded by the fans.