Page 11 - the NOISE March 2013

would come back on just as the lights in the trailing car went out. This transition was ac- companied by a sudden swaying of the car, squealing of the steel wheels on the tracks and sometimes a slight up and down bump as we went past a subterranean junction. A subway train on an adjoining track might be visible in the gloom and the much faster F train would soon overtake the interloper. The other train might veer off and descend as we crossed under the deepest part of the river tunnel and make our way upgrade to the very deep Lexington Avenue station, which is the first Manhattan station served by the F train.
We got out of the train and took the escala- tor to the upstairs platform which served the 4 train of the IRT. The lightweight trains of this line were very fast, but were of a size which excluded them from the rails of the IND or BMT systems. The 4 was an uptown express. Our timing was nearly perfect as a number 4 approached almost as we came off the esca- lator. The doors opened and stayed open for less than a minute as a now-thickening crowd entered the car. Many standees crowded around the poles or grasped the hanging straps. The interior of the IRT cars were fairly Spartan, and advertising spaces were not as thick as in the BMT or IND cars. Of course every car carried a large system map and the cars all announced their ultimate destination of Woodlawn, one of the entrances to the Van Cortland Park and Woodlawn Cemetery. But we were going to get off at 161st Street in the Bronx, home of Yankee Stadium.
We traversed the usual tunnels, passing local trains stopped at various stations along the way, but this was the first time I’d crossed the Harlem River, and as the train ascended, it came out of the tunnel and onto the elevated tracks in the Bronx. You could sense the gen- eral excitement in the car. One stop and the train was at 161st Street and a mad rush out- side and onto the platform. As we were at the front, we had to walk back a bit for the exit to street level.
As we approached the exit, I noticed a small crowd of young men and boys clustered near the end of the platform. Some of them held makeshift chairs fashioned from discarded 2 x 4” lumber and any large soft pad to form a seat.
I asked Dad, “What are they doing over there?”
He replied, “They’re going to watch the game.”
I suddenly realized that from their vantage point and across the street was the stadium, albeit a very narrow and far away vista, but those people were determined to watch the game for the meager cost of a subway ride.
We headed along the train platform and clambered down the ancient metal-edged wooden steps. At street level, we walked along the avenue, shadowed by the massive structure of “the El,” then turned off into the sunlight of a side street.
Dad went into the liquor store and emerged several minutes later clutching a small paper bag. We walked along the side- walk, the sight of Yankee Stadium growing ever larger. Soon we crossed over the parking lot and approached one of the ticket booths. My dad opened the cover of a telephone call box, marked “Official Use Only.” He picked up the receiver and dialed a couple numbers. He spoke quietly for a minute or two and re- placed the phone.
We walked over to the fence and waited. A few minutes later, a burly heavyset man ap- proached and gave my dad a big grin. “Hello
John,” my dad said to the man, replete in his Stadium Police uniform. “This is my son, Joe.”
I stood in awe of this large imposing man, who immediately smiled at me and offered me his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Sir,” I stam- mered.
My dad handed over the small paper bag, pocketing one small bottle of whiskey. The policeman took a peek into the bag and withdrew a cigar, which he put into his breast pocket. His small bottle of whiskey went into his side pocket.
“Steve, I didn’t get any seats for the grand- stand today, but I think you’ll get a better view. Follow me. The man, who I would later learn was John Scanlon, was an old crony of Dad’s from nights spent at the Alcazar, a bar over on Columbus Circle my dad managed.
Scanlon withdrew a key from his pocket, opened up a gate and motioned for us to follow. He quickly locked the gate behind us and we walked up a wide ramp towards the second deck seating. I could catch glimpses of the lush grass of the playing field as we made our way upward. Soon we were at the top end of the third baseline seating. We walked down the ramp, passing countless souls awaiting the start of the game.
Hawkers yelled, “Hot Dawgs! Peanuts! Get yer cold beer here!”
We were at the railing overlooking the visi- tor’s dugout, and still no empty seats awaited us. Scanlon smiled at my Dad and said: “Steve, why don’t we just sit in the press box.” We made our way along the backs of the nearly full press box and came upon 4 empty seats. Scanlon said, “How about these seats, Steve?”
Scanlon gestured for me and my dad to take our seats, and joined us. He took his seat, withdrew his cigar and bit off the end.
Several minutes later the public address announcement thanked the loyal fans, made some comments about this year’s season, and announced the starting lineups. That being done, the announcer invited us to stand for the National Anthem. My dad took his hat off and holding it over his heart, stood still over familiar words.
The first batter took up his position at home, the crowd started to hoot and hollar. The noise rose up to a deafening roar coincid- ing with the first pitch. A foul back. Strike one. Some jeering coming from a vocal bunch di- rectly below us near the visitor’s dugout.
Two quick strikes and the first batter was out! The next man up at least got to first base on a ball bobbled by the short stop. The next player hit a slow grounder to second for a quick double play and the hated Red Sox were done with the top of the first inning. The Yankees were now coming to bat.
Officer Scanlon had to go back to work, so he left me and my dad up in the press box, but promised to come back for the seventh inning stretch. No doubt to partake of the ci- gar my dad gave him and a quick slug of the rye whiskey.
During the next inning, I noticed a sports writer scribbling something on a small card held on his lap. After every player’s departure from the plate, he would make a quick note on the paper.
I asked my dad, “What is that man doing?”
His friendly reply: “Don’t be shy; I’m sure he’ll tell you.”
So I steeled up myself and went over to the man and asked him. He was one of the many sports writers from the New York dailies up in the press box that day. He explained there was a shorthand way of recording every move that took place during the game and he was kind enough to show me how to keep
“Box Score.” He gave me one of his extra score- cards and a well worn pencil, albeit one with nary an eraser, and I returned to my seat just in time for the, as I learned later, the clean-up man to step into the on deck circle.
The next Yankee didn’t fare much better than the rest before him, the only memo- rable event punctuated by the foul back that almost hit us, narrowly missing a TV camera perched above us in the second deck. The next pitch was a pop-up, and quickly caught
by the catcher.
The left-hander took his place in the on-
deck circle. He held three bats which he swung around a few times. He repeated the motion a couple of times, and then he se- lected his favorite and handed the rest to the bat boy standing just out of reach. He walked a bit closer to the plate, stopped and took a couple quick swings of the bat. Finished lim- bering up, he stepped up to the plate, and slid his feet around to afford a better grip on the loose dirt surrounding home plate. He took one more swing, and then gently tapped the plate, nodding to the pitcher as if ready for combat.
“Hey! Get yer Dawg here! Peanuts! Beeere up!” bellowed a nearby vendor, punctuating the silence as the batter awaited the first pitch.
Clear down the middle, it was one destined for the right field stands. But it wasn’t to be as the umpire boomed “Striike!”
The batter steps out as time’s called. He makes a quick adjustment to his uniform and steps back into play. The next pitch levies a pop-up, landing just beyond the catcher rac- ing back behind home plate. The ball lands in the net protecting patrons from just such a potential event. I watch the ball slowly roll down and fall into the mitt of one of the ball boys standing at the edge of the stands. The ball boy trots out to the plate and hands the ball to the umpire, who scrutinizes it quickly and puts it into his pocket, joining the already ready supply of American League balls. The next pitch is a ball, but from my vantage point, it doesn’t look too much outside.
My dad yells over to the sports writer: “Ya think it was out?” The writer nods.
The batter bounces the end of the bat on the plate and takes up position once again. The crowd is fairly quiet, even as the barking of vendors faintly fill the stadium. Reminded of a need for an ice cream pop, I turn back just in time to see the pitcher wind up. The ball sails toward the plate and I’m greeted by a loud crack, punctuating the supersonic action of the batter. He stands for a second, drops his bat, and then as the ball is on its way to the bleachers, he strides to first base.
As if in slow motion, he rounds the bases. The crowd sits in silence as he rounds third and onto home plate, which he lightly taps with his right foot, and then trots back to the dugout.
My eyes were fixed on his jersey. As he dis- appears into the dugout, the crowd begins to stir. Suddenly a loud roar erupts from every- one around me. Some of the sports writers slap each other on the back.
It was pandemonium inside “the house that Ruth built.” The batter emerged from the dugout and took a slight bow to the stands, causing an even greater volume of noise to be emitted. He returned once again to the dug- out as the roar gradually subsided, echoes dampening in that memorable October day.
That batter was number nine, and yes, he was Roger Maris. This was his 61st homerun, breaking the record Ruth held since 1927, in that season closer of 1961. My beloved Yanks finished their historical rivals, the Red Sox, once again.
| Stephen Imms is a Cornvillian who enjoys tinkering with vintage radios. steveimms@cableone.net
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