Like many people, my most indelible memory of the Big Ballpark in the Bronx is my first. 1972. (Yikes.) Dad. Me. 4 Train to 161. Sea of blue sucked into the biggest building ever built. The Empire State turned on it's side, can opener-ed and stuffed with city.
Then in. Filled corridors. Side-winder mouth style vendor barking "This is your 1972 Yankee scorecard, get your 1972 Yankee scorecard!" And then the scorecard was in my hands, oh yes, the amazing booklette with pictures of adult men in pinstriped pajamas smiling from ear to ear because they didn't have to wear real clothes to work. My father's hand now guiding me so I didn't have to look up from the magic book as I walked.
Then IN in. Inside to the game in. Inside but actually more outside than any outside I had ever seen before. Because it opened up from the inside to the outside so extremely. Wow. I was now in a giant space that was really just high walls built to hold the outside in well enough to play an important game.
So out brought in. But with a roof deck of seats over-hanging our heads. So cool and murky under the big overhang. Dark green seats. Support posts with section #'s freshly stenciled over peeling dark paint of no particular color other than dark.
For most of the game I just looked at people. Wow the people in the stands. Way better than Ringling Bros Barnum & Bailey. I was an illustration of slack-jawed stupefaction. Nobody in my household screamed 'bad language' at full bug-eyed, red-face volume then sat back down as if screaming those words at full bug-eyed, red-faced volume was a normal thing to do, a normal way to be.
I would never look at my family the same way again. I didn't know the word repressed yet, but I learned the concept that day. The people in the crowd were not. We were.
Then, on cue with my thoughts, Dad stood up and hollered. Not screamed. Hollered. Using his hands to megaphone 'Come on Thurman, no need to swing from the heels, just make contact!' Then he sat down and, with tight thin lips passed down from Huegonot forebears, whispered 'They all swing way too hard these days, why not lay down a good crisp bunt?'
And the smell. Some of that Ringling Bros mustard on pretzel on floor. But much more smoke. Not just cigarettes. Cigars. Cigarillos. Cigarelles. Not just for the birth of a child. For smoking in public! And B.O. Ethnic B.O. Maybe some talc masking agent. But not the Johnson's kind Dad patted onto his inverse buttocks just milli-moments before snapping the tighty whitey waistband OVER the undershirt.
Oh the smokey smoked smell. That day, in Kublai-Khan Stadium, did 8 year old Boocock experience his very first contact high.
My eyes only turned to the field when Sparky Lyle, the best fireman (relief pitcher) of the day, came in to close the deal for the Yanks. He had his own theme music! "Pomp & Circumstance" played on a ballpark organ. A ballpark organ. Not the mighty Wurlitzer at Radio City. But Headmaster Dad was amused.
And Sparky Lyle had his own automobile.
A Datsun?
Yes, the outfield wall swung open, and a pinstriped Datsun was driven out to a stop very close to the mound. And Sparky Lyle, with Ringo Starr moustache, stepped out, tossed his jacket back into the car, and took the mound. Took it. Took it with purpose. Threw 8 practice pitches that I counted. Then threw just one real pitch. A double play grounder.
Game over. Standing Hallelujah. File out believers. Now reverse the trip you took to get here. Everybody smiling. Kids snoozy and content, heads resting on big Dad's arm.
When I got home, I ran to my room and spent all my time before sleeping pretending to get out of a Datsun, then actually throwing my jacket into the pretend Datsun (my bed). Over and Over. Variations on the theme of Sparky-Me stopping the game to take control of the moment. And not re-starting the game until I was ready to end it.
Then Dad read player bios from the magic baseball scorecard until I fell asleep.
Then in. Filled corridors. Side-winder mouth style vendor barking "This is your 1972 Yankee scorecard, get your 1972 Yankee scorecard!" And then the scorecard was in my hands, oh yes, the amazing booklette with pictures of adult men in pinstriped pajamas smiling from ear to ear because they didn't have to wear real clothes to work. My father's hand now guiding me so I didn't have to look up from the magic book as I walked.
Then IN in. Inside to the game in. Inside but actually more outside than any outside I had ever seen before. Because it opened up from the inside to the outside so extremely. Wow. I was now in a giant space that was really just high walls built to hold the outside in well enough to play an important game.
So out brought in. But with a roof deck of seats over-hanging our heads. So cool and murky under the big overhang. Dark green seats. Support posts with section #'s freshly stenciled over peeling dark paint of no particular color other than dark.
For most of the game I just looked at people. Wow the people in the stands. Way better than Ringling Bros Barnum & Bailey. I was an illustration of slack-jawed stupefaction. Nobody in my household screamed 'bad language' at full bug-eyed, red-face volume then sat back down as if screaming those words at full bug-eyed, red-faced volume was a normal thing to do, a normal way to be.
I would never look at my family the same way again. I didn't know the word repressed yet, but I learned the concept that day. The people in the crowd were not. We were.
Then, on cue with my thoughts, Dad stood up and hollered. Not screamed. Hollered. Using his hands to megaphone 'Come on Thurman, no need to swing from the heels, just make contact!' Then he sat down and, with tight thin lips passed down from Huegonot forebears, whispered 'They all swing way too hard these days, why not lay down a good crisp bunt?'
And the smell. Some of that Ringling Bros mustard on pretzel on floor. But much more smoke. Not just cigarettes. Cigars. Cigarillos. Cigarelles. Not just for the birth of a child. For smoking in public! And B.O. Ethnic B.O. Maybe some talc masking agent. But not the Johnson's kind Dad patted onto his inverse buttocks just milli-moments before snapping the tighty whitey waistband OVER the undershirt.
Oh the smokey smoked smell. That day, in Kublai-Khan Stadium, did 8 year old Boocock experience his very first contact high.
My eyes only turned to the field when Sparky Lyle, the best fireman (relief pitcher) of the day, came in to close the deal for the Yanks. He had his own theme music! "Pomp & Circumstance" played on a ballpark organ. A ballpark organ. Not the mighty Wurlitzer at Radio City. But Headmaster Dad was amused.
And Sparky Lyle had his own automobile.
A Datsun?
Yes, the outfield wall swung open, and a pinstriped Datsun was driven out to a stop very close to the mound. And Sparky Lyle, with Ringo Starr moustache, stepped out, tossed his jacket back into the car, and took the mound. Took it. Took it with purpose. Threw 8 practice pitches that I counted. Then threw just one real pitch. A double play grounder.
Game over. Standing Hallelujah. File out believers. Now reverse the trip you took to get here. Everybody smiling. Kids snoozy and content, heads resting on big Dad's arm.
When I got home, I ran to my room and spent all my time before sleeping pretending to get out of a Datsun, then actually throwing my jacket into the pretend Datsun (my bed). Over and Over. Variations on the theme of Sparky-Me stopping the game to take control of the moment. And not re-starting the game until I was ready to end it.
Then Dad read player bios from the magic baseball scorecard until I fell asleep.
posted by BOOCOCK'S PHILOSOPHY OF BASEBALL at
2:14 PM
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