When Men Were Boys
I can remember exact moments. It’s early afternoon on a Saturday, and we’re getting into our pale blue Chevrolet, a two-door Impala coupe. I turn sideways to squeeze into the back seat, then step onto the hump in the middle of the floor and drop next to the window on the far side.
My father is driving. My younger brother sits next to him, occupying the position of honor that rightfully belongs to me – for I am next in line to the throne — except that he called it first. I can’t see him, but his tiny voice bounces around inside the car, which reminds me that he’s up there somewhere. I stretch out, pretending that I prefer the back. Without turning his head or glancing in the mirror, my father tells me to get my feet off the seat. I am unbothered by any of it. Nothing can detract from the anticipation.
As we glide through intersections and past stores and bus stops, I peer out at the other people, in their vehicles or shuffling along the sidewalk. Some appear to be happy in a mild, bland sort of way. Some seem to be dreading their destination. I feel sorry for everyone, but wouldn’t trade places with any of them. We’re going to a baseball game and, I’m pretty sure, they aren’t. I wonder to myself if they even realize how lousy their day is going to be, at least compared to mine. And that includes my own mother, who claimed she didn’t want to come with us, but would rather relax in the backyard with my baby sister, a decision that I find impossible to fathom.
I consider myself the luckiest boy on the face of the earth. We’re headed for Yankee Stadium. Or maybe it’s Shea. It doesn’t matter. They’re both our teams, one coasting downhill after decades of greatness, the other still a kid, inexperienced and clumsy.
This is a chance to escape the black tar of the streets, and the red and beige apartment buildings, and step into another world. A throng of strangers exerts its gravitational force, drawing us into the largest structure I can imagine, where cigar smoke and mustard and popcorn mix to produce the incense of innocent childhood. We walk through a dark tunnel and out into the sunlight, and I get a glimpse of something so green and flat and immaculate that I can’t believe it’s really grass. Even unoccupied, the empty stage is a show in itself.
A short, irritable man holding a white towel leads us to our seats, wiping them off with a useless swipe and pretending to be pleasant just long enough for my father to hand him two quarters. We sit on hard chairs and peer out at the grounds crew pulling a hose and gently spraying the infield dirt, turning it from a dry tan to a dark brown, one misty arc at a time. Chalk dust rests in perfect rectangles on either side of home plate, and runs in opposite directions toward the left and right field foul poles.
The scoreboard blinks to life, filled with zeroes and the irrelevant progress of other games. Huge signs puncture the atmosphere with silent demands that we buy their beer and cigarettes and automobiles. The disembodied voice of the public address announcer, like that of my little brother in the car — only much boomier — echoes around the park, dispensing information that is, at once, essential and indecipherable.
Players appear in the outfield, stretching and running short races, and firing a ball back and forth. They don’t emerge from anywhere identifiable. Rather, they spring into existence, wearing immaculate uniforms and throwing in straight, taut cables. Our guys in white. The other team dressed in a dull gray, as though they already know they’re on the wrong side of the conflict.
Fans stand up and yell through circled hands when displeased, like when a batter strikes out looking, or when the umpire calls a close one against us, or when the opposing pitcher throws over to first base one too many times. A home run is sudden and quick – a loud crack and the ball disappears, like a shooting star — and you see it or you don’t. There is no instant replay, and if you miss it because you’re searching for the ice cream vendor, as I usually am, you’re left with only the memory of the crowd’s clamor in your ears and the dismal hope of a blurry black-and-while picture on the back page of tomorrow’s newspaper. One summer day at Shea, a triple play snaps by while I’m studying something in my program. On another, I miss a grand slam because I’m at the concession stand, waiting for a pretzel.
There is no showing off on the field. When somebody hits one over the fence, he puts his head down and trots around the bases, ignoring or oblivious to the cheers. No chest thumping and finger pointing and blowing kisses to the sky. When a pitcher retires the side in order, he walks off the field and into the dugout, like a construction worker going for coffee. No gloating or drama. It’s a game. And of course it’s also a business. It’s always been a business. But when you’re young and you have your glove, and catching a major league foul ball would be the highlight of your life, the game and the money are as far apart as those diverging chalk lines.
When it’s over, we step back into the receding flood of humanity and allow ourselves to be swept out into the parking lot. Back to concrete and manhole covers and broken windows. If our team won, I am happy. If they lost, I am less happy. But I still feel lucky. And as we approach the car and begin our drive home, I make sure to call the front seat.
Tagged: baseball, car, childhood, family, life, memories, Mets, New York, sports, Yankees
Posted in: Still Human After All These Years
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60 Responses “When Men Were Boys” →
mizzpaw
I love this. Great details and a sweet concise flow.
Thanks. That’s kind of you to say.
O. Leonard
This was great. I felt like I was there. Because I was. I can remember the details just like that down to forgetting to call shotgun even though I was the oldest boy. We didn’t have a pro team to go see…..I can’t imagine what that would have been like, but my Dad took us to the Babe Ruth tournaments and I can remember the field just as you described it and how the teams seem to rise out of nothing to workout on the field. Thanks for the journey on the time machine. I enjoyed it.
Have you ever been to a minor league game? The baseball is excellent, the tickets are affordable, and the connection between players and community is greater than the detachment you get at major league stadiums. There may be a team closer than you realize.
Used to love going to the Albuquerque Dukes games back in the 90s. We have a new semi-pro team here called the Isotopes. They play at the “Lab”. Haven’t gone yet since we’ve been back but just might do that.
Love the way you held this memory to the light, sharing each facet with such casual intricacy that we are lulled into an experience that feels intimately our own.
Thank you for coming along for the ride, Marie. In a way, I feel a little sorry for today’s kids, because it takes so much more to impress them.
And, of course, you know I loved this. I was a grown woman with boys of my own before I ever entered the kingdom of Busch Stadium, but so much of your imagery here is a part of my own fond memories of that initial experience and the many that followed. Yes, it’s about the game, but it’s also about so much more–the smell of the hot dogs and the camaraderie of the crowd, the singing of the National Anthem and silliness of the drunk guy three rows down, the sunshine glinting off the bats and the breeze coming in from right field … I could go on and on.
Two of my sons are still baseball fans, and I hope their own memories of summer afternoons at the ballpark are just as vivid and special. And even though my beloved Cardinals aren’t doing so well right now (including last week’s losses to your Yankees), I will forever be a fan of them and the game–and your writing as well. Thanks for another great post!
I thought about you while I was writing this one, Karen. At the bottom of it all, though, it’s the game itself. As Jimmy Dugan says in A League of Their Own, “Baseball is what gets inside you.”
And as much as I love the atmosphere in the stadium, I agree that it’s the game itself that tugs at my heartstrings. Players come and go, and sometimes the home team racks up more losses than wins, but the beauty and romance of a suicide squeeze play, a walk-off homer, or a perfect game will always remain.
Now you’re showing your age. When was the last time you saw a suicide squeeze? I mean one that actually worked.
Ha! You’re right–I should have said a “successfully executed” suicide squeeze. I think the fact they happen so rarely adds to the thrill, though. I did see Cardinals outfielder John Jay score on one last year against the Brewers and Skip Schumaker (another Cardinal) score on one a few years ago–and my youngest son “successfully executed” several in high school baseball (which always made me cringe because the catchers were usually twice his size).
Is it possible that the Cardinals are just a lot better at executing them than the Yankees–maybe that’s why you haven’t seen one lately? 😉
Bunting is a skill that’s disappearing, I guess because even a great one doesn’t make the highlight footage or show up in season stats — or help a player get the huge contract.
Nice description of your visit to the ball park and about the players and your feeling about the game, if your team won happy and if they lost not so happy, it’s amazing how you can relate the events at a baseball game.I remember watching a baseball game on TV our team the Blue Jays won that year, we were so pleased.
Are you talking about the Blue Jays winning the World Series, Ranu? If so, you have a good memory!
I bow to your mastery. No, I stand, slackjawed in awe at your way with words. You write with a laser pen. I was there. You put me in the mind and body of a boy (a gender I am not) in a town I’ve never lived in (New York), enjoying a sport (that to this day bores me to tears), in a time long past. I do have personal experience with the car seat, though 😉
Thanks, but you’ll have to stop with the tears — there’s no crying in baseball.
Diane Holcomb
I echo everyone’s comment about the imagery you use. I’ve been coaching a beginning writer who writes similar memory pieces. I’m going to share this post with him as an example of showing, not telling, and involving all of the senses.
I’m honored, Diane. He’s lucky to have you for a writing coach.
Ruth Rainwater
What a great memory! And a beautiful piece of writing!!
Thank you, Ruth. I always appreciate your feedback. And I hope you get some good news today.
Great story! And I really get your excitement and attachment to these memories! Even though not only am I not a boy, but also not so much into sports either [except I do love a good cricket match] but I also remember my first visit to a giant sports stadium. Walking through the dark tunnel and arriving into the arena of empty seats circling the field that is so pristinely green it hurts your eyes and stuns your senses! I remember standing there, moving step by step in a full circle, taking it all in and wanting to be there to see a game – any game! I think there is something primal in arenas!
How did you come to love cricket? Or even to understand it? I’ve tried.
Philster999
Someone actually showed you to your seat and pretended to wipe it off for you — great description by the way — back in the day?
I was afraid of those ushers, Phil. Late in the game, my father would have us move down to better seats that he’d noticed were unoccupied. Then I’d miss half the action because I was too busy looking around, worried we’d be kicked out.
accidentallyreflective
I just love the way you write! You are most definitely my favourite read in my ‘reader’ every time 🙂
By the way I still need to write about my childhood memories with my cousins … finding time this summer and sitting down to write something is challenging. 😁
Are you still in touch with those cousins? Comparing memories might be a good way to start.
Unfortunately not all of them. I need to find the time to sit down and really think about who and what I want to write about. I worry the floodgates may open and no one will be able to close them lol!
Thank you for the advice – comparing memories would be a good starting point.
Chichina
That was an incredible piece of writing. Your description put me right there with you.
I know our childhoods were very different, but your writing has the same effect.
Your baby sister finally got to go to a game at Shea, and my only memory was getting separated from you guys and dad briefly. It was very scary! I wish I had the same amazing and detailed memories that you have, but I have been to 4 other games since, and all of them were wonderful experiences. I didn’t share your love of baseball back then, but I do now. It’s not just for boys and men 🙂
I remember the time we all went to Shea. When you’re that young, getting separated in a crowd — even for a few seconds — is something you never forget.
I’d like to go to a vintage baseball game. They play according to 19th-century rules and use equipment typical of the times. They even tip their hats and thank the umpires at the end of the games. Hard to imagine.
lindasblogs
Stunning, I feel like I was there with you! We did the bus to the 7 train run to the nosebleed section seats at Shea. Those were fun times, but no way could I even remember, let alone write, like you did.
When would that have been? Do you remember the first time the Mets reached .500? That was unbelievable.
desertdweller29
Love the vivid memory. Go Yankees!
Do you have any conflicting loyalties to the Diamondbacks?
Oh no. I’m not a fan of the D-backs, which can make for awkward sports encounters. I wear my Yankees hat everywhere. I either get a dirty look or a thumbs up and generally it’s from the damnedest people! Neat little social experiment… Right now I’m in NY so it’s a safe bet. Plus, I really hate snakes. 🙂
You’d think tigers and blue jays would have enough trouble playing baseball. I don’t see how snakes even belong on the field.
Good read Charles. Is there still ‘no showing off’ on the field? That would be something I’d like from our cricketers when they dismiss an opponent.
No, there’s plenty of showing off, Bruce. Way too much. As with many activities these days, the emphasis is on individual attention. Is it the same with cricket?
It sure is Charles. I really like cricket, especially test cricket. It was always one of those games played with a stiff upper lip and generally good sportsmanship.
I’m all for a good contest and tough attitude but sometimes the celebrations of a team who dismiss an opponent are over the top. They’ll all be hugging and kissing, patting each others bums en-masse soon I reckon. Some players in particular, bowlers, seem to really dish it out to a batsman they dismissed. Punching the air, dirty looks and anything else they can transmit to the guy walking off the pitch takes it onto a personal level that isn’t great to watch. They must know there wouldn’t be a game without the batsman, or maybe they don’t.
In either case I wonder, with the camera work that shows the hairs on their nose, their expressions and words clearly expressed for lip reading, what young players think of that?
Except for the team, (we rooted for the Brooklyn Dodgers) your memories could have been written just for me. I remember then first game I went to with my father and brother; my keenest memory was of that miraculous expanse of perfect green grass. It may have been the most beautiful sight I had ever seen!
I’m in the middle of reading a book called Bums, about the history of the Brooklyn Dodgers. It’s hard to believe, but as recently as the late 1930s, the team didn’t have enough money to pay its electric bill.
If there’s anything that bores me more than baseball, it’s reading about baseball. So, the fact that you kept me not only reading, but engaged, through the whole piece is a testament to your skill. It’s a different version of calling the front seat.
But I’m still not heading out to the ball park.
I think you should give baseball another chance, Linda. The games are much more exciting when you’re there. Find a good double-A team (I’m sure Texas is loaded with them), and go see what you’ve been missing.
Betty Londergan
I love this piece — so redolent of being young and so thrilled by a day at the ballpark! I always worry at the insane price of baseball tickets these days, fearing that far too few dads are able to give their kids this glorious experience, (although with 8 kids in my family, we never got near a ballpark). Loved every sight and sound and smell you captured!!!
I think about ticket prices, too, Betty — not to mention the six-dollar hot dogs. Like other pro sports, baseball has become an activity for wealthy spectators, and for people who can somehow manage to ignore their credit card balance.
MarriedAndNaked (@MarriedAndNaked)
One of my favorite posts you have done. So beautifully written!!! Thank you!
Thank you. By the way, have you switched from blogging to tweeting?
Your play-by-play description of the infield, the crowd, the not-to-be-missed grand slams and HRs … just beautiful! I, too, am often too engaged in people watching or getting snacks to be there when those momentous occasions happen. My hubby is sure to point out some things for me to notice. But, it’s just being there that is so much fun. Thanks, Charles. (As far as showmanship, though, Babe Ruth’s memorable photo of him pointing his bat to where the ball was going to be hit. Wow!) 😉
Thank you for those kind words, Judy. They mean a lot, especially coming from such a skilled journalist and blogger. As for Ruth, there’s still a lot of disagreement over what he was pointing at. But it’s a great part of baseball legend.
It’s wonderful how you can remember even the tiniest detail. This one is right out of a “Rockwell” picture.There are few things from my childhood that I can remember with this precise detail. Most are memories combined with feelings and stories told by others. I’m never sure I trust what I remember.
Our memories seem to be colored and distorted by time, and even by the very process of recalling them. I think you should give yourself a little more slack.
What a lovely vignette, Charles! I smiled all the way through it… and I’ve never even been to a baseball stadium. 🙂
Thanks, Diane. Baseball was a happy part of my childhood. I’m glad I could share it with you.
It’s fascinating how we can recall certain great moments in our lives with such detail. I wish I could recall more of them. Thanks for rekindling my baseball card collecting days, and minor league park ventures.
Maybe you’ll work some of those memories into a novel one day. Or, is there any chance you’ll start a blog of your own?
Charles, this was a fabulous post.
I started to highlight one of your sentences to point out how much I enjoyed it, but realized I had to highlight the entire paragraph: “This is a chance to escape the black tar of the streets, and the red and beige apartment buildings, and step into another world. A throng of strangers exerts its gravitational force, drawing us into the largest structure I can imagine, where cigar smoke and mustard and popcorn mix to produce the incense of innocent childhood.”
This is real, this is visceral, this is such a powerful piece of writing. This is my new favorite post of yours. Well done, my friend.
Thank you, Melissa. And congratulations again on that award for your children’s book, Sometimes the Moon. It’s well deserved.
http://writingfordaisies.wordpress.com/2014/06/01/books-are-meant-to-be-shared/