1965: A Game Changer
- JOE DI BARI
One Saturday, I pushed aside the covers along with cartoons, bike riding, and all the other distractions that can get a 10-year-old into trouble. I nearly jumped out of bed: I was going to the Yankee game.
No need for getting dressed as I slept in my clothes. It was only 6:30 AM, all ready for Uncle John to pick me up. Along with my cousin, Mike, we were going to see the Yanks take on the Minnesota Twins. Mike and I usually saved enough milk carton coupons to get free admission to the cheap bleacher seats. Today was different. I donned my baseball cap and put my glove under my arm and was in front of my house an hour before my uncle arrived.
My dad beckoned me back into the house. “Get back in here. Your uncle isn’t showing up until 10. Come help me with the prep, we’re painting the bathroom.”
“No, I’m OK,” I rarely refused him but my anxiety got the best of me. There was no way I was missing out on the opportunity to see my Yanks play the first-place Twins, a team loaded with All-Stars. Even if it meant I got the stick when I came home.
You have to understand. This was not just any ballgame. When Uncle John took us to the game, we’d get primo seats, right behind the Yankees’ dugout. John was a maître d’ at a fancy Manhattan restaurant. Once in a while, a player or manager would slip him some tickets as a thank you for getting a top-tier table. Once my dad had a conversation with Elston Howard, the great Yankee catcher, from seats John had mustered.
My hand pounded the pocket of my glove a thousand times before I saw the flash of chrome on Uncle John’s pride and joy. A gleaming, ruby red 1954 Chevy Bel Air rambled down the block. I tipped my cap and joined my cousin in the back seat. No one said a word. John fiddled with the radio dial to get the pregame analysis. This made the twenty-minute ride down Jerome Avenue an eternity. We parked in the lot and went to the will call window to pick up the golden tickets.
“This must be a mistake,” said John, his voice slightly irritated. He was the calmest adult I knew. It had to be something really bad. “C’mon, you cippolinis.” He always called us the Italian name for little onions. “I couldn’t get our regular seats.”
“Oh no!” Mike exclaimed. He thought he had lost his chance to get Mickey Mantle’s autograph.
An ominous cloud covered the bright morning sun. An old Ford thundered by us and backfired. “Was there some mistake?” I asked. Just like my dad, I really wanted to talk to Elston.
“No, no mistake, let’s just enjoy the game.” John took our hands as we walked three abreast into the stadium.
Mike and I memorized every crack in the concrete floor, ignoring the reverence of this baseball cathedral as we made our way to the seats right behind the visitor’s dugout. To the average baseball fan these would have been excellent box seats but to a 10-year-old boy it was a devastating disappointment. We were almost afraid to look up.
“Hey, keep your head up!” An errant throw by a player whizzed past Mike’s head. The great Tony Oliva, the Twins right fielder, had shouted in his unmistakable Cuban accent.
Mike picked up the ball and threw it back.
“You can keep the ball,” Tony said.
“No, that’s OK.” The resignation in Mike’s voice reminded me of the no-presents Christmas we’d endured a few years earlier. Tony threw the ball back again. Mike stood and returned the volley.
“You getting in on this?” Unbelievably, the Twins third baseman, Harmon Killebrew was asking me to join the three-on-a-catch. For ten minutes, the thunk of our well-oiled gloves and throw of our exchanges suddenly lifted all of our spirits. We had played catch with two of the best players in the league.
Eventually, the players were called to the clubhouse. The last toss landed in the webbing of my glove. I flipped the ball to Mike.
The game was terrible. The Yanks were an old team that wouldn’t win another pennant for eleven years. Harmon hit a homer in the fifth and gave me the thumbs up as he rounded third. This day got better by the moment. John had a beer and Mike and I wolfed down some hot dogs.
During the seventh inning stretch, Tony Oliva peeked his head around the corner of the dugout to see if we were still there. Most Yankee fans had left due to the one-sided competition. A few seconds later, Tony and Harmon appeared and tossed each of us a ball. The words “Always keep your head up” were inscribed above their autographs. I still carry the ball today whenever I need a special inspiration.
JOE DI BARI’s experience teaching biology in urban school settings and his Bronx upbringing have given him a city voice. His poems have been featured in Capital District Poets Magazine and others. His short stories were recently published by 518 Pub and BRAVA among others. He was nominated for the Pushcart Prize.
This story was previously published in Turning Points: Owl Light Literary (2021)