Growing Up Shea

A Polo Grounds Prelude

2008-08-07T21:35:00.000-07:00

June 23, 1963. A Mets doubleheader versus the Philadelphia Phillies. My very first Major League Baseball game. Nothing of real significance happened on the field that long ago Sunday afternoon. Well, the hometown team did take two! But in the narrative of my life, attending that game allowed me for better or worse to seem always a bit older that I was and gave me a little story to share with others.
For those keyed in on New York Mets and National League history, a home game in 1963 meant a game played at the ancient and almost ready to be torn down, Polo Grounds. The Mets were destined to play in the brand new Shea Stadium in Flushing Meadows, Queens in 1964. But during construction of their new ballpark, the team had to play somewhere during the initial seasons of 1962 and 1963. That somewhere was the horseshoe shaped Polo Grounds in upper Manhattan and just across the river from Yankee Stadium.
Until 1957, the two New York NL teams played in Brooklyn and Manhattan. The Dodgers were ensconced in their tidy little Ebbets Field while the Giants toiled away in the cavernous Polo Grounds. By the time the two clubs had moved on to California and the creation of the Mets was announced, only the Polo Grounds remained. Thus, the new baseball darlings were forced to play in the former home of the Giants.
By going to that one doubleheader in 1963, I had made a link with New York’s baseball past that I had nothing to do with. When the beloved Dodgers and the Willie Mays led Giants left the city, I was all of two years old. When the Mets hit the field in 1962, I was a perfect seven years old. That was just enough to have developed some baseball knowledge and curiosity and become a fan of the new team. However, almost all of the adult New York population, had grown up on the two now departed clubs. Sure the Mets had some good attendance their first two years in the Polo Grounds, but their real popularity soared when they moved to the brand new Shea.
Sitting in the Polo Grounds, even for that one June 1963 day, allowed me to sniff in the smells, hear the sounds, set my eyes on the sights, and intermingle with the ghosts of the departed Giants and the other denizens of the old ball yard.. The weird shaped Polo Grounds left an incredible impression upon its paying spectators. Both the left and right field foul poles were well under 300 feet away. Yet, the field dramatically curved and dead center was an unreachable 480 or so feet out from home plate.
In today’s modern stadiums, where oversized clubhouses with every amenity known to man sit just behind the dugouts, the Polo Grounds’ player locker rooms were out in that deep center field area. One could imagine Mel Ott or a young Babe Ruth (yes the Yankees played ten years in the ballpark before their owner stuck it in the face of the Giants and built Yankee Stadium in the Bronx just across the Harlem River) trudging out to the far off clubhouse in the twilight after a long game.
Of course, sitting in the Polo Grounds allowed me to claim that I had visited a baseball palace that once was ruled by the likes of John McGraw and Christy Matthewson. It was the sight of the most famous home run ever, the 1951 playoff smash by Bobby Thomson that put a dagger in the hearts of Dodger fans everywhere. It is also where in the 1954 World Series, the incomparable Mays made his famous over the shoulder catch against the Cleveland Indians.
So there I was, all of eight years old, sitting with my neighbors at the worn down but once proud stadium. But not only was I attending the game, but I had one of the best seats in the house. My friend's dad worked for some bank and had taken possession of the bank’s season box seats. The box was right up against the field, just a few feet north of first base. My friend and myself sat in the front row while his parents were right behind us.
Going to a game was a big deal in those days. Lunches were to be prepared, proper baseball attire was to be worn (i.e. a baseball jacket or insignia shirt and a Mets cap), and for younger folk - a baseball glove. In the 1960’s, a doubleheader on a Sunday or a holiday was to be expected. Games moved a bit faster in those days but still two two and a half hour games and a twenty or so minute break between them meant that fans could stay over five hours at the ballpark.
So all was going smoothly. I had found that hanging out at a baseball game was just a great way to enjoy a sunny day. You could scream and go hoarse over your favorite players, you could eat a lot of food that you might not otherwise chow down on a normal afternoon, you could follow all the happenings in baseball by glancing over at the ever changing out of town scoreboard, and as I would learn a little later in life, you could forget about your problems for a few hours and immerse yourself in the action taking place right before your own very eyes.
That feeling of contentment might be one of the draws that brings so many back game after game to ballparks all across our nation. However, my little bubble of happiness was challenged, when sometime during one of the two games, I got just a bit careless, and let my fielder’s glove slip off my hand and fall onto the playing field. As soon as the glove slipped off, I quickly noticed that with the bar in front of me and the slight height of the field level seats, I could not reach down by myself and retrieve it.
Perhaps five or so minutes went by as panic began to strike me. I had heard an announcement that anyone throwing something onto the field would be ejected from the game. Was my glove included in that announcement? What if a pop fly drifted into the foul territory just behind first base and the player tripped over my glove? Would I be blamed? Would I be escorted out of the Polo Grounds?
Finally, I got up the courage to tell my friend that my glove was on the field. He quickly told his dad who calmly waited until the inning ended. He then told an usher who opened up a small gate, hopped onto the field, scooped the glove up and gave it back to me. The usher was all smiles sensing that an innocent kid had parted with his prize possession.
Of course looking back upon the incident, my friend’s dad and the usher saw everything in the proper perspective. But eight year old boys at their first big league game have not developed such a wide view on things. That glove, laying in the dust of the Polo Grounds, was a violation of the rules and one that would cause a troubling feeling for any kid.
What a great experience that day was in the Polo Grounds. I got to be a part of baseball history by sitting in a cathedral that had witnessed so much. I got to watch two games for the price of one. And my own baseball glove and indeed my own heart had touched the essence of a game.

Me And My RC

2008-07-21T11:49:00.000-07:00

They say we are in a consumer society. In particular, it is vitally important for merchandisers to hook young people to become lifelong purchasers of their products. More money is probably spent on marketing than on any other aspect of our culture. TV commercials, internet banners, sponsorship of events, the right design of the actual product, and the correct placement in a store all work together to inundate the young mind with the coolness and necessity of the product in question. Never mind that the item might not be something that a preteen or adolescent might be able to use for five to ten years down the road; the key is to trigger a positive psychological reaction when that time comes.
Let us not be so carried away with the marriage of young people with consumerism in today’s high paced world. The concept has been around for quite awhile. For young families in the 1960’s, the only way to “see the USA” was in a Chevy. Kelloggs Corn Flakes were prominently displayed around the Clampett family in the closing credits of the decade’s most popular show - The Beverly Hillbillies. Men knew that Schaffer was a beer for the athletic types as the brewery sponsored its popular “Circle of Sports.”
For a young Mets fan, there were certain products that became associated with the popular team. Most were aimed squarely at dads who had the money to purchase the advertised commodity. Some were directed towards all viewers and meant that young whippersnappers like myself could take our allowance and make our own business decisions.
I have now lived in the Los Angeles media market for almost thirty-five years. Before the advent of cable TV, very few Dodgers games were on the home screen. Walter O’Malley did not want to give folks a view of his team’s games away for free. Contests against the Giants were almost always televised as were some selected home games. But all in all, to enjoy Dodger baseball without setting foot in Dodger Stadium, one had to sit back and listen to the nuanced tones of Vin Scully on the old fashioned radio.
Things were not the same in New York. Almost all the Mets games were televised on WOR-Channel 9. The hated Yankees were on Channel 11. During the baseball season, there was almost never a day in New York, where a baseball game was not on in someone’s home. The Mets, in particular, proved that putting one’s games on TV did not have an adverse effect upon attendance. In fact, getting fans to watch on a daily basis seemed to feed a hunger for more intimacy with the club. As the Mets developed as a team, culminating with the “miracle” championship year of 1969, both television ratings and in-stadium attendance skyrocketed.
The Mets number one commercial sponsor was Rheingold Beer. Rheingold was a regional beer that had become famous in New York for its Miss Rheingold contests. As a well below drinking age Met fan, I should not have cared one hoot about what beer company sponsored the team. I did not and could not go out and buy the beer but watching the Rheingold commercials which were shown on every telecast and seeing their logo prominently displayed on the huge Shea scoreboard, made me a big fan.
Almost any casual Mets observer (or just about anyone living in New York in the sixties that had a TV) would be familiar with the Rheingold jingle, “My beer is Rheingold the dry beer. Think of Rheingold whenever you buy beer...”. Now two things come to mind when I look back at Rheingold. What the hell is a dry beer? And why would any Jewish kid living just two decades after World War Two, be partisan for anything that smacks of the Rhine land?
But being a true fan of a baseball team, one comes to accept all the trappings that surround that team. Thus, in some weird way, we cheered on the superrich Whitney/Payson family that owned the club, saw WOR as the greatest channel God has deemed upon man, loved our brand new (but lousily placed) stadium, and wanted everyone who drank beer to pour out a Rheingold.
My own dad was not much of a baseball fan and not much of a drinker. However, when he did buy some brew, he was probably a bit ahead of his time. Somewhere he had discovered a foreign import that very few New Yorkers knew about - Heineken. I would try to cover up this unmanly attempt to buy a beer by telling my friends that dad drank Rheingold. Of course, time has shown that dad was right as the original Rheingold folded in the 1970’s and Heineken is now the beer of choice for so many.
In lying about my dad’s drinking choices, I was also trying to fight for the integrity of my beloved Mets. Obviously, only the best beer would advertise with the “Amazins”. This led to bitter arguments with Yankee followers who had their own beer to support - Ballantine. “Baseball and Ballantine” claimed Mel Allen, the voice of the Yanks. Well you know where most of us Mets fans wished him to stick a bottle of that cheap beer....
A second product that appealed to the younger crowd, was the Mets’ soft drink sponsor - RC Cola. In the long run of things, Coke and Pepsi pretty much have the cola area sewn up. But I would almost bet that for awhile there in the late sixties and early seventies, that RC gave the two behemoths a good run for their money in the New York metro area.
RC came in this beautiful sky blue cans with the letters RC inside a white space that from just a bit away looked like a baseball. Not only was RC a key advertiser but it was the only cola served at Shea during those heady years.
Today, we take it for granted that any drink purchased at a fast food restaurant, will come with a perfectly sized plastic lid that tops the cup and allows a straw to seamlessly slide right down the middle of the lid and allow the customer to imbibe the sugary delight.
But back in 1968 and 1969, that plastic lid cover had not yet been invented. So when we purchased our RCs at Shea, the vending company (the venerable Harry M. Stevens) had concocted a plastic “Saran” type wrap that magically slipped on the top of the cup. You could not really use a straw, so one would lift the front edge of the plastic wrap, take a long sip, and then place the wrap back over the cup. Only being able to afford one soda at a game, that wrap kept out any swirling dirt or spit coming unintentionally from a friend or someone sitting nearby. Thus a soda could last three or four innings if one was so inclined.
Rheingold and RC. I wonder if I have ever downed more than three or four of the Mets’ favorite beer in my entire life. I do know that I probably drank up hundreds of RC in cans, bottles, and cups but I do not drink much soda these days and can’t remember the last time I had that sweet cola. Yet the placement of those two products front and center on television and at Shea Stadium’s menus, have had a profound effect upon me. I know the names of many of the more prominent and perhaps lesser known players of that bygone era, but as my memory clicks in, I can almost envision Rheingold batting fourth after Cleon Jones, and RC catching a Tom Seaver slider.

Grote and Swoboda

2008-06-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

It was a warm and bright mid June early evening at the Glen Oaks Little League Field when what could have been a magical moment took place. Could have been if not for one of the two main characters in our story. But let me pause to give a little background as we build towards the suspenseful evening.
I grew up in Glen Oaks. Glen Oaks sits in the most eastern part of New York City. Hard against New Hyde Park and Nassau County, it is the last outpost in Queens. When snowstorms blew our way, we were the last people in the city to get our streets plowed. New York is famous for its subways, but the nearest train was a thirty minute bus ride away in Kew Gardens. In the mid-sixties, Mayor Lindsay started a parks program that would bring musical celebrities and some theater to community areas. The only time we were fortunate to have this experience, the Mayor sent us Shirley Ellis. Ellis, to music aficionados, is famous for quirky songs such as “The Name Game”. You know, the one that rhymes names with banana, etc. In fact, notice was so short about Ms. Ellis’ performance, that no more than fifty folks showed up.
Anyway, the centerpiece of the Glen Oaks community was and still is the “Oval”. The Oval hosted the Glen Oaks Little League, in addition to basketball courts and lots of green space. In the early days of the Little League, Glen Oaks had some competitive teams, and was in the 1964 playoffs the year that Staten Island represented the East and won the whole thing.
Glen Oaks was also used as affordable apartment living for New York area athletes. The NHL’s New York Rangers put Hall of Famer, Bernie “Boom-Boom” Geoffrian just around the corner form my apartment. The Mets had players in the area, including their long time catcher, Jerry Grote. Grote was an incredible defensive specialist who also hit just well enough to be a regular with the club for over a decade. He backstopped the World Champion Miracle Mets in 1969. A Texan, through and through, Grote was appreciated by fans but was never afforded the love and attention shown towards superstars like Tom Seaver, Cleon Jones and Tug McGraw.
So it was that our June evening (in 1968 or 1969) that the aforementioned Grote decided to come and watch a few innings of a Little League game at the Oval. From my own recollections, I do not remember if he had been in the habit to come to watch any of the games. But, there he was on that evening, live and in person. And beside him was one of those Mets that fans particularly swooned over, outfielder, Ron Swoboda.
Swoboda was just the perfect combination that made the Mets such lovable winners and losers in those long ago sixties. Swoboda was big, strong, and handsome and easily was a favorite among female followers of the club. In his rookie year, Swoboda, had rocked nineteen homers. The Mets publicity department kept cranking out notes stating how Swoboda hit more homers in his first year than players like Mickey Mantle and Hank Aaron. Much was then expected from the young slugger, but alas his talent never came to full fruition. He never again hit more than sixteen home runs in a season, never drove in more than sixty, and his career average was .242.
But in an era when twenty homers was considered quite decent, there was always the chance of “Rocky” hitting one out in a crucial situation. Just as his hitting had up and down moments, Swoboda’s fielding was also quite questionable. Almost any fly hit out to him became an adventure. Yet just as the Mets hit pay dirt in 1969, Swoboda made an incredible diving catch during the World Series against the Baltimore Orioles. Full of youth, promise, and game situations that were out of his control, Swobada was a perfect match for the Mets and their huge following.
Grote might have meant for his friend and himself to take in a few innings watching the local kids before going out to dinner. They did not sit in the small bleachers behind home plate but leaned up against the fence a bit down the left field line. My house was just across the street from the Oval, and there wasn’t a night that went by that I did not check out some of the Little League action. I was sitting with a few friends in the bleachers when someone noticed the two gentlemen watching the game. One friend walked over and then ran back breathlessly to tell us that two Mets were at the Oval.
Of course, the action on the Little League diamond became of little consequence, as boys and girls began to make their way over to the players. At first most of us kept a respectful distance, but being young and eager, the distance became narrower and narrower. As all of this was going on a thought clicked in my mind. I would run home, grab a pen and my Mets yearbook, and get Grote and Swoboda’s autographs.
In the three or so minutes that I was gone, the crowd around the two men must have swelled to at least three dozen. Kids were calling out Swoboda’s name and wanting to touch the popular player. Grote should have known that his presence (let alone Swoboda’s) would cause some commotion. But for whatever reason, Grote was not happy about the attention being heaped on his guest. He asked in a non demanding voice if we could move away so they could watch the game. Maybe most of the crowd did not hear this request, because all of us got even closer to them.
After a few more minutes, Grote whispered something to Swoboda, and they began to leave the Oval and head back towards Grote’s apartment which probably was a few blocks away. As they walked we ran. As they moved toward their destination we left the Oval. Ron Swoboda was about as big a star as any of us had ever encountered in Glen Oaks. It would not be that easy to shake us off.
Whether it was the rudeness of young people calling out for Swoboda’s autograph, a bad day for Grote, or a bit of jealousy, Grote abruptly turned around and faced all of us. He looked deeply into the eyes of a mob of kids ranging from ages five and six up through high school age. He looked, he took a few breaths and then in his Texas accent he told us (once again memory does not allow me to give a direct quote) to either go F... Off! or Go To Hell!. To this day, this is the memory I will always have of the superb Mets catcher. In the heart of Queens, it was a rare day to hear or see a Texan. It was an even rarer day to hear one of your heroes use such vitriol against young people. For those in that crowd, we would always root for any Met, but we would always hold a cautionary thought about one of our heroes.
So off Grote went. The strange thing is that Swoboda did not follow him. Indeed, it could not have been more than twenty or so seconds before he began to give out autographs. And here memory is a constant and reliable friend. For it was I, with my Mets yearbook, who somehow got to the front of that line and obtained Mr. Swoboda’s John Hancock.

Ladies' Day

2008-05-17T18:00:00.000-07:00

At the time it seemed liked such a great deal. A date with one’s girlfriend to one’s favorite pastime. And to save money along the way! Oh how I wished the years would quckly go by so I too could bring a young woman into that new jewel of baseball that had just opened up in Flushing. Sometimes what we wish for and get could end up being a disaster. Luckily for me, the years went slowy by, my childhood seemed to last forever, and I never was able to have a date take advantage of that time honored baseball tradition known as “Ladies’ Day”..
With some 55,000 seats, Shea Stadium is one of the largest ballparks in America. Yet, one has to wonder what exactly the original builders were thinking when they parceled out the seating arrangement of the new ballpark.. A large portion of those seats were in the top third of the stadium and were created in an area not coducive to the watching of a major league baseball game. And it is in those seats that our story of Ladies’ Day sits.
This is an important thing to ponder when one reflects back upon what once was a very popular promotion around baseball. The concept, as it played out at Shea, was that all women could be admitted to the ballpark for the princely sum of fifty cents. Imagine being able to be a grown adult woman and getting into a game for just two quarters. On the surface, this was a real bargain. But as one looks back to the Mets’ first decade, it would be safe to assume that this bargain was not all it was cooked up to be.
Lets start with that upper deck. All Ladies’ Day patrons had to locate up there; up there near Mount Olympus. On the opposite coast, a similar stadium had just been built for the LA Dodgers. In many aspects, Dodger Stadium was a blueprint for Shea. It has the wide openness and uninterrupted flow of seats. Both parks had large swaths of field level boxes, a narrower but close to the field loge section, the mandatory press level, and then two more levels above. However, here is where the Shea architects literally got their heads in the clouds. At Dodger Stadium, the upper reserved section is large but just above the press level. A fifth and smaller section is the general admission level. These precariously mile high seats do not stretch around the entire ballpark but sandwich themselves between the bases, giving those with little money a distant but behind home plate view. To get to the then mandatory 55,000 capacity, the Dodgers built two outfield pavilion bleacher sections that are out beyond the fences but close to the outfielders who actually perform for the fans.
If you could cut off Shea’s two top decks, and add some more bleachers in right centerfield, you would have a pretty close facsimile to the LA stadium. But the original Shea was not interested with the outfield seats, so building high was the only way to reach full seating capabilities. What is Dodger Stadium’s upper reserve, is the Mets’ mezzanine. This section is a bit larger than the lower loge seats but not nearly enough seating was included. Therefore, Shea was topped off with a humongous upper deck that stretched from one foul pole to the other. For a $1.30, a fan could sit up there, but anyone sitting in the top fifteen or so rows or finding himself beyond the infield area might as well have stayed home to get a better view of the action. Big sluggers like Dave Kingman and Willie Stargell were reduced to midgets to most of the upper deck patrons.
So back we go to our lady guests. What type of husband or boyfriend would drag their female partner to that foreboding upper deck? A sick one!. Imagine parking way out in the Shea parking lot, and walking around the large stadium to the entrance, and then getting to the proper escalator. After riding up to the heavens, the couple might stop to pick up some snacks and drinks. Then they would go into the seating area laden down with their goodies and hike up a steep number of steps, find the proper row, squeeze between the folks already in their seats, before getting to their destination. And, what if, our lady friend needs restroom facilities once or twice more during the game. Well, she will find the bathroom on the upper deck concourse, but once again she asks for pardon as she disturbs those in her row, climbs down the steep incline, etc., etc.
Now picture this couple somewhere between third base and the foul pole. Perhaps five or six rows from the very top. Unless our lady friend is a 100% sold out Mets’ fan, it would not be hard to imagine her mind wandering a bit as the actors on the field look more like mice than heroic ballplayers. Her boyfriend paid a dollar-thirty for his seat and the bargain fifty cents for hers. Is that all she is worth to him? Just below, in the blue mezzanine, other couples are snuggling together and enjoying a much closer view of the game for a $2.50 per pop price. What type of guy would subject his girlfriend to all this physical labor just to save a few cents on a crummy ticket?
Of course, if you add the constant noise from the LaGuardia air traffic just above, the lack of concession variety in the upper echelons, and the midweek lousy opposing team; well I think we all get the point. This Ladies’ Day just might have served the opposite purpose to permanently make some of the guests disenchanted with Shea and the Mets and never want to return.
The facts above are real and certain. Fifty cents did only gain women admittance to the top deck. Yet, there must have been a good number of people who enjoyed getting a discount no matter the hardships that came for the price. It might be hard to comprehend now, but attendance figures were almost as closely watched as was the pennant race. Somewhere along the sixth or seventh inning, the ticket counters would relay the attendance to the TV booth and Ralph Kiner, Lindsey Nelson, or Bob Murphy on WOR-9 would announce “...tonight’s attendance was eighteen thousand three hundred and forty-two with four hundred and twelve Ladies’ Day tickets....”
The world of sports marketing has turned one hundred eighty degrees since those 1960’s days. Most newer stadiums and indoor arenas have much more lower level premium seating. Prices are so high that if a discounted promotion like a buy one get one free offer needs to be made to fill in the crowd on those lazy Tuesday or Wednesday nights, the home team will still make a killing on the patrons. A tip of the proverbial hat must be made to those long time female fans who endured the humility of a fifty cent night out at Shea and who have remained loyal fans throughout their life. But Ladies’ Day could also be a small reason (among many) that from the sixties on, divorce rates have steadily climbed upwards.

Ear Bush

2008-05-05T22:30:00.000-07:00

I look in the mirror and daily I shake my head in growing disgust. Invariably, I find myself steering up at my two ears. It does not matter much which one I look at first. Both the left and the right have a cluster of tough to remove hair on the outside upper ridges. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my handy magnifying mirror and begin to look deep within the ear canals. Actually, I do not have to go too far to see strands of hair that pop up from almost nowhere.
Using a shaver, I can cut down the ridge hair. The problem lies within the hard to maneuver walls of the ears’ interiors. I have tried all manners of scissors to poke, pry, and cut away at these mismanaged hair strands. It is when I begin to get frustrated at my inability to root the hairs out completely, that I realize that a curse from my childhood has come upon me.
Even when making fun of the older gentleman that my friends and myself dubbed, “Ear Bush”, I had a creeping feeling that someday the same fate would befall me - an ear full of hair. This guilt at being disrespectful to the poor soul, keeps me occupied (or should I say obsessed) with getting as much hair as possible out of the ears so that I never become an Ear Bush.
Living on the northeastern flank of Queens, there was no direct train service to Shea (let alone anywhere else). A bus could be picked up at 260th Street (one that only came about every forty-five minutes or so) or we could walk down a few blocks to the shopping area on Union Turnpike where a more frequent bus could be boarded.
The problem was compounded in that the Turnpike bus did not go directly to Shea. A free transfer was procured so that the trip could continue in a northerly fashion up Main Street. Once we arrived in Flushing the big decision had to be made - should we pay an extra fare and take the #7 IRT one stop to Shea or walk over the Roosevelt Avenue Bridge and pocket the change to buy more stuff at the game.
Being in a group of thirteen and fourteen year olds, the decision was not hard. We had already wasted about an hour on the busses and knew that another twenty minutes or so on the walk would be worth it. Going to a dozen or so summer games with friends, we all knew the route, the time it would take, and so everything was planned down to the last detail. Or almost the last detail.
Eventually, we found that there was a small park near the bus stop that would save us about five to seven minutes if we cut through it. Usually there was anywhere from four to seven of us, Met hats and those awfully cheap plastic helmets on our heads, making our way through the park. We really were innocent kids and thankfully in those perhaps safer days, we hardly ever ran across any toughies or gang kids that might make us rethink our path towards Shea.
Knowing that we were going to eat tons of junk at the ballpark (dogs, nuts, RC colas) it was a bit ironic that a hot dog cart and an odd looking vendor would catch our fancy. But he did and he has become a part of my life ever since. Ear Bush would call out to us as we passed his cart, “Hot dogs, hot dogs. Sodas, too!” God only knows how much a young New Yorker can stomach when it comes to the city’s favorite food. Obviously, He knew that for our group we could never get enough.
The first time passing by Ear Bush, we heard him but continued on. However, on our way back from the ball game, two or three of us decided to show some compassion for the man who stood so forlornly in the park, and bought a few dogs and sodas. Compared to what we were charged in the stadium, the food came at a great price. As Ear Bush put the mustard and slaw on the dogs, I for one took a close look at him and saw that this small, older man had a patch of hair in his ear that was growing at a healthy pace.
On the way home, we talked about our new vendor friend and that is when we named him Ear Bush. About ten days later, we went out for another game. As much as we anticipated the baseball and the day at Shea, we really were looking forward to meeting Ear Bush. Almost all of us bought something on the way to and the way back from the ballpark. This time we stayed long enough to tell the hapless hot dog vendor that we would call him Ear Bush. One or two of us became downright rude by asking how hair could grow inside one’s ear.
Looking back, it is that guilt that has plagued me. Sure, we became regular customers, and put a few cents in his pocket. But for the two years that we came to that Flushing park and interacted with Ear Bush, we acted like adolescent jerks. We never asked him his real name or much about who he was. All we did was buy some dogs and ridicule a man who was trying the best he could to make a living in a city where everything costs so much.
I miss those days of going with my buddies out to Shea. The bus, the walk, the game were all a part of the experience. But for the time that Ear Bush worked the park, I look back with disgust at myself for being such an uncaring person. So when I now have reached the same age that that long forgotten man had reached back in the late 1960’s, I look at that mirror and can imagine him looking back and mocking me as the beginnings of my own ear bush begin to take root.