Teach
12-29-2013, 10:48 AM
Why is this man starring at me? Is it my clothes? My Boston accent?
The five of us had hopped into my friend’s car. We were bound for the “Big Apple.” More specifically, the Polo Grounds. “Coogan’s Bluff.”
One of my Boston buddies had been a big Brooklyn Dodgers fan. He was a transplanted New Yorker, who, despite having lived in Beantown for over ten years, still “bled” Dodger Blue. My Flatbush friend had persuaded the rest of us to join him on his sojourn to Gotham. That afternoon, we were going to see the transplanted Brooklyn - now the LA Dodgers play the “vaunted” New York Mets. It was July 13, 1963. I was then 20-years old.
As I recall, we left Boston about 7:30 AM. We would eventually reach NYC about four hours later. When we arrived, we weren’t exactly sure where the Polo Grounds was located. I remember that one of my buddies went into a drugstore to ask directions. As I recall, the Polo Grounds was near W. 157th St. and the Harlem River Drive (not that far from Yankee Stadium).
Well, about twenty minutes later, we arrived at “Coogan’s Bluff.” We proceeded to park our car, and to then walk into the stadium to buy our tickets. I remember we had seats on the mezzanine level. We didn’t know our way around the park so we gave our tickets to an usher. As he was leading us to our seats, I gazed around the Polo Grounds. It looked like a large bathtub. It appeared better suited for chariot races than a baseball game. I half expected a man dressed as a Roman centurion to come out of the dugout and recreate a scene from the movie, “Ben Hur.”
As we were about to be seated, I looked out at the left-field line. I thought, “That’s were Bobby Thomson lined his homer into the leftfield seats to beat Ralph Branca and the Dodgers (I can still hear Russ Hodges call now: “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!”). I then looked out toward center field (it was nearly 500' to straightaway center). I kept thinking of Willie Mays’ over-the-shoulder catch of Vic Wertz’s blast in the 1954 World Series; he would whirl and double up the runner). So many memories. My first baseball cards (black & white) were the Giants’ “Whitey” Lockman and Bill Rigney.
Just then, the usher arrived at our seats. I remember that he had in his hand this big furry (chamois) cloth that he’d use to wipe off our seats. Anyway, this usher, who by now is “sweating bullets,” is cleaning off our seats like each one were a prized Lamborghini. After about a minute or two, he stops. Then, he just stands there. I look at my friend who’s seated next to me and, without saying a word, I gesture, “What’s with this guy?” Well, the usher continues to stand next to us. I’m beginning to feel a tad uncomfortable. Make that very uncomfortable. As I have the aisle seat, he’s practically on top of me. At that moment, I felt like saying, “Buddy, don’t you have other people to help?”
After about a minute (it felt like a half-hour), the usher finally leaves us and walks down some stairs to a lower level. Seconds later, he joins another usher. I’m watching as he and the other usher are talking. Then, our usher starts motioning back toward us. I’m thinking, “I showered this morning. I use deodorant. I brushed my teeth. I freely admit I do speak with a Boston accent (I know that sounds like a foreign language to some New Yorkers), but I ain’t on the FBI’s “ Ten Most Wanted List.” I say to one of my friends who’s also watching the usher, “What goes with this guy?
Is he having a bad day? Did we offend him?”
In hindsight, my last thought may have “hit the nail on the head.” I find out later that our usher was looking for a tip. Yes, a tip. In all the years I had gone to baseball games at Fenway Park I never once tipped an usher. I wasn’t cheap. It’s just that a tip wasn’t expected. But here, in New York, only 200 miles to the southwest, it was like we were in another country. No, make that Mars. I quickly learned that people in New York expect tips for just about everything. I would have that point driven home a few years later when I taught social studies in Manhasset, L.I., NY.
When it had dawned on me what the story was (we hadn’t tipped), I said to one of my friends, “Well, maybe next time.” My friend replied, “There ain’t gonna be a next time.” He continued, “They’re tearing this place down at the end of the season.” He added, “The Mets will be playing next year at Shea Stadium.” In later years, I would tip ushers at both Yankee Stadium and Shea Stadium. Yet on that day in mid July, I was ignorant of local customs. In fact, you could say I got a “crash course” in regional cultural differences.
In retrospect, I shall always remember that day: July 13, 1963. It was the day I was nearly “tipped over the edge” at Coogan’s Bluff. Oh, by the way, the Dodgers won the game, 11-2; the Mets had suffered their fourteenth straight loss.
The five of us had hopped into my friend’s car. We were bound for the “Big Apple.” More specifically, the Polo Grounds. “Coogan’s Bluff.”
One of my Boston buddies had been a big Brooklyn Dodgers fan. He was a transplanted New Yorker, who, despite having lived in Beantown for over ten years, still “bled” Dodger Blue. My Flatbush friend had persuaded the rest of us to join him on his sojourn to Gotham. That afternoon, we were going to see the transplanted Brooklyn - now the LA Dodgers play the “vaunted” New York Mets. It was July 13, 1963. I was then 20-years old.
As I recall, we left Boston about 7:30 AM. We would eventually reach NYC about four hours later. When we arrived, we weren’t exactly sure where the Polo Grounds was located. I remember that one of my buddies went into a drugstore to ask directions. As I recall, the Polo Grounds was near W. 157th St. and the Harlem River Drive (not that far from Yankee Stadium).
Well, about twenty minutes later, we arrived at “Coogan’s Bluff.” We proceeded to park our car, and to then walk into the stadium to buy our tickets. I remember we had seats on the mezzanine level. We didn’t know our way around the park so we gave our tickets to an usher. As he was leading us to our seats, I gazed around the Polo Grounds. It looked like a large bathtub. It appeared better suited for chariot races than a baseball game. I half expected a man dressed as a Roman centurion to come out of the dugout and recreate a scene from the movie, “Ben Hur.”
As we were about to be seated, I looked out at the left-field line. I thought, “That’s were Bobby Thomson lined his homer into the leftfield seats to beat Ralph Branca and the Dodgers (I can still hear Russ Hodges call now: “The Giants win the pennant! The Giants win the pennant!”). I then looked out toward center field (it was nearly 500' to straightaway center). I kept thinking of Willie Mays’ over-the-shoulder catch of Vic Wertz’s blast in the 1954 World Series; he would whirl and double up the runner). So many memories. My first baseball cards (black & white) were the Giants’ “Whitey” Lockman and Bill Rigney.
Just then, the usher arrived at our seats. I remember that he had in his hand this big furry (chamois) cloth that he’d use to wipe off our seats. Anyway, this usher, who by now is “sweating bullets,” is cleaning off our seats like each one were a prized Lamborghini. After about a minute or two, he stops. Then, he just stands there. I look at my friend who’s seated next to me and, without saying a word, I gesture, “What’s with this guy?” Well, the usher continues to stand next to us. I’m beginning to feel a tad uncomfortable. Make that very uncomfortable. As I have the aisle seat, he’s practically on top of me. At that moment, I felt like saying, “Buddy, don’t you have other people to help?”
After about a minute (it felt like a half-hour), the usher finally leaves us and walks down some stairs to a lower level. Seconds later, he joins another usher. I’m watching as he and the other usher are talking. Then, our usher starts motioning back toward us. I’m thinking, “I showered this morning. I use deodorant. I brushed my teeth. I freely admit I do speak with a Boston accent (I know that sounds like a foreign language to some New Yorkers), but I ain’t on the FBI’s “ Ten Most Wanted List.” I say to one of my friends who’s also watching the usher, “What goes with this guy?
Is he having a bad day? Did we offend him?”
In hindsight, my last thought may have “hit the nail on the head.” I find out later that our usher was looking for a tip. Yes, a tip. In all the years I had gone to baseball games at Fenway Park I never once tipped an usher. I wasn’t cheap. It’s just that a tip wasn’t expected. But here, in New York, only 200 miles to the southwest, it was like we were in another country. No, make that Mars. I quickly learned that people in New York expect tips for just about everything. I would have that point driven home a few years later when I taught social studies in Manhasset, L.I., NY.
When it had dawned on me what the story was (we hadn’t tipped), I said to one of my friends, “Well, maybe next time.” My friend replied, “There ain’t gonna be a next time.” He continued, “They’re tearing this place down at the end of the season.” He added, “The Mets will be playing next year at Shea Stadium.” In later years, I would tip ushers at both Yankee Stadium and Shea Stadium. Yet on that day in mid July, I was ignorant of local customs. In fact, you could say I got a “crash course” in regional cultural differences.
In retrospect, I shall always remember that day: July 13, 1963. It was the day I was nearly “tipped over the edge” at Coogan’s Bluff. Oh, by the way, the Dodgers won the game, 11-2; the Mets had suffered their fourteenth straight loss.