Days of Reckoning: Entry No. '51, Play Ball!

"Little Weasel" ca. July 1951

You see, my old man, "Big Monte", was a Giants fan. He grew up in Harlem in the 20's and 30's.

By the 50's he'd sit on worn-cushioned iron high stools in joints like the Crossroads Bar & Grill and proselytize for Willie Mays as the "Best Ever Ballplayer" to any Dodgers or Yankees fan that dared breathe or hint otherwise. Myself, not far flung from the family tree, was dubbed "Little Monte" or more often "Little Weasel" by red-nosed imbibers like Crazy Mike, Timmy the Mop, Big and Little Milkshakes, the McKenzie Brothers, the O'Connor Boys, the Refugee, and Frank Bastogne. This was because I likewise campaigned for the canonization of No. 24 while I perched on the steaming stoops of the South Bronx or pranced around the teeming schoolyards of my youth.

It took me a long stretch of time to figure out why nobody's opinion ever nudged over so much as a fraction of an iota after one of those thousands, millions maybe, of lengthy and impassioned arguments over who was the best ballplayer, no matter how abundant or overwhelming was your presentation; no matter how glaring were your selected truths. The fact was plainly that Baseball was your religion, your Team was your faith, your Ballyard was your church, and your Hero was your, well you know, your God. Be he Willie, Mickey, or the Duke.

Play Ball!

The Treasure

Below a cliff known as Coogan's Bluff, which is situated by a western bank of the Harlem, a diseased vein in a dying city, a treasure is buried. It is hidden there beneath tons of concrete and steel which rise up into a polluted sky. A monumental offering to its dwellers.

My memory permits me to bulldoze that beloved acreage on certain occasions so that I can rifle through some of the jewel-like presences of happenings long ago. I can see then, forinstance, the banners blowing across from left to right.

"Willie will have to really push them today, huh Dad?"

"Watch him," my Dad would say. "You watch that Say Hey Kid. He does it all."

And I knew he could, too. My Dad, he knew.

A rainbow of screaming Giants' fans converted a ballgame into a love affair. Our screams tore love out from deep in our insides, and we could feel them tickling our throats on the way out. Mom was never there, but maybe the paper bag beneath my wooden seat, the one with all those sandwiches in it, even made her a part of it all.

I was small then, but living in a world of friendly giants. After each game Dad would take me out onto the playing field. I can remember how I used to cross it to the centerfield exit bent in two. I walked that way so that I could run my fingertips over the grass. The grass where Willie ran. A magic carpet I never will cease to treasure.