Take Me Out to the Ball Game

Sometimes when curled up with a box of Crackerjacks in front of the TV watching my Mets, memories come flooding back.

I'll never forget my excitement as my father and I got off the train at a stop that was unfamiliar to me. Then a sign—Ebbets Field.

Dad’s happy voice saying, “We’re almost there Brenda. Your first ballgame. And what a special night.”

I knew it was special because Mom had been upset for some reason, trying to get Dad to leave me home, but he’d refused, saying, “Ida, we’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you want me to go, Mommy? You know I love the Dodgers and read about their games in the newspaper and sometimes even listen to their games with Dad on the radio.”

They stared at each other then, and Mom shook her head and said, "Oh. It’s just I’ll be lonely with only you baby brother for company.”

“Mommy, you have that new magazine Daddy gave you with all the recipes and stories. And you know how much you like it.”

“Okay, just go or you’ll be late,” she said, giving me a big hug.

I forgot that conversation in my excitement at seeing the stadium, so big, and so many places to sit. Daddy brought me to our seats, which weren’t close to the bottom, which he said were too close to the field and balls sometimes hit someone there.

I saw lots of empty seats closer and said, "But Dad, you could just catch the ball. You're good at baseball. You were on your High School team. Mom showed me the pictures in your Yearbook." 

Dad didn't answer right away. In fact, I didn't learn until years later that he had to get a job as soon as he graduated because his father, who I'd never met, had died, leaving the family in debt. 

Then I was distracted hearing a man with a big box hanging down from around his neck shouting, "Sodas, Crackerjacks, peanuts." Daddy called him over and asked for our favorite, Crackerjacks. He handed one of the boxes to me after opening it. I was so absorbed in the Crackerjacks that Dad nudged me, saying, "Brenda, look down at the field."

I did and watched men in uniform running out onto the field. And then I heard a lot of booing.

The man next to me was one of the people booing. I looked at him, not understanding, and tugged on his sleeve. He looked down at me and asked what I wanted. 

“What’s wrong, why are you booing?”

“See the man who just came out. It’s Jackie Robinson, that Black man.”

“What bad thing did he do," I asked, not understanding.

“He’s black,” he said.

Persisting, I asked again, “I see that, but what did he do that was bad?”

He shook his head, looked over toward my father who was talking to the man next to him, and yelled, “Is this kid yours?”

Dad looked over and surprised, and asked, “Is she bothering you?”

The man looked at Dad and asked, "Didn’t you tell her about Robinson?”

Dad looking totally bewildered said, “Yeah, I told her he was a Rookie and we looked at his stats, why?”

“For God’s sake man, he’s Black,” he shouted.

Then I, not understanding the man’s point, said, “Oh you mean his skin?”

“Of course,” he said, smiling as if he was happy that I noticed.

“My mom’s skin gets dark by summer’s end. She oils her skin, so the sun makes it dark," I explained, not understanding what his problem was.

He shook his head, collected his things and walked away.

I asked Dad what that was about, and he said, “Don’t think about it now. The game has started, and we have our scorecards to fill out.”

I loved doing that, something Dad and I did when there was a weekend game on the radio. Well, the game wasn’t exciting until the seventh inning, when Robinson hit a fly ball putting the Dodgers ahead. I did notice that the stadium drew silent, as the game went on.

When we got on the train to go home, we found seats away from everyone. Dad, looking very serious, said, “You have to understand, Brenda, that many people don’t like people who are different, who look different, who don’t speak English, who believe in different Gods.”

“You mean they would not like Grandma because she talks funny? Is that why she yells at us if we use one of her words?”

“Yes. She wants you to sound like you belong.”

"I wanted to ask about belonging but decided not to. I didn't stop thinking about it, however. But when we got home, I hugged him and went to bed to think about it some more.

That was my introduction to prejudice. I kept learning about it every chance I got—and Dad and I kept listening to, then watching the Dodgers together every chance we got.

To our mutual dismay, my three younger brothers became Yankee fans, not surprising since we’d moved to the Bronx. But Dad and I remained steadfast Dodger fans.

And then, when I was twenty-two, a Disaster. The Dodgers moved west. Dad was heartbroken and stopped watching baseball. He’d been betrayed.

I loved baseball and decided to take a look at the new team--I knew I'd never support the Yankees and the Giants had also moved west. Well, the Mets were a bit of a joke that first year. Dad, who refused to take a look, but did follow baseball in the newspapers, would ask me every time I'd visit, "Do you still watch those idiots?"

"Yes, Dad. They're good for a laugh, but just you wait."

Dad sighed and said, "Brenda, you know I love you, but wait for what?" 

"Dad, they're going to be good. You just have to ignore Marvelous Marv Throneberry, and such things as his forgetting to touch first base on what would have been a triple," I said, chuckling. Then I added, "Dad they're an expansion team, just getting leftover, old players, players other teams want to get rid of." 

Dad clearly was having none of that excuse. He remained adamant about ignoring baseball until the day he discovered that I was participating in Civil Rights marches. He asked what had inspired that. He explained that he knew it was more than time for a change, but said he wanted to understand why I'd become so involved.

I told him that he was why, and when he looked at me, clearly puzzled, I said, "Dad you and Baseball." Then asked him "Do you remember that first game--the Jackie Robinson game, what happened there, the man who booed along with so many others. You were talking to someone, so I asked him why he booed.

'"Oh my lord. That stuck with you all these years?"

"Absolutely, Dad. I never forgot how mean it sounded. Skin color? I started finding everything I could about it, about prejudice." 

Dad, who didn't have a racist bone in his body, took a deep breath, hugged me, and said, "Maybe I'll give the Mets a try. Maybe I've been prejudiced against them." 

And so the bond between us deepened. We went together to Shea stadium a few times, and Dad went with me to a few marches.

Today, retired, it doesn't take much for me to reach for the phone when the Mets do something to get me excited, but I don't make the call. Dad passed away soon after the Mets won their first world series, a week I'd taken off from work to watch them win with him by my side, both of us eating Crackerjacks.