The Giants at the Polo Grounds

 When I was ten years old my father took me to see my first major league baseball game. Since he was a devout New York Giant fan, we traveled to the Polo Grounds in New York City to see the Giants play the Cincinnati Redlegs.

On that hot summer morning in 1944 we boarded a New York Central local at the Harmon Station for the hour and thirty-minute trip to the High Bridge Station in the Bronx. It was my first train-ride. We rode in a coach with wicker seats, windows that opened, and electric fans that circulated the cool air blowing off the waters of the Hudson River. I excitedly asked my father a hundred questions about the train, the river, and of all the extraordinary landscape scenes that were framed for me in the train’s large windows.

He patiently answered my questions, adding details to how bananas were once transported by the old wooden schooner I saw half-sunken along the river’s edge and how the New Jersey palisades were formed.

Upon arriving in the Bronx, we leisurely walked along a tree-lined street that was dotted with private homes and open fields. In the distance I could see the tall light towers of both the Polo Grounds and Yankee Stadium. My excitement and giddiness heightened as we strolled past Yankee Stadium and over the 149^th Street bridge, arriving at Coogan’s Bluff (the land where the Polo Grounds Stadium was built) well before noon.

At the ballpark’s main entrance gate my father handed our tickets to an attendant. He then steered me through the turnstile and inside. Although it was daylight, electric lights illuminated the stadium’s interior gray concrete corridors. I firmly griped his hand as we raced through the passageways in search of the section where our seats were located.

Once found, I slipped from my fathers grasp and ran up the ramp that led to daylight, the spacious grandstands, and the playing field below. As I waited for him to catch up, I stood motionless at the top of the ramp and gazed with amazement as I turned my head in every direction.

Watching batting and fielding practice was as exciting as the game itself. The stadium was immense. When I craned my neck over the vast sea of male spectators, a wave of white shirts, straw hats, and cigars seemed to prevail. As a small town boy I had never seen or been a part of so many thousands of people.

The elderly gentleman sitting next to me, however, preferred to chew his tobacco and throughout the game he spat the juices. Although the concrete floor between his legs was his target, most of his spits landed in syrupy brown globs on his shoes.

Before the game started a booming voice that emanated from the huge loudspeakers located atop the player’s dressing room in deep center field announced the team’s starting lineups. Next, prompted by that resounding voice, the sea of humanity rose to their feet in unison for the singing of the "Star Spangled Banner".

My father took great pleasure in recording the game score and detailing the performance statistic of each player. With his help I also learned to diligently record the progress of the game. On a cardboard scorecard I wrote small letters, lines, and symbols next to each player’s name when he got a hit, scored a run, or made an out. When there was a lot of action on the playing field, I had to write real fast and try not to miss any of the plays.

Vendors hawking everything from soda pop to bags of hot peanuts paraded up and down the aisles of the grandstands. Although magnificent plays were being made on the playing field, I was impressed with the athletic agility the vendors and their customers used to complete their transactions. The vendor would softly toss a bag of peanuts to his customer standing in the middle of a row of thirty seats, perhaps thirty to forty feet from the aisle where the vendor stood. The vendor’s payment was passed along the row by fellow fans.

I don’t remember seeing any errors made by either the vendors or the fans.

The Giant’s lost the game but I didn’t care. My favorite player, Mel Ott, hit a home run that day.

The ball was hit high into the right field grandstands. When it left Mel’s bat my heart raced with anticipation as it headed my way. As it began its decent I leaped to my feet and stretched my arms high into the sky, hoping that it would settle softly into the palms of my hands. Unfortunately, the other fans that were immediately around me also jumped to their feet with outstretched arms. As I quickly mounted my seat for a better chance at catching the ball I heard the loud smack of cowhide as it hit the flesh of somebody else’s lucky hands. In the commotion, popcorn, peanuts, soda pop, beer, along with my friends tobacco juice flew about.

From my seat in the right field grandstands I intensely watched Ott’s every fielding and batting mannerism. When he swung the bat, he first lifted his right leg almost waist high forcing a shift of his weight to his left leg. His body was then propelled forward as he shifted his weight back to his right leg while simultaneously rotating his shoulders, arms and bat into the pitched ball. Defensibly, he was an excellent outfielder. During the game he constantly pounded the pocket of his fielding mitt. Always anticipating that a ball would be batted in his direction he stood in a crouched opened stance, ready to run.

Between pitches he vigorously scraped the ground with his spiked shoes. This habit resulted in his creating a noticeable island of brown dirt amid the Polo Ground’s lush green grass.

When the game ended, we left the ballpark by strolling clear across the playing field.

What a thrill it was to walk on the ground where my heroes roamed. I raced up to home plate and swung at an imaginary ball. Afterwards, I kicked the first base bag as I ran to right field where, for a moment, I stood frozen on Mel Ott’s island. Finally, as we exited the center field gate, I stuffed precious blades of grass deep into the pockets of my pants.

For another decade my passion for baseball, and in particular, the New York Giants continued to burn. However, like the pages of my old baseball magazines and the brittle blades of grass found inside, that enthusiasm quickly faded. I terminated my loyalty to professional sports in the late 1950s when the New York Giants and the Brooklyn Dodgers moved west.

A high rise housing project now stands on Coogan’s Bluff where once parents and their children enjoyed wonderful major league Sunday afternoons together.