Still Pitching Read Online Free PDF Page B

starts.
    â€œI’ll get the tickets,” I say to my pals.
    This assertiveness is part of my plan. Because, when I step up to the general admission window, I feel grown-up and important—so different from the self-conscious, insecure kid I am in school and at parties.
    Squinting through the narrow opening in the wire mesh screen, I’m face-to-face with the chubby, bald-headed ticket seller. He’s wearing a green see-through visor and puffing on a soggy cigar. Knowing that the guys are watching, I bark out, “Gimme your four best general admissions, upper deck between third and home. And not behind a post, ok?”
    The ticket guy blows stinky smoke in my face. Without looking up, he fans the vertical orange tickets like a deck of cards, before pulling four from the middle.
    â€œThat’ll be five bucks, Jack,” he barks. I casually toss a five spot under the wire mesh window.
    â€œStep up, pal. Who’s next?” he says, as he slaps a small white envelope on the counter, the tickets spilling out of the flap. For a buck and a quarter apiece, we get our chosen seats—upper deck, right between third and home, just like the ones my dad would always get us when he took us up to the Polo Grounds.
    Now I’ve got the guys just where I want them.
    â€œThese are fantastic. How’d you get ‘em?” Billy asks. As usual, he’s right on cue.
    â€œMan, I told you, I know how to talk to these ticket guys,” I say.
    My cool pose dissolves when we sprint up the third base ramp. As soon as we pass through the open portal, I stand frozen, rapt, while the other four heathens keep right on going. For a long moment I survey the field: the black scoreboard in right field; the emerald green, manicured grass that surrounds the smooth, tannishbrown infield; the powdered sugar foul lines and the chalky, whitewashed bases; the multicolored outfield billboards that advertise “Abe Stark: Hit This Sign and Win a Suit,” and “Fill ‘er up with Tidol, ‘Flying A.’”
    The organ strains emanating from beneath the press box interrupt my reverie. For a moment I’ve forgotten where I am. The scene reminds me of the feeling that overcomes me when my parents take me to St. Patrick’s Cathedral for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.
    As Ebbets fills up , we hear the lazy hum and buzz of the pregame crowd, smell the pungent odor of stale Schaeffer’s beer, munch on a brown bag of Planter’s salted peanuts, and gape at the guys in white aprons and chef hats as they pluck Harry M. Stevens’ hot dogs from the huge bubbling vat.
    At eleven o’clock we scramble down to the first base field boxes to watch the Dodgers play “pepper” and prepare for pregame batting and infield practice. From any section of the stands you can hear that solid, reverberating “thwack” as wood connects with horsehide. The echo resounds throughout the caverns of the slowly filling ballpark, while outside on Bedford Avenue neighborhood kids with old leather mitts camp under the scoreboard, waiting to pounce on the batting practice “dingers” that will clear the wall.
    For the entire three hours, Billy, Heshy, Kenny, Ira and I keep up a steady stream of chatter: quoting stats, playing baseball initials, kibitzing with neighboring fans about the new pennant race, and reliving “classic” Dodger home games from the past. Heshy tells us about the time Jackie Robinson stole home in the ninth inning to beat the St. Louis Cards. Kenny and Ira brag about the Duke hitting three homers onto Bedford Avenue against the Boston Braves. Billy replays the moment when Furillo threw the Pirates’ Mel Queen out at first base on a line drive to right field. Most of those stories are apocryphal. I know that none of them have actually attended any of those games. Yet, they’re replaying these moments as if they are their own memories.
    A part of me feels it