Bum Rush

These people keep saying everything’s fine and dandy, but I’m not sure who they are sometimes.

It’s a bit odd, if you ask me. One minute I know who everyone is like I’ve done my whole life, and the next it’s like a fog roaring in from over the Hudson and I’m not sure of anything or anyone. These are the moments that confuse me the most—the ones where I can see the people, but I can’t really *see* them, you know?

I don’t know if that makes sense. If it don’t, that’s fine by me, their loss.

I think that one day I’ll tell them the story of when me and a couple ‘a kids from down the block would go down to the Stadium and bum rush the turnstiles. The guards didn’t know what hit ’em.

Aw jeez, I remember my favorite bum’s rush. Fourth ‘a July, 1953. The Athletics came over from Philly and the lines to the Stadium were down the block and up and around—even to the subway and back again.

The only problem is, me and my buddies got no way to get in. Plus, it’s a doubleheader, so due to the family barbecues the first half just wasn’t gonna happen. But the second half, boy oh boy, that was gonna be somethin’.

So me and Sid Metzinger get together and get every guy we can on the block together for the second half. Back in the day, parents had no problem letting their kids loose in the South Bronx, so long as you left in a riotous mob and came back collectively in one piece.

In total, we get eight guys—Sid, Richie, Weinberg, Allen, Doozie Robinson, Mitch, and Bobby, and yours truly.

Games back then started at 1:00 sharp, so a doubleheader had a break at about 4:30. We hop over the turnstiles and take the BMT two stops and boom, we’re there, the House that Ruth built.

I’ve been to a million Yankees games at the old park, but it never wore on me. You should really go sometime when you get the time .

Anyhow, we’re all lining up outside of the home plate entrance, getting ready to go, ‘cept for the fact that Doozie has a case of the chickenshits. He says he don’t wanna get caught, so he leaves. To the day he died, we all gave him crap for it.

So the seven of us line up like we’re track runners waiting for the starting gun. As the security guy turns away, we see our cue. Richie cups his hands and yells as loud as his lungs can allow:


We bolt as fast as we can and the security guard acts like he’s seen a ghost or somethin’ like that. Anyway, i jump clear through the turnstiles as fast as I can and turn around. Nobody got caught! Hot dog!

We all rush past the security guards and head towards the entrance to the home plate seats. Somehow, there’re seven of ’em empty. By God, we felt like kings when we sat down. Like kings, I tell you.

There’s nothin’ like a summer night at a ballpark with your friends. I wish some of them could still be here…

…and…wow. I don’t really know how the rest of that game that turned out. But if the bum’s rush was any indication, then holy Toledo.

What a game that must’ve been.


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