A few people reached out the past couple days, surprised that I didn’t write a Father’s Day column last week. Fact is, I wanted to save it a week for reasons you are about to see. And that decision, as you will also see, probably proved fortuitous.
I wanted to wait because next Saturday will mark the 50th anniversary of the first baseball game I ever attended in person. I was 7 years old. My father took me, of course. We did what we would do for almost every Mets game we ever attended: We parked the car at my grandmother’s house on 51st Avenue in Corona, she made us a few sandwiches to go, and we hoofed it the couple of blocks to Shea Stadium.
It was June 29, 1974. I cannot tell you where my wallet is located right now. I’m iffy on the status of my iPhone. My car keys? Fifty-fifty. But I can recount — as if I’m looking at the home movie — every minute of that day, every second, warehoused in my memory.
From the moment Shea came into view, I’m not sure I blinked. The enormity of it, the odd orange-and-blue tiles randomly affixed to the exterior. And the blinding green of the grass inside. We took our seats. It was Old-Timers’ Day at Shea, so we had gotten there early, so my dad started pointing out everything he thought I should know.
“That’s the dugout.”
“That’s the bullpen.”
“That’s the batting cage.”
“That’s where they keep the tarp rolled up.”
“That’s the press box.”
Here’s one of the reasons it was important for me to write about that this week. My reply to that one was: “What’s a press box?” He explained that’s where the sportswriters went to write their stories about the game we were about to watch. And I swear this is true: My father commuted to the city from Long Island every day. He’d buy the Daily News going in every morning, and The Post (an afternoon paper then) coming home every night. And starting the next Monday, and for the next 11 years, he would come home and hand me The Post, and I would absorb every word.
By that first Thursday — again, swear this is true — I announced at dinner: “I want to be a sports columnist for the New York Post when I grow up.”
So when I occasionally mention that I have my dream job … I am deadly serious. From when I was 7.
The other indelible thing that happened that day: At the very end of the introduction of the Old Timers, in from center field, together, walked Joe DiMaggio, Mickey Mantle, Duke Snider and Willie Mays. It was an electric moment. I’d never heard sound of any kind as intense as the roar that filled old Shea. But then I turned to my father and saw something I’d never seen before.
He was crying.
“I’m not sad,” he said. “Just the opposite. These were the guys who made up most of my childhood.”
Then he explained: Joe D. was his all-time favorite, and always would be, and he explained why. He lauded Mickey. He praised the Duke.
“But Willie,” he said, “was the best that ever played the game, in my mind. Best I ever saw in person anyway.”
The game? Well, Cleon Jones and Wayne Garrett hit home runs, and the Mets won 4-0. Jon Matlack threw a one-hitter — the only hit a single by, of all people, the opposing pitcher, John Curtis.
“You have no idea what you almost just saw,” my father said, shaking his head, as we walked back to my grandmother’s house.
“I’m sure I’ll see one eventually,” I said.
(SPOILER ALERT: I have now attended about 5,000 baseball games in the past 50 years, give or take. I scrambled to the press box of the last inning of Johan Santana’s no-no. I still haven’t seen a full one. And it’s getting late early out here.)
Fifty years. And it’s funny. I wanted to include a picture of the ticket stub, which I still have, but it is permanently affixed in a scrapbook and there was no way to remove it without tearing it. The one pictured here looks just like it, I assure you. It’ll have to do. You need to respect the most sacred artifacts, after all, at all costs.
Vac’s Whacks
Donald Sutherland made every movie he was in — and there were so, so many of them — 15 percent better just by showing up, and he was every bit Hawkeye Pierce as Alan Alda was. Godspeed to one of the greats.
We usually get to enjoy the Harlem Globetrotters once a year in these parts, but now, taking a page from Billy Joel, the Globies have set up a sports residency at American Dream from Aug. 16-25. Games, clinics for kids and adults, the ability to learn their history from legends like “Sweet” Lou Dunbar. Seems like a nice end of summer gift for all of us.
I read “Presumed Innocent” (and loved it) and saw the movie (and loved it more), so I was hesitant about the eight-episode interpretation of it on Apple TV+. But three episodes in, the plot has already been augmented to the point so I’m not sure I know who the killer is, and Jake Gylenhaal, Peter Sarsgaard, Ruth Negga and Bill Camp are so brilliant, I’m in, and I’m hooked.
Two friends of mine, Chris Russo and Ed Randall, will hold what will surely be a fun discussion and Q&A session this Tuesday at the SVA Theatre at 333 W. 23rd St. at 7:30 p.m., with the proceeds going to Fans for the Cure, a nonprofit organization dedicated to promoting prostate cancer awareness and education. Tickets are $35. For more, email [email protected].
Whack Back at Vac
Jonathan Siegel: In honor of his legacy, all teams should play “Talking Baseball” and John Fogerty’s ode to Willie Mays, “Centerfield,” at their next game. Maybe retire No. 24 throughout baseball.
Vac: I’ll start: Put me in coach. I’m ready to play. Today. Look at me. I can be. Centerfield.
James Vespe: Life is about timing we can’t control. If Willie Mays had been born 30 years later, he would have been the highest-paid baseball player ever. But if he were born 30 years earlier, he never would have played an inning in the majors.
Vac: Very poignant. And very true.
@jeffreymamo: This is why Leon Rose gets the big seat. As a fan, if he doesn’t run it back with all hands on deck, healthy, I will forever wonder what could have been if the Knicks had stayed healthy.
@MikeVacc: I do not believe this is a lonely opinion.
Walter Nicholson: So glad that Jerry West got that one NBA title as a player. Going 0-9 in the Finals would have been a terrible fate for such a great player. I think the basketball gods made it up to him as an executive by sending him Shaq and Kobe!
Vac: To say nothing of Magic, Kareem, and James Worthy.
