A Schnorrer's Cry: Baseball's Been Good to Me

I’m a baseball schnorrer.

Theres no getting around it. As I reviewed in my mind my visits to Yankee Stadium, I see a definite pattern of schnorring.

Now, for the uninitiated let me first decipher the meaning of the Yiddish word schnorrer. It may be best defined in my case as a moocher, someone who gets something for nothing or otherwise would not partake in the experience.

Eight years into the new Yankee Stadium I finally made it, with Gilda, to the big ballpark in the Bronx Thursday night, courtesy of our friends Jane and Ken G., who themselves were recipients of four complimentary $150 field level tickets about 12 rows in and a third of the way up the right field line. Great seats.

During my years at Lebhar-Friedman (1977-2009), I was fortunate to be among the privileged to receive the company’s four box seat tickets once or twice a season. They, too, were great seats perhaps a dozen rows behind the Yankee dugout near first base. They were so good they spoiled me for sitting anywhere else.

Unfortunately, along with the building of the new Yankee Stadium came a dramatic increase in season ticket prices which dovetailed with the recession that struck publishing especially hard. L-F made the tough but economically prudent decision to not renew its ticket subscription. 

I, as well, did the financially prudent thing. I forsook going to games. I even turned down a suggestion by Ellie and Donny that we go one Father’s Day several years ago. Instead, I convinced them that rather than spend a minimum $400 on tickets alone, plus food, parking and other incidentals, we should go to a Brooklyn Cyclones minor league game in Coney Island, have dinner at a nearby Russian restaurant and stroll the boardwalk, all for less than the cost of one Yankee ticket. It was a most enjoyable Father’s Day.

I didn’t always use the L-F tickets for my own enjoyment. I would give them to Dan and Ellie. I even gave Dan tickets to the seventh game of the 1999 World Series because it was to be played on his 21st birthday. Baseball aficionados no doubt realized the gift turned out to be a beau geste as the Yankees wrapped up the series against the San Diego Padres in four games. 

I was fortunate enough to go to a World Series seventh game in 1975. I scored a free ticket from the sports editor of The New Haven Register where I worked as a bureau chief. Happy to report the Cincinnati Reds came from behind to win the title against the Boston Red Sox. Aside from the Reds’ wives and front office personnel, I was probably one of the few people in Fenway Park pleased with the outcome. I was intelligent enough to keep my delirious contentment to myself that evening, even from my fellow Register reporter John Membrino, a die-hard Sox fan.

After moving back to New York in 1977, the only time I went to a Yankee game other than with L-F tickets was with John and Gilda to watch the home team play the Red Sox. We sat high in the upper deck along the left field foul line. I have no idea why people pay good money to sit in those far-away seats. 

My baseball ticket schnorring began as a child. My brother Bernie and I would go to Yankee games using tickets provided by one of our father’s sales representatives, a Mr. Schaeman. Half the fun was going on the ear-popping elevator to pick up the tickets at his office in the Empire State Building. Back then, in the late 1950s early 1960s, when the last out was recorded, on their way to the subway fans could walk on the ball field toward the exit gate in center field. Police would keep you from running on the infield diamond, but to tread where Mickey Mantle patrolled was a thrill to be savored.

We didn’t always go to Yankee games. Bernie rooted for the Dodgers. We went to Ebbetts Field virtually for free after eating 10 Elsie the Cow ice cream treats and sending the wrappers along with 25 cents to the Bordens Company. Mr. Shaeman also provided tickets to Mets games at the Polo Grounds and Shea Stadium.

For the record, I’m not just a baseball ticket schnorrer. For many years now Gilda’s brother Carl sends us two tickets to four regular season and one pre-season game of the New York Giants football team. They, too, are really good seats, though in recent years I’ve mostly chosen to avoid the two hour drag-of-a-ride home from the Meadowlands in heavy traffic. It’s a lot more comfortable watching the game on televised tape delay skipping through commercials. If Dan and Allison or Donny and Ellie can’t use the tickets, we give them to friends, Gilda’s co-workers or donate them to charity auctions.

By the way, at Thursday night’s Yankee game, the Bronx Bombers won in true bomber fashion. Brett Gardner hit a tie-breaking walk-off home run leading off the bottom of the 11th inning. Too bad we headed to the parking lot at the conclusion of the 10th inning. Ah well, at least we heard John Sterling’s call on the radio, “It is high, it is far, it is gone. The Yankees win!”

Keeping Memories Alive

Around sunset tonight I will light six memorial candles, two for my parents, two for Gilda’s, two in honor of our uncles and aunts who have passed away. On the last day of Passover tomorrow, Yizkor will be recited. Yizkor is the prayer of remembrance, said four times a year in honor of the departed. 

Last week the Colombian, Nobel laureate author, Gabriel Garcia Marquez, passed away. He was 87. Among the many passages quoted in his memory, this one touched me deeply: “What matters in life is not what happens to you—but what you remember and how you remember it.”

Perhaps that’s why I have recently been obsessed with the fantasy of getting a dog. For a year when I was 11, we had a dog, a puppy. Dusty. We were told he was a border collie but he probably was of mixed parentage, at least part golden retriever, which accounted for his thick yellow coat and his size. My sister, brother and I still talk of Dusty. They both had goldens when their children were young. Lee has since had two other dogs. She took home Ollie from the rescue shelter a few weeks ago.

Gilda’s not buying into my fantasy. She doesn’t believe I’d be willing to walk a dog early in the morning and late at night, when it’s cold, snowy or rainy. And I readily acknowledge I would not like picking up after it. So I think back on my 12 months with Dusty (10 actually, as two months we were separated while I summered in sleepaway camp) and revel in my memories. 

“I think we forget things if we have no one to tell them to.” 

That sentiment describes another reason for this blog. It is from the Indian movie The Lunchbox, by Ritesh Joginder Batra. If you haven’t seen it, I highly recommend you don’t wait much longer as it is not the type of film that vanquishes superhero, supernatural or animated flicks for screens at the local cineplex.  

Last week an article in The NY Times provided insight into another of my childhood-to-adult foundations. Though born and raised in Brooklyn, I am a NY Yankees fan. My brother and all my friends rooted for the Brooklyn Dodgers. We went to Ebbets Field to watch the Dodgers, until they moved to Los Angeles. I always said I became a Yankees fan because my mother rooted for them, though she really favored the NY Giants. But they moved west, too, to San Francisco. The last year the Dodgers played in Brooklyn was 1957. I was eight years old.

Keep that age in mind, because according to The Times article, team loyalty for youngsters is deeply impressed when a boy turns eight, particularly if the team wins the World Series (http://www.nytimes.com/2014/04/20/opinion/sunday/they-hook-you-when-youre-young.html?_r=0). Furthermore, “the odds of being captured as a perma-fan peak with those aged 8 to 12 at the time of the championship,” the article related.

Now, in 1957 the Yankees lost to the Milwaukee Braves in seven games. But the following year the Yanks defeated the Braves. And from 1960 to 1964 the Bronx Bombers played in five consecutive championship series, winning two titles in 1961 and 1962. It’s not too difficult to understand why I became a Yankees fan for life.

Exercise in Bed (It's Not What You Think)

For days, weeks, months, YEARS, Gilda has been hounding me to exercise, to stretch, so my lower back would not hurt. Naturally, I resisted, for what would any marriage be if a husband submitted without a fight to his wife's entreaties. I finally won a round in this continuous battle of what I say is a bulging disc but Gilda says is merely weak muscles, when Gilda agreed to buy a new bed. The Sleep Number mattress, indeed, has been much better for my back pain than the Tempur-Pedic, but I retained some residual pain. So, Friday night, as Gilda slept next to me, I downloaded three videos of recommended stretching exercises.

I'm nothing if not lazy when it comes to exercise, so the WebMD video I chose to start with had the added bonus of permitting me to stretch without leaving the comfort of my bed. As Gilda showered Saturday morning I started the first of the five stretching routines. Whatd’ya know? My back felt better, so much so that even an afternoon four mile walk across the Bridge over the Hudson in Poughkeepsie didn't bother it. 

The real test would be during sleep Saturday night and then pitching a softball game Sunday morning. I woke up 15 minutes early, slid softly into Ellie's old bedroom, lay down on the relocated Tempur-Pedic and ran through the routines. I had a twinge of pain on the ball field, but nothing to complain about. I pitched nine innings; had four solid hits in five at bats. We won.

Moral of the story: Looks like stretching exercise works. It's going to be real hard admitting this to Gilda. Even harder keeping up the regimen every day. Anyway, for those wondering which exercises worked for me, here's a link to the video: http://www.webmd.com/back-pain/living-with-low-back-pain-11/five-back-pain-stretches

Car Update: Like any new car, the Ford C-Max is prone to recalls. First, the tail lift gate needed refinement. Sometimes, when you waved your foot under the back carriage of the car, the lift gate would unlock but not automatically rise. A simple correction. 

Then, we got two notices on the same day about a week ago. Ford needed to add more interior head protection in case of an accident. I’m cool with that.

The other notice was a real shocker. Right now, for the first 6,000 miles, our hybrid car is getting a little over 43 miles per gallon vs. an EPA/DOT rating of 47. Gilda gets better mileage when she’s driving to and from work. When I drive on weekends, I get lower mileage as I’m usually on the highway exceeding 65 mph and the C-Max switches from battery to gas engine at speeds exceeding 62 mph. But Ford told us in that second notice that, free of charge, it will recalibrate the powertrain control module to operate electrically up to 85 mph! Better gas mileage, here we come.

I Plead Youthful Ignorance: While transferring VHS family videos to DVDs, I came across some film of my parents and their three children at the beach. But what's that on my head? Looks like a blue baseball hat with a capital B. A Brooklyn Dodgers cap! Sacré bleu! All I can say to my NY Yankees friends is that I appear to be about four-years-old at the time and was clearly under the influence of my eight-year-old brother. By the time I was 7 it looks like I was wearing a Yankees cap at a school outing. Phew.

The old family films also showed I disdained water from an early age. Some film of a family vacation at Takanassee, a hotel in Fleishmanns, NY, where we’d spend several weeks each summer before we were sent off to sleepaway camp when I was seven, shows me resisting my mother’s urging to get into the pool. The video shows her dragging me into the water, me holding her tightly once we are in the pool. Other footage at what I believe was Rockaway Beach has me clinging to the neck of a family friend who thought he could persuade me to test the waters on my own. 

My friend Ken still thinks he can teach me to swim. Who am I to disagree with him? But as sportscaster Warner Wolf used to say when he was on television, “Let’s go to the videotape” to see the truth of the matter.

The Jackie Robinson Story vs. 42

Having just seen 42, the biopic of Jackie Robinson’s struggle to break the color barrier in major league baseball in 1947, last Sunday, I was intrigued to watch the 1950 film The Jackie Robinson Story starring Jackie Robinson that was aired on Turner Classic Movies Friday afternoon. 

Biopics are usually quite syrupy. They play loose with some facts. Comparing two cinema treatments of the same story left me perplexed as to which one was more accurate. In some instances, both films produced shoddy history.

Take, for example, the simple facts of when, how and where the Brooklyn Dodgers clinched the pennant in 1947. In The Jackie Robinson Story, the Dodgers clinched in front of their home fans at Ebbets Field. With two outs in the bottom of the eighth inning and a man on second base, Robinson tied the score with a double. He scored the deciding run when the next batter singled him home. 

In 42, the Dodgers were shown playing the Pirates in Pittsburgh. Robinson hit a late inning home run to win the game. General manager Branch Rickey, the driving force behind baseball integration, was not at the game. He was depicted back in Brooklyn listening to a broadcast as he never played in or watched a baseball game on a Sunday, a promise he had made to his mother, a devout Methodist, as was Rickey. 

So here’s the truth—Robinson had little to do with winning the pennant-clinching game. Actually, no Dodger deserves credit. The Dodgers captured the National League flag that year after the second place team, the St. Louis Cardinals, lost a night game at home on September 22 to the Chicago Cubs. For good measure, the Dodgers went out and won their game the next day against the New York Giants. The score was 6-1. Robinson played only part of the game. He went hitless in two at bats. He had no runs batted in. He was removed from the game after batting in the fourth inning, with the Dodgers leading 2-1. 

September 23 was a Tuesday. Rickey would have been at the game. It was, after all, a home game, at Ebbets Field. 

FYI, Dan Bankhead picked up a four-inning save for the Dodgers on September 23. Bankhead was an Afro-American teammate of Robinson. 

In The Jackie Robinson Story, a spring training exhibition game between the Dodgers and their farm team, The Montreal Royals, had to be cancelled because the city of Sanford, Fla., would not permit white and Negro players to be on a field at the same time. In case you’re a little startled, yes, that’s the same Sanford, Fla., that George Zimmerman hails from. I’ll let you draw any conclusions as to how prejudices have changed, if at all, in the ensuing 66 years.  

Pitching Our of a Funk

I was in a funk most of Sunday afternoon.

Before you jump to any conclusions, I was not depressed about our new bed. My back was almost free of pain after just one night. 

The other day my friend and former research partner Leo, who celebrated his 92nd birthday last week, sent me a note from Tucson asking how I was doing, as he said my “blogs tend to portray your life in nostalgic and depressing fashion.” To which I replied, “I will admit to nostalgia, Leo, but not to depression, though In checking the dictionary definition of nostalgia it might infer some sadness ("a sentimental yearning for the happiness of a former place or time"). 

“Could be also that I am depressed about GOP efforts on the state and national levels to return our society to one that is less caring and compassionate and more unequal and intolerant. I've avoided writing about politics for the most part over the last few months because of the never-ending march backward. Not being a paid commentator I can choose to take a vacation from the encroaching reality.”

I should have said I was “distressed,” not depressed, as I am about the Trayvon Martin-George Zimmerman verdict, another example of an unjust but probably judiciously correct outcome given the known facts in the case, the need to prove guilt beyond a shadow of doubt, and Florida’s insane “stand your ground” law. 

No, I was in a funk for a very superficial reason. It was because I stunk up the softball field Sunday morning (and couldn’t even blame my back for a lousy pitching job). In just three-plus innings, before I wisely took myself out of the game with the bases loaded, I walked more batters than I have in all the games I pitched this season combined. I put my teammates into a three-run hole they could not overcome. I was angry at myself because I did not measure the distance between home plate and the rubber before the game started. It was at least two feet too long, so pitches that normally would have crossed the plate as strikes came in too low, hence the many walks. It wasn’t until the third inning that I mentioned it to the umpire and the home team pitcher. We corrected the distance, though by then I had already damaged our chances. 

I stayed in that funk until the evening when Gilda and I enjoyed a showing of the film 42, about Jackie Robinson’s 1947 debut as a Brooklyn Dodger, as the first Afro-American to play in the major leagues. The movie was emotional and inspiring, but what truly elevated me from my funk was the appearance of one of Jackie’s teammates, a pitcher who perhaps more than anyone else would have reason to have remained in a funk since 3:58 pm October 3, 1951, when the pitch Ralph Branca threw to NY Giants outfielder Bobby Thomson in the bottom of the ninth landed in the left field stands for a game-winning, National League pennant-winning home run. 

Now 87 and still sharp of mind, able to recall minute details of his and other ballplayer careers, Branca appeared at Pelham, NY’s Picture House with his son-in-law Bobby Valentine, the ex-NY Mets,  Texas Rangers and Boston Red Sox manager, and Marty Appel, the former NY Yankees public relations director during the George Steinbrenner-Billy Martin-Reggie Jackson era. They engaged in a 45-minute conversation about the film, for which Branca served as a technical advisor, and baseball in general.  

Over the years I’d read how Branca recovered from the trauma of serving up the fastball that Thomson launched into baseball immortality for himself, infamy for Branca. Indeed, until Thomson’s death several years ago the two would appear together at conventions and other gatherings. If Branca was able to get over it, then so could I. After all, I didn’t have the whole borough of Brooklyn lamenting my existence.  

Aside from observing that your emotional life can go on, here are some comments Branca made about 42 and baseball:

The “shower scene” where Branca asks Robinson to join him in the shower with the rest of the team, where it’s played for laughs to suggest homosexual overtones, did not happen that way, he said. He merely told Robinson go with him to  the showers, that a team showers together. 

Branca was pitching against St. Louis when Enos Slaughter spiked Robinson in the calf at first base. Branca wanted to hit Slaughter with a pitch the next time he was up but Robinson told him not to. Slaughter led off the top of the eighth inning. Branca was pitching a perfect game at the time, 27 up, 27 down. Slaughter singled, the Cardinals’ only hit of the game. Branca was upset he didn’t throw at Slaughter.

Asked who was the best player of his era, Branca didn’t hesitate—Joe DiMaggio. As to who was the best center fielder among Mickey Mantle of the Yankees, Willie Mays of the Giants and Duke Snider of the Dodgers, Branca remained loyal to his teammate, reasoning Snider had the best arm of the trio and had to defend a more difficult turf as the Ebbets Field fence was more irregular with hard to play angles.  

He wasn’t in 42, but there was another Afro-American who played for the Dodgers in 1947. Dan Bankhead, a pitcher, joined the team in late August, Branca recalled.

A native of Mount Vernon, NY, Branca asked a tough trivia question: Which two unrelated major leaguers grew up in the same house at different times? Answer: Branca and Ken Singleton whose family bought their Mount Vernon home from Branca’s family. Singleton played for the Mets, the Montreal Expos and the Baltimore Orioles. He is now a sportscaster for the Yankees. 

Returning to the film, Branca said “Dem Bums” was not written on the side of the Dodgers team bus.

  

The team’s away uniform should have been grey with Brooklyn written across the chest, not Dodgers. Several pitchers on opposing teams in the movie had their throwing arms mixed up (righties were shown as lefties and vice versa).

When the Dodgers clinched the 1947 pennant in Pittsburgh, general manager Branch Rickey was not at the game. Rather, he was shown listening to a radio broadcast at Ebbets Field. Branca explained that Rickey, a devout Methodist, was fulfilling a promise to his mother not to play or watch a baseball game on a Sunday.

I'm Really Sick This Time

My wife and friends all think I'm a hypochondriac so there's no additional shame in telling you I feel lousy. I'm sick. No temperature, but I've got a hacking cough, sore throat and a stuffed nose. I've felt this way for about six days now, which means about another four to seven days of misery. I don't even get the benefit of staying home from work since I don't have an every day job anymore.

Tuesday morning around 5:30 I finally succumbed to my hypochondria and looked up strep throat on WebMD.com. I lacked the symptoms. I checked out how to treat a plain sore throat. It advised to take pain killers to relieve the discomfort of swallowing. It worked, so I’ve continued medicating, have gargled with salt water and imbibed cups of tea laced with honey. 

Finley’s not aware of it, but I’m blaming him for this health setback. Come to think of it, Dagny had a running nose when they were here for Passover. Hmmm ... I rarely get sick. I’m more prone to complaining about body aches (which are real, trust me, but are mainly due to my disinterest in exercising, stretching, limbering up). Well, I guess this is a counterpoint to the joys of grandparenthood. 

Colbert Joins the Attack: Move over, Mel Brooks. Stephen Colbert has joined the ranks of those who make fun of my given name.

During Monday night’s Colbert Report, the comedian was riffing on the liberal initiatives of Pope Francis, specifically his washing the feet of two women as part of last Thursday’s pre-Easter celebration. Colbert even went so far as to state, “There were no women in the Gospels. It’s a common mistranslation. Jesus was actually born of the Virgin Murray.”

Then he showed a picture of a cloaked man, which, to be honest, didn’t really look like me but did bear a striking resemblance to Gilda’s brother Carl. 

Five Finger Discounts: Did you see the article in today’s NY Times about retailers using databases to screen out job seekers who might have been involved in stealing from a previous employer? (http://www.nytimes.com/2013/04/03/business/retailers-use-databases-to-track-worker-thefts.html?hpw&_r=0)

It’s no secret employee theft is a bigger problem than five-finger discounts perpetrated by customers. So controlling internal theft is a big issue for retailers. 

The Times article dealt with prospective employees. For those already on the payroll, Kmart had a different tactic to thwart theft. I’m not sure if Kmart is still doing this, but years ago its store managers used to monitor the level of purchases made by their store staff. They reasoned that employees could not find merchandise such as paper products or toiletries for less than what they would pay at Kmart. So if someone wasn’t buying such goods at work, they probably were secreting the stuff out the back door. Closer observation of the suspects ensued. 

Brooklyn On My Mind: Next Friday, the movie 42 will premiere. It’s a biopic of Jackie Robinson. From the clips I’ve seen it looks like a winner.

I can’t remember actually seeing Jackie play in person for the Brooklyn Dodgers but I’m sure I did. Growing up in Brooklyn, we had a sweet access to Ebbets Field. If you sent in a quarter plus 10 wrappers from a Borden’s Ice Cream bar, you’d get a general admission ticket for a seat along the left field foul line. I wasn’t a Dodgers fan, but my brother Bernie was, so he took me along to games. 

Bernie has fond memories of visiting Ebbets Field, sitting in box seats behind first base with our mother, courtesy of tickets provided by one of our father’s sales representatives, Mr. Schaenman, who had an office in the Empire State Building. I can remember going to his office, riding the ear-popping elevators up to the sky to his office to pick up tickets for games, to Yankee Stadium for me, to Ebbets Field for Bernie, until they moved to Los Angeles, that is. After that Bernie would take me to Yankee games, though he didn’t become a fan. We’d always have box seats at Yankee Stadium, low enough that after the game we’d be close to the field and able to walk out on the outfield grass to the massive exit doors in center field (it was a different time back in the 1950s and early 1960s.) 

Anyway, Bernie remembers a game at Ebbets Field when he arrived early to watch batting practice. Though he tried to get a baseball hit into the stands, he couldn’t. At the end of batting practice a policeman suggested he go after a ball headed for the seats, but he got there too late. The ball dribbled back down onto the field. However, Billy Loes, a Dodger pitcher, retrieved it and handed it to Bernie. I don’t remember us ever having a baseball, but I must have been less than seven years old when Loes played in Brooklyn, and I never played catch with a real baseball. Too dangerous. You miss catching a baseball and it could knock your front teeth out. That’s what happened to a friend one year at summer camp where they specifically told us not to play with a baseball. Too dangerous. They were right. 

Bernie says he lost the ball a year or two later while playing on the street, probably down a storm sewer. Sewers were a real hazard when playing in the street or even on the sidewalk in Brooklyn. We’d lose at least one ball each time we played, until our arms were long enough to fish the sphere out of the sewer. No, we didn’t actually reach the bottom of the pit with our fingers. We’d elongate a wire clothes hanger, fashion one end into a loop, then go fishing for the ball down the sewer. Most times we’d reel in our lost balls, though they were usually Spaldeens or Pensie Pinkies—lightweight pink bouncers. Baseballs, being far more dense, were difficult to raise up. In case you suspect I’m making up this sewer fishing, here’s a corroborating post from another blogger: http://stillabrooklynkid.blogspot.com/2011/08/games-we-played-spaldeens-and-sewers.html. 

Radio Daze

One of the news items on the radio this morning made my head swivel. AIG, the massive financial services company that a few years ago earned the tag as the worst company in America is now selling reputation insurance.

Talk about chutzpah!

In 2008, AIG received $68 billion from the federal bailout program. Now it is pushing ReputationGuard, designed, according to the Associated Press, to “help companies protect their reputation in the event of major corporate crises such as executive scandals, product recalls, data breaches and other ‘reputational threats.’"

The idea of reputation insurance is catching on, what with viral Internet campaigns maligning companies and individuals, often without their immediate knowledge. But the thought of AIG benefiting from this form of insurance is truly hard to swallow.


WFAN sports radio hosts Evan Roberts and Joe Benigno were talking football quarterbacks in the midday hour, mostly criticizing NY Jets QB Mark Sanchez. They bemoaned that most young quarterbacks don’t get the opportunity to spend a few years backing up a star, learning from him, as Aaron Rodgers did for the Green Bay Packers, understudying Brett Favre for four years.

Yeah, said Roberts, he learned not to throw the “killer pick” or take the “killer pic,” references to Favre’s tendency to kill offensive drives by throwing an interception (a “pick” for those not familiar with football parlance) and also for Favre’s infamous offensive picture texting of his body parts.


Though I’m not a Jets fan I couldn’t help but be amused by one listener’s call-in to WFAN about the fortunes of the team. Instead of the team’s slogan being “ground and pound,” he said, a more apt description would be “grunt and punt.”


Online gambling was reported the other day by WCBS 880 News to be under consideration by the U.S. House of Representatives as a revenue-generating scheme. Now, I’m not against legalized gambling, but it seems peculiar to me that the Republican-controlled House would favor such a move as many of its core constituents are Christian conservatives who oppose such activity.

Still, illegal gambling is estimated to be a $6 billion industry, and Uncle Sam would love to get a piece of the action. It’s impossible to control gambling, much the same way Prohibition was impossible to police effectively. At least when Prohibition was repealed the government started collecting excise taxes again on the liquid refreshment. It’s the same argument the gambling advocates push, as do those who want to legalize marijuana and other drugs.

A revenue source or a source of deprivation? You choose.


Last week the NY Times ran a picture of Sandy Amoros catching Yogi Berra’s curling fly ball in the last game of the 1955 World Series, a catch credited with helping secure the first and only championship for the Brooklyn Dodgers. Here’s a link to the picture: http://www.nytimes.com/imagepages/2011/10/06/sports/Y-JP-VECSEY.html?scp=2&sq=sandy%20amoros&st=cse

Several interesting points about the picture and what it says about baseball 56 years ago, and I’m not referring to the fact that it was a day game: Well, it was a day game, and left field was the sun field at the old Yankee Stadium. Yet few fans wore sunglasses. Amoros was playing in short sleeves; most of the fans were men wearing suits and ties. A sizable number wore hats, not baseball caps, but real old men’s hats, fedoras. Though I’m sure most in the picture were younger than my 62 years, they sure look older than I am. Few women and almost no child can be seen. The fans in the front row mostly stayed in their seats; almost none ventured to catch a Yankee souvenir before Amoros could reach it.