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SEPTEMBER 24, 1957

How ironic, must be the baseball gods having some fun with me, because walking to the ballpark on this crisp evening, the chilly air reminds me of World Series weather. That’s what we call autumn afternoons in Brooklyn –World Series weather, when the October sun loses its strength ‘round about the sixth inning, and the infield shadows mess with the batters. But that’s all just a memory, ‘cause in a few hours the Brooklyn Dodgers will be history.

            The quiet, it’s driving me crazy. You can hear yourself breathe; everything seems to be moving at half speed. Reporters in suits wander foul territory. Talking to players, probably asking dumb questions: So, Pee Wee, what’s life going to be like in Los Angeles? Gil, are you going to miss the Brooklyn fans? Only a few thousand of those fans are here tonight. They sit stone-like, lost in thought. Remembering a different day, when we couldn’t hear ourselves think because the place was so raucous; when tiny Ebbets Field was the crown jewel of the National League; when Jackie Robinson won six pennants in 10 years. When suddenly it was all gone, stripped away right before our eyes.

            For the past few years the papers talk about the Dodgers possibly moving. First, to a new ballpark ‘cause O’Malley, the Dodgers’ owner, wants a modern, domed stadium to hold fifty, sixty thousand people, and parking spaces for ten thousand cars. Then O’Malley gets into an endless battle with this big shot from The City—Moses—who won’t give him the land he wants, so O’Malley threatens to pack up and leave Brooklyn. Then Moses says he’s got land in Queens for the Dodgers. But O’Malley says no, and then gets cozy with some big shots from Los Angeles. That’s when the Dodger faithful get really angry, why there are only a handful of fans here tonight. While O’Malley and Moses pull each other’s chains, the Dodgers draw a million each season and win two straight pennants. Go figure. If this guy Moses can part the Red Sea, why can’t he keep the Dodgers in Brooklyn? ‘Cause nobody from The City cares if we lose our ball club, that’s why. O’Malley may own the team, but the Dodgers belong to us fans.

CRACK-CRACK-CRACK. Like a Tommy gun. As quickly as the batting practice pitcher can throw, the batter blasts the ball out of sight. The sound ricochets across the empty ballpark like a wild pinball. Heads turn, faces smile. CRACK-CRACK. Only one man has that kind of power, number-4, Duke Snider. Memories: I’m here, behind the field boxes. Looking up, watching The Duke’s home runs soar into the night sky, towering high above the giant scoreboard in right field, landing across Bedford Avenue, smashing the windshield of a new Dodge in the car lot. The Duke’s bronze face, silver hair escaping his blue Dodger cap. He streaks across center field after a sure double, the ball careening in the cubbyhole between the right field scoreboard and the center field wall. But The Duke plays the carom with the skill of Willie Masconi, and holds the batter to a single. No better outfielder in the majors. Faster than Mays, cooler than Mantle. And my pal, too. The Duke lives down the street from me, on Marine Avenue, in Bay Ridge. Our neighborhood is kinda different than most areas of Brooklyn. We have plenty of tree-lined streets with one-and-two-family homes—and garages, basements and lawns. A lot of Dodgers live in Bay Ridge—Reese, Hodges, Erskine, Walker. Bay Ridge is down by the Narrows, the strip of water that separates Upper New York Bay and Lower New York Bay.

As Snider leaves the batter’s box, I see Blind Tom and Tonto walking to their field box behind the Dodger dugout. He’s easy to spot. Wears a black cape, red beret and black-framed sunglasses. Carries a long, red-and-white striped cane. One day I’ll get him to let me use the cane in a stickball game. Mr. Tom, I yell—far too loud, ‘cause everyone turns around and stares at me, like I’m disturbing their naps. I rush down to say hello.

            “Frank Mitchell, that you, Frank?” he yells. Looking up, holding his head at an angle, the way blind people do.

            “Sure is, Mr. Tom, howya doin’ this fine evening?” Mr. Tom lives in Bay Ridge; I kinda work for him—shovel the snow and cut the grass at his house. He gives me a big hug.

            “Sit down for a while, Frank, I don’t think anyone’s going to use my other two seats tonight.”

 I sit in the seat directly behind him and say hi to Tonto, the nickname the fellas in the neighborhood gave to his loyal helper. Mr. Tom knows more about baseball than anyone I know. He played minor league ball before the War, but Japanese shrapnel somewhere in the Solomons took out both eyes.

 “OK, Frank, now a little test. Don’t look, just listen, who’s batting now? Pay attention to the sounds.”

I sit back in my seat and listen. We’re pretty close to the field, in the fourth row, and at Ebbets, that’s really close.

 “Give me a few pitches.” I try to hear if the ball hits the infield grass, or is it a fly ball? I can’t tell. “I give up, Mr. Tom. Who is it?”

“Keep you eyes closed, Frank. Can’t you tell the way the balls are hitting the grass? First one seems close to us; it’s loud. Then, one up the middle; the ball makes a different sound when it hits the infield dirt. Then, a faint sound when the ball hits the grass on the other side of the infield. That should tell you who’s hitting?”

“Pee Wee?”

“Right, he uses the whole field. Someday you ’ll get the hang of this blind baseball.”

I’m pleased to see Pee Wee Reese taking his cuts when I open my eyes. But another sight turns my stomach—my brother Pete escorting some barfly by the right field seats. My thoughts turn to Peggy, his girl since high school. The girl who stood by him while he was in Korea. The girl who’s at home now wondering where her Pete is. Thank God they’re walking away from me. And thank God Blind Tom refocuses me.

“Who’s on the mound tonight?”

“Danny McDevitt. Was hoping we’d see Koufax.”

Just then I hear someone call my name. It’s Erik, my barber, and he’s with some big guy in a black leather jacket and black cowboy hat.

“Hey, Frank, good to see you,” Erik says. He gives the ballpark a slow once-over. “Pretty sad, huh?”

Before I can engage Erik in small talk, cowboy hat asks me a question. A question that seems to come with an unspoken threat: you’d better speak the truth, kid.

“Mitchell, where’s your brother tonight? Seen him?”

Damn, what I wouldn’t give to be in Blind Tom’s shoes right about now.

“Uh, no, haven’t seen him since I left the house.” I hold my breath.

“Okay, kid, but I better not see him here tonight.”

Cowboy hat turns and walks away. Erik gives me a nod, meaning, “You did good.” You see, you live your whole life in Brooklyn and the first thing you learn on the playground –don’t rat. Don’t ever rat on anybody. Even Pete.

It’s the bottom of the third and Gil Hodges, another neighbor of mine in Bay Ridge, drives home the Dodgers’ second run with a bloop single. Something tells me that’ll be the final run the Dodgers ever score in Brooklyn. A respectful cheer breaks out, barely loud enough for Hodges to hear. But a few innings later, Hilda Chester, the zany, loud fan, bellows: “VIN SCULLY…I LOVE YOU.” Everyone in the park hears Hilda. So does Vin Scully, the Dodgers’ classy, young broadcaster, perched in the stands high above home plate. I can imagine Vin turning many shades of red and putting his head down. Then, a few seconds later comes: “LOOK AT ME WHEN I TALK TO YOU.”

Just before the top of the ninth I spot my pal, Danny Fegin. We call him Pockets. My wave brings him over to our box, and he takes the seat next to me and says a cheery hello to Blind Tom and Tonto. Everyone in the neighborhood knows Pockets. A good-looking kid with an easy smile and honest blue eyes, Pockets is a dapper dresser. Usually in button-down Oxford cotton shirts, corduroys (it’s World Series weather) and polished penny loafers. Quite sophisticated for a junior in high school. Tonight, he sports a gray hat that holds a small white feather. Sinatra-like.

            Bottom of the ninth, and McDevitt’s cruising. One, two, three, and it’ll be all over. Forever. No one in our box says a word. My stomach begins to turn again, and I can’t look at the field. I miss the final out. I stare at the back of Blind Tom’s head… wondering what he sees.

The Ebbets Field organ plays Old Lang Syne while Pockets and I walk the warning track in front of the scoreboard in right field. Most of the few thousand silent fans are on the infield tearing up patches of sod. Today’s souvenirs, tomorrow’s relics.

            “Look at all those idiots, easy marks all of ‘em,” Pockets says. Then he smiles. “I think I’ll join ‘em, maybe skin the poke, and pick up a few bucks.”

            I watch Pockets, who has the nerve of a second-story man. He sidles into a cluster of men near second base. Poor suckers. Then my eyes move slowly up the huge scoreboard. Above the giant screen, high into the black sky, where my pal, The Duke, sends his home runs. And I’m still haunted by the quiet.

            But it wasn’t always like this.