More Than Just A Token Effort

The train stopped between stations. There was a rumor of a fire on a west-side line. I heard someone say darkly, "And they never got off the train."

The Yankee Clipper said, "The ride only costs 90 cents. You can't expect the thing to be perfect."

We started up again and reached the Stadium in time to see the first batter step up to the plate.

Well, you know about the game. When Ron Hassey hit the homer that won it for the Yanks, I was talking to a man who said he has eight rooms in his house out in New Jersey filled with baseball memorabilia. He hardly looked at the game. He wanted to tell me about his collection. He has seven original Ty Cobb uniforms. I asked if he has mannequins mounted inside them to puff the uniforms out more realistically. Seven Ty Cobbs standing around in those rooms! But no, he had the uniforms neatly packed, or suspended from hangers in closets. He had a lot of Cobb material. He had given one of Cobb's bats to Pete Rose, who had taken it up to the plate in a game and broken it.

Tom and I ran into Robert Merrill, who had sung the anthem. Tom wanted to ask Bob if he was going home in a limousine. Perhaps we could tag along.

I said no, I was on assignment; it was back to the transit system.

"The subway?" I asked someone. "The No. 4 downtown?"

"Follow the crowd," I was urged.

Tom and I went up a steep flight of steps into a tubular overpass. The crowd was as thick as it had been on the Stadium ramps. "Tom, I think we've made a mistake." As we were swept along, I could see we were about to be expelled into a parking lot.

So we got to Manhattan on a bus. I apologize about that. Breasting the crowd pouring out of that tube to get back to the subway would have been a major undertaking, rather like swimming up the current of a large water main. Our hosts on the bus were members of a New York brokerage firm, J.J. Kenny. We had looked forlorn standing in the parking lot, and they took us aboard. We sank into a pair of seats. It was about 11:30. The bus sat in the lot for half an hour. I thought of the No. 4 rumbling towards New Lots Avenue. The brokers burst into song. They sang, "I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas." Finally we began moving. They sang Jingle Bells. Neither Tom nor I could figure out why.