Knox The Hatter
2nd Level Indigo Feather
- Joined
- Feb 11, 2003
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You see, this date means something to me. October 16th. An unbelievable thirty seven years ago.
I was an eight year old, living in New York City's borough of Queens, in a neighborhood known as Jamaica. Jamaica is one of the oldest settlements on the eastern seaboard, one of the very first on Long Island. Jamaica was already a bustling market town by the time the cannons fired at Lexington and Concord. Jamaica, having one of the oldest, sizable African-American communities in the north, dating back to before Slavery was proscribed in the State of New York, was an important stop on the Underground Railroad, as well as during the great migrations of the 20th Century. I was around for the very tail end of the last great migration. In my school, I had Black schoolmates who had just moved up from Georgia and Alabama and Mississippi, kids who were so poor, they only had the clothes they wore. They came to Jamaica because they all had firmly established families living there for generations, and had moved in with them. These kids now have established roots two or three generations deep now. Can you imagine? They were Immigrants after being in the same country with bloodlines going back three hundred years.
On this unseasonably warm, overcast afternoon, there was a party going on: a highly unlikely Game Five of the World Series, being played only fifteen minutes away from my school, in the brand, spanking new Shea Stadium, in Flushing. At this time, since my school, on Parsons Boulevard, just a block over from Hillside, had burned down that August (a tragedy- the building was a red bricked, Mansard-roofed treasure dating back to the Spanish-American War), we had temporarily moved to a Jewish temple over on Union Turnpike and the same Utopia Parkway the Fountains of Wayne would sing odes to thirty years down the road. In my classroom, lessons had ended, and my teacher, Mrs. Friedman, had brought in some ancient radio from a closet. It was tuned to the World Series. After the furious buildup provided by an exciting Division clincher and a very improbable three game sweep over Atlanta in the newly-minted League Championship Series, the Mets hit a major speed bump by losing Game One on Saturday afternoon in Baltimore, 4-1. Cy Young winner Tom Seaver had been bested both by screwballer Mike Cuellar, and outfielder Don Buford. However, the Mets then proceded to roll over the speed bump, win Game Two at Memorial Stadium, and then the third and fourth games at Shea. Now, it was Game Five, and the Baltimore Orioles (THESE Baltimore Orioles, by the way, were, and still are, the greatest baseball team I've ever seen, position for position, bar none), were leading 3-0. Everyone else on the planet, the inhabitants of my classroom notwithstanding, thought that the game just might be won by Baltimore. We, however, weren't buying this.
"We can't lose!" screamed this very small, very loud, very popular little boy who sat up front. His name was Nelson. He kept screaming this, the teacher couldn't get him to shut up, and the other kids cheered him on. He was beginning to give this other boy (a Chicago native) named Tracy a headache. Tracy had the nerve, the unmitigated gall, to be a Cubs fan. Today, that would only mean that he was a buffoon of tremendous proportions, but back then, it was serious. Nelson kept screaming, "we can't lose, we can't lose!"
School ended for the day. We all loaded on to buses, and headed back to Jamaica. On the way, the bus radio was tuned to the game, and when the home team was at bat, everyone on the bus made the vehicle rock by screaming, at the top of our lungs, "Let's Go Mets!" People in passing cars heard us. They honked their horns in time. It actually seemed, in the papers, and on TV, and on the radio, that the entire world had actually stopped for all of this, that even Vietnam had grown quiet for all of this (in a way, it had...our soldiers in the rice paddies were following the action).
I got home, and found my mother in the living room, watching the game. Things began happening. The Mets rallied, and before you knew it, they were ahead, 5-3. My mother sat there, hugging me with each passing at-bat, and finally, Davey Johnson (would we have been surprised at what lie ahead for him in HIS crystal ball) made the final out. My mother and I marvelled at how the entire population of the field box seats emptied out on the field and tore the place to smithereens. "Holy shit," she repeated, quietly, over and over...
I was there, in my Jamaica apartment, watching this. Clear as a bell, thirty seven years later.
I was an eight year old, living in New York City's borough of Queens, in a neighborhood known as Jamaica. Jamaica is one of the oldest settlements on the eastern seaboard, one of the very first on Long Island. Jamaica was already a bustling market town by the time the cannons fired at Lexington and Concord. Jamaica, having one of the oldest, sizable African-American communities in the north, dating back to before Slavery was proscribed in the State of New York, was an important stop on the Underground Railroad, as well as during the great migrations of the 20th Century. I was around for the very tail end of the last great migration. In my school, I had Black schoolmates who had just moved up from Georgia and Alabama and Mississippi, kids who were so poor, they only had the clothes they wore. They came to Jamaica because they all had firmly established families living there for generations, and had moved in with them. These kids now have established roots two or three generations deep now. Can you imagine? They were Immigrants after being in the same country with bloodlines going back three hundred years.
On this unseasonably warm, overcast afternoon, there was a party going on: a highly unlikely Game Five of the World Series, being played only fifteen minutes away from my school, in the brand, spanking new Shea Stadium, in Flushing. At this time, since my school, on Parsons Boulevard, just a block over from Hillside, had burned down that August (a tragedy- the building was a red bricked, Mansard-roofed treasure dating back to the Spanish-American War), we had temporarily moved to a Jewish temple over on Union Turnpike and the same Utopia Parkway the Fountains of Wayne would sing odes to thirty years down the road. In my classroom, lessons had ended, and my teacher, Mrs. Friedman, had brought in some ancient radio from a closet. It was tuned to the World Series. After the furious buildup provided by an exciting Division clincher and a very improbable three game sweep over Atlanta in the newly-minted League Championship Series, the Mets hit a major speed bump by losing Game One on Saturday afternoon in Baltimore, 4-1. Cy Young winner Tom Seaver had been bested both by screwballer Mike Cuellar, and outfielder Don Buford. However, the Mets then proceded to roll over the speed bump, win Game Two at Memorial Stadium, and then the third and fourth games at Shea. Now, it was Game Five, and the Baltimore Orioles (THESE Baltimore Orioles, by the way, were, and still are, the greatest baseball team I've ever seen, position for position, bar none), were leading 3-0. Everyone else on the planet, the inhabitants of my classroom notwithstanding, thought that the game just might be won by Baltimore. We, however, weren't buying this.
"We can't lose!" screamed this very small, very loud, very popular little boy who sat up front. His name was Nelson. He kept screaming this, the teacher couldn't get him to shut up, and the other kids cheered him on. He was beginning to give this other boy (a Chicago native) named Tracy a headache. Tracy had the nerve, the unmitigated gall, to be a Cubs fan. Today, that would only mean that he was a buffoon of tremendous proportions, but back then, it was serious. Nelson kept screaming, "we can't lose, we can't lose!"
School ended for the day. We all loaded on to buses, and headed back to Jamaica. On the way, the bus radio was tuned to the game, and when the home team was at bat, everyone on the bus made the vehicle rock by screaming, at the top of our lungs, "Let's Go Mets!" People in passing cars heard us. They honked their horns in time. It actually seemed, in the papers, and on TV, and on the radio, that the entire world had actually stopped for all of this, that even Vietnam had grown quiet for all of this (in a way, it had...our soldiers in the rice paddies were following the action).
I got home, and found my mother in the living room, watching the game. Things began happening. The Mets rallied, and before you knew it, they were ahead, 5-3. My mother sat there, hugging me with each passing at-bat, and finally, Davey Johnson (would we have been surprised at what lie ahead for him in HIS crystal ball) made the final out. My mother and I marvelled at how the entire population of the field box seats emptied out on the field and tore the place to smithereens. "Holy shit," she repeated, quietly, over and over...
I was there, in my Jamaica apartment, watching this. Clear as a bell, thirty seven years later.
