The first time I ever went to a ball game without my father

or brother was last year with Jonathan. Unfortunately, it

was to a Mets game. Somehow, Jonathan’s father could

always get ahold of great tickets, but they were always

to a dopey Mets game. Jonathan didn’t care about the

Mets either, but that time Jonathan got lucky and the

Mets were playing the Cardinals, and Bob Gibson was

scheduled to pitch. It was tough to convince my mother

that I’d be all right going to New York without an adult,

but my good old dad took my side, and I got permission to

go. Of course, I thought my dad took my side because he

figured it was about time he got out of the chore of taking

the kids to a stupid baseball game every year, but I kind

of felt sorry for my dad. I might have hurt his feelings a

little, because even though he wouldn’t have admitted it,

I thought he really did like taking us to ball games. It was

sort of his fatherly responsibility to take the kids to the

ball game, but now it was as if I didn’t need him anymore.

But heck, how long did a kid have to be escorted around

by his parents? I was glad he stuck up for me no matter

the reason, and I decided that when I got older and was on

my own and had my own car and everything, I’d always

ask my dad first if he wanted to come to a ball game with

me. Of course, it wouldn’t be a dopey Mets game.

When I finally got permission to go, I still had one

rather large hurdle to get over: my mother wanted to meet

this “Jonathan boy,” as she said. Well, we were going to

catch the New York bus by my house to head out to the

old ballpark, so I told my mom Jonathan would stop in

on the way. I had told my parents about Jonathan a few

times before, but I didn’t think I’d ever mentioned the

fact that Jonathan was black. Somehow, I kind of thought

that if they’d known Jonathan was black, they might

have thought of some excuse why I couldn’t go to the

game—even my father. They probably would have said we

had to go over to my grandfather’s house or I had to cut

the grass, rake the leaves, vacuum the pool, or clean the

garage—all on an emergency basis. Fortunately, I never

told them Jonathan was black.

When Jonathan came over that Saturday afternoon,

it must have been the first time a black person other than

the garbage man ever walked through our neighborhood.

I knew for a fact that when Jonathan came through our

front door, it was the first time a black person had stepped

foot in our house. I had to give my mother credit: she

didn’t faint or even get upset at all. However, I thought

somebody in the neighborhood had called the cops

because a police car drove by the house a few minutes after

Jonathan walked in. My parents were pretty darn cordial,

and of course, Jonathan did his best nice-little-black-kid

routine, so he seemed to hit it off rather well with my

parents. Jonathan carefully explained that his father got

tickets occasionally from a friend who worked for some

big company, and Jonathan had gone many times with his

father and a few times with his other friends. He explained

that he knew exactly how to get to Shea Stadium, which

was so easy that even my mother remembered from going

to the World’s Fair a few years ago.

Jonathan explained that he really wasn’t much of a

Mets fan to my father, who was pretty glad to hear that.

He said he was a St. Louis Cardinals fan, and his favorite

players were Curt Flood, Bob Gibson, and—get this—

Roger Maris. Good old former Yankee star Roger Maris,

the other half of the M&M boys—that was just what

my father wanted to hear. My father then went into his

favorite story about taking us to the game in which ole

Rog hit his world-famous sixty-first home run. My father

liked to go into great detail about that game whenever he

got a chance because it had been such a historic occasion.

Of course, he liked to make everybody think he planned

it that way, when in actuality, my brother and I had been

bugging him to take us to our yearly baseball game all

summer that year, and he always had some kind of excuse

about why we couldn’t go. Well, old Roger hit his sixtyfirst

to beat Babe Ruth’s record in the last game of the

regular season—which was also the last chance my father

had to take us to a ball game in 1961, since there was no

chance he’d come up with tickets to the World Series. So

in actuality, my father had to take us to that game, and

ole Rog just happened to hit his sixty-first on that day.

But my father liked to tell the story as if he were as much

of a hero as Maris. Well, it was a good story the way my

father told it anyway.

But since when was my good buddy Jonathan, the

ultimate Bob Gibson fan, a Roger Maris fan? I asked him

later, and he told me he’d remembered that I had gone

to that historic game, and he’d guessed that my father

would probably like to brag about going to the game.

Jonathan had figured that would be a great way to get in

good with my father. At first, I thought it was just another

example of Jonathan’s conniving schemes to get his way,

but then I figured that since it made my father happy to

tell his old story about Roger Maris’s sixty-first home run, 

it was a nice gesture. But I knew I still had to watch that

Jonathan.

The game was no big deal. Gibson mowed down the

lowly Mets with ease. By the ninth inning, the Mets had

managed only two hits, and Gibson had a comfortable

2–0 lead. Jonathan was a little disappointed because

Gibson hadn’t hit any batters, but surprisingly, Jonathan

was ready to go. It seemed as if Jonathan was always one

step ahead of everybody and always had to get a jump on

things. However, I was a bit puzzled as to why Jonathan

was in such a rush to leave, when his idol was pitching

such a gem of a game. Of course, Jonathan hadn’t let me

in on his plans for our after-ball-game activities.

As the ninth inning started, we headed out. We

rushed down the fancy Shea Stadium escalators and past

all the souvenir vendors, who were selling a lot of Mets

junk. They were also selling some Cardinals banners and

some Bob Gibson buttons, but none of that interested

Jonathan, who was headed as fast as he could out to the

trains, in a big rush to get home. To do what, I had no

idea. We ran up the stairs to the trains, and there was one

waiting. Just as we hopped on, we heard a roar from the

crowd way out there in the distance.

“Gibby probably struck out the side,” Jonathan said.

“Then why the heck would the stupid Mets fans

cheer?” I said.

“Respect,” Jonathan said as the train took off.

We whizzed past the jumble of buildings and narrow

streets, and I saw some of the leftover stuff from the

World’s Fair. I was a bit disappointed that we left so early.

My brother and I always made it a point to beg our father

to let us stay until the last out, no matter what, when we

went with him. He’d always act pretty pissed off and

say we’d get into tons of traffic if we stayed till the end.

But we were stubborn. Then we’d always stop for some

dopey souvenirs. But we never left before the last out.

Now there I was, out on my own without any parents

telling me what to do, and Jonathan was tearing around

as if he’d never get to leave the house if he didn’t get back

home on time. At first, I thought maybe Jonathan was

trying to make sure he got me home early so my parents

would know they could trust him despite the fact that

he was black. But I couldn’t believe that—not Jonathan.

He could have handled my parents easily enough even if

we’d come home at twelve midnight. I was sure he’d have

an excuse.

I asked him again, “What’s the hurry?”

“I want to beat the crowd,” Jonathan said.

“Jeez, Jonathan. There was only fifteen thousand,” I

said.

“Yeah, but I don’t want to miss the bus home,”

Jonathan said.

“There’s plenty of buses,” I said.

When we got to the Port Authority Bus Terminal, we

hurried off the train and on through the tunnels. Then,

all of a sudden, Jonathan stopped short and decided he

wanted a hot dog. So we went over to a slimy underground

hot dog stand, and Jonathan bought himself a hot dog.

“I thought you were in a big hurry,” I said.

“I am, but I’m starved,” Jonathan said.

“What time does the bus leave?” I asked.

“Ah, let me see.” Jonathan took a big bite out of his

stupid hot dog and then pulled the bus schedule out of

his pocket. “What time is it?” he asked.

“It’s four thirty,” I said.

“Dang. Are you sure?” Jonathan asked.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Well, the bus leaves in three minutes.”

“Well, let’s get going,” I said.

“Hey! Lemme finish my hot dog, will ya?” Jonathan

said. He acted like he was mad. “We ain’t never gonna

make it up to that bus anyway.”

“Well, when’s the next bus?” I asked.

“Not for another hour and a half,” Jonathan said. “It’s

the weekend schedule.” Jonathan paused for a moment.

“Welp, I guess we’ll just have to figure out something to

do to amuse ourselves for the next hour and a half.”

“Well, what the heck was the big rush all about then?”

I asked.

Jonathan didn’t answer. I was beginning to realize he

had something up his sleeve. I didn’t know what, but I

figured whatever he had in mind was going right along

according to plan. Jonathan finished up his hot dog, and

we headed on up to the street. I had never walked around

in New York City on my own before, but I wasn’t exactly

on my own since I was with Jonathan. The only times I

had ever walked around at all in New York City had been

on a few class trips to the museums, and once, I’d come

with my parents to Radio City Music Hall. We’d never,

on any of those occasions, walked down Forty-Second

Street, which was right where Jonathan was headed. I 

wasn’t exactly scared. It was more like I was excited, but

I sure was glad I was with Jonathan, in more ways than

one. The sidewalk was crowded, and there were lots of

strange-looking people and also lots of mean-looking

people. That was one of the reasons I was glad I was with

Jonathan. Not necessarily because Jonathan could look

so mean—he would have had a lot of competition in a

meanness contest on that street—but because Jonathan

was black. The black guys roaming around the street

looked a whole lot meaner than anybody we ever saw

down by old Roosevelt Field. I figured none of those

guys would want to pick on Jonathan because there were

plenty of unsuspecting, dumb tourist types who would be

better targets, but still, I stuck as close to Jonathan as I

could, which wasn’t always easy. Jonathan loved to weave

through the crowded sidewalks, and he seemed to know

right where he was going.

In addition to all the strange people on Forty-Second

Street, there was also a lot of really strange stuff. There

were tons of movie theaters with all kinds of X-rated

movies, and there were little shops with peep shows in

them. I was hoping Jonathan didn’t have any ideas about

going into one of those peep shows, but sure enough, we

stopped right in front of one.