I got off the bus at the Port Authority around seven o’clock

and headed down to the subways. I took the A train to

Fifty-Ninth Street and the D train right on up to the

stadium. One could always tell what train to take just

by watching out for families with little squirts carrying

baseball gloves and trailing after their fathers. Of course,

one never could be sure if those fathers knew their way

around the subways, but I was pretty sure of my way,

having made the trip several times with Jonathan. I kind

of missed having Jonathan around to follow.

Seeing little squirts with gloves reminded me of the

times my father had taken my brother and me to the

stadium. Of course, my father always went by car. I didn’t

think he’d like to take his little kids down into these

grimy subways.

I made it to the stadium in good time. I bought my

general admission ticket and headed to the upper deck.

I loved the smell of the old ballpark—kind of like cigars

mixed with peanuts. It was a small crowd. After all, when

a team was out of the pennant race in September, not

many people felt like coming out, so I got a good seat

behind home plate. I debated whether I should go down

toward first base to be closer to the Mick, but I decided to

stay behind home since that was where I’d told Jonathan

I’d be. The game’s start was pretty boring, and the Red

Sox got off to a one-run lead. I hated the Red Sox.

The Mick came up in the bottom of the third against

Jim Lonborg and got a big ovation. He got a big ovation

those days no matter what he did. Every time they

announced his name, people cheered, and when he came

to bat, he always got a standing ovation. I knew the Mick

was great—he’d always been great—but heck, what was

the big deal? I thought a lot of fans felt guilty because they

used to boo the Mick in his younger days, even though he

was hitting at least forty home runs every year. I thought

they were all trying to apologize to the Mick now, and

that was okay with me. And they’ ll have plenty of time

to keep apologizing next year and the year after that and

probably the year after that! I thought.

After the cheers died down, it didn’t take long for the

Mick to connect. He sent a long, low line drive that sailed

deep into the lower right-field stands for his eighteenth

home run of the year. He got another standing ovation as

he trotted around the bases. I stood up, but I always did

when the Mick hit one out. It was no big deal, actually.

Now, when Horace Clarke hit a home run, that was a big

deal!

However, as I watched the Mick circle the bases, all

of a sudden, I felt a terrible pang of sadness. I couldn’t

understand it. It was almost like the sadness I’d felt the

morning I’d heard that Bobby Kennedy had been shot. The

Mick looked tired as he went around the bases. Everybody

knew he didn’t run well anymore with his banged-up

knees, but he seemed to go around the bases especially

slowly. He still bounced his shoulders with his elbows up,

but even that seemed pained, like the movement of an old

man. As the Mick crossed the plate, everybody continued

standing and cheering, but I had to sit down. The scene

was too sad. I didn’t know why, but I felt really sad.

Just then, I felt a poke in my back. I turned around

and saw a big black face with a ridiculous Groucho Marx

disguise on, wearing a red St. Louis Cardinals cap and

chomping on a big cigar.

“Jonathan! You maniac!” I said, cracking up. “Take

that stupid disguise off.”

“Why? Are there any Golgi bodies around?” Jonathan

said, and then he cracked up too. He took the mask off

and sat down beside me. “Well, T. J., buddy, have a cigar,

why don’t you?”

“What?” I said.

“Have a cigar to celebrate Mickey Mantle’s five

hundred thirty-sixth home run.”

“You’re crazy, Jonathan,” I said.

“Well, let me put it this way. I’m starting a new club.

It’s called the sentence club. You see, all you have to do

is smoke a cigar while wearing a Groucho Marx disguise

and a St. Louis Cardinals cap, and you can be admitted to

the sentence as a preposition. Just think how it could liven

up Miss Stewart’s eleventh-grade English class.”

“You are a maniac,” I said. I gave Jonathan a shove,

and he almost fell out of his seat. “Gimme a cigar.”

“Now you’re talking,” Jonathan said.

I’d always thought it would be pretty cool to smoke

a cigar.

“Smoking a cigar will get you into the sentence but

only as a past participle,” Jonathan said.

“I’ll take it,” I said. Jonathan lit my cigar.

“Here’s to number five-thirty-six for the Mick. May

there be many more. And, T. J., my boy, welcome to the

sentence.”

“Sounds good to me,” I said, and we sat back to enjoy

the game.