Jillian Abbott's - Queens Noir

I noticed more people in the city wearing Boston caps after the team had won the World Series. Always brand new, never faded from the sun or stained with sweat. It was like they were previously ashamed to walk the city’s streets broadcasting their loyalty or were afraid that crazy Yankees fans would chant “1918” at them when they went for a quart of milk or to pick up their dry cleaning. I say, your team is your team no matter what and no matter what anyone says. I wore a Mets cap that wasn’t new when they won the Series in 1986, and carried a copy of today’s Post in my back pocket. The two of us waited, on this warm June night, for the 7 train to take us to Shea Stadium where the Mets and Red Sox would play the first of three interleague games.

He stood quietly on the platform, leaning against the elevator with his hands in his pockets. He stared off into space with no paper or book to read. The stale, sticky air did not seem to bother him. Next to him, a fat guy in a crappy suit with his polyester tie at half-mast, tired and heading home to Queens, mopped his face with a rumpled handkerchief. Three Korean women who could have been anywhere from forty to seventy years old stood silent and still, holding shopping bags filled with vegetables and other groceries. I disregarded them. Further down the platform, college kids wearing black awayjerseys with the name and number of their favorite Mets players on the back were obviously going to the game. The kids were playful and laughing but I knew they wouldn’t get in my way when the train pulled in. I didn’t expect the subway car to be sardine-can crowded until we got to the Queens stations.

A blast of cooler air signaled the arrival of a 7 express, which meant fewer stops and fewer chances for screw-ups. When the train stopped, we stood in front of the last car. He didn’t move to rush the doors like so many subway riders do. He followed the tinny, distorted message over the car’s loudspeakers and let the passengers off the train before getting on. I maneuvered my way into the car so that I was standing in front of him and holding the same pole in the middle of the car. A little guy wearing blue mechanic’s overalls and reading El Diario had grabbed a piece of the pole to my left. A teenaged black girl on my right was lost in the music playing from her iPod, swaying in time to the song. I was lucky that it was ’70s Philly soul leaking from her headphones, not some rap shit.

I knew that I had to make my play before Queensboro Plaza, the first stop on the ride to Shea with connections to other subway lines. The express rattled through the first two underground stations, making so much noise that I couldn’t even talk to myself, forget about talking to anybody else. When the train left the Hunters Point station and emerged into the evening sunlight five or six stories above the Queens streets, the clatter lessened to a normal din.

He was humming along with a Delfonics song from the girl’s iPod and staring out of the windows at abandoned buildings covered from rooftop to ground floor in graffiti that appeared to be carefully designed and painted, rather than the work of random punks with spray cans. He held onto the pole with both hands. He seemed not to be in the subway car but in a private place with a look of contentment on his face. It was the same expression that my second ex-wife had when she did yoga in the morning.

I startled him when I told him that he was a brave man. I saw in his eyes that he was confused and did not know whether to ignore me, to ask me what I wanted, or, like any true New Yorker, to tell me to fuck off. I continued to make eye contact and said, “You’re a brave man to be wearing a Red Sox cap to Shea.”

He relaxed and smiled, never questioning how I knew where he was going. “Oh, I don’t think so. It’s not like going to Yankee Stadium when the Sox play. The crowds there can get rowdy. Besides, we Red Sox fans have a lot in common with you Mets fans,” he said, taking one hand off the pole long enough to point to the cap on my head. “We both hate the Yankees.”

I smiled back at him. “Good point, good point. But I don’t know, man. We snatched Pedro from under your nose. And if Manny stands at home plate admiring a home run ball to show off for all his Washington Heights homeboys, it could get ugly.”

Still smiling, he shook his head but was fading back to his own personal place with his own thoughts, not the thoughts of some joker on the subway. He turned away from me to look at the midtown Manhattan skyline that now dominated the view from the left side of the train after it had pulled away from the Courthouse Square stop. I needed to keep this conversation going.

“I’m sitting up in nosebleed country. I’m gonna need one of those guides that mountain climbers use to find my seat. But what do you expect when you decide to go at the last minute? Where are you sitting?”

He still didn’t know what to make of me but was polite. “My friend’s family has season tickets. Field level behind first base.” I knew all about the friend. I was standing in front of him because of the friend.

“Nice. I’ve sat around there a couple of times. I’ve been going to Mets games since my dad first took me when I was six. Most of the guys I know follow the teams that their dads followed. It is like an inheritance, to my mind. He was a big Brooklyn Dodgers fan. I mean, a huge fan. My mother says that when O’Malley took his team to California, my father said words that he never said before or would ever say again in all the years they were married. So growing up in a National League house it was only natural that we would follow the Mets. But if the Dodgers were in the World Series or in the playoffs, my dad, until the day he died, would root for the other team. Even if it meant rooting for the Yankees.” I whispered the last part as if I were sharing a shameful family secret.

I had hooked him just in time. The subway car was beginning to get crowded as more people going to Shea got on at Queensboro Plaza. He could have easily moved away from me to grab one of the metal railings in front of the benches of filled seats. Despite the crush of Mets fans and homebound workers boarding the car, we were still standing together like two buddies having a night out at the ballpark.

“So, your dad take you to Fenway during the glory days of Yaz?”

He flinched at the question. I thought I’d overplayed my hand and lost him. I hoped that the look on his face was just the result of a sudden burst of sunshine hitting his eyes. “No. My father never took me to a ballgame. I don’t think I ever saw a baseball game when I was growing up. My college roommate freshman year dragged me to Fenway with some of his friends because he thought I studied too much. It was love at first sight, the minute I stepped into the ballpark. After the first pitch I knew that I belonged right there. I never liked the taste of beer but must have had five that day. I loved the cheering and yelling of the crowd. I loved the hustle and grace of the players on the field. When we left and the Sox had beat Baltimore 5 to 4, I was hoarse and my hands were sore from clapping. I went to dozens of games before I graduated. I read the Globe and Herald sports pages religiously and any baseball history or biography voraciously. All these years I’ve been true to the Boston Red Sox. I never get to see the team live enough, working here. Now I have one of those cable packages that allows me to see almost every game, but it’s not the same as being in Fenway.”

I gave him a name and told him that I worked on Wall Street selling mutual funds to retail brokers. I knew enough details about this kind of job that I could BS my way through a conversation if he wanted to talk about work. I know a little about a lot of things so that I can talk to almost anybody about anything, a talent I find useful in my line of work. It would have given us something else in common, though I was certain we wouldn’t be talking shop for the rest of the ride. Only baseball.