The World Series at Yankee Stadium in '36, '37 and '38

To paraphrase W.C.Fields, 'I spent most of my money on booze, wives and my kids. The rest, I just pissed away.'

In the thirties it cost $1.10 for a right field bleacher seats in the Yankee Stadium to see the World Series games, twice the regular season price of $.55 cents and who the hell cared? We thought that we were the luckiest, fucking kids in the world just to be there.

George Selkirk was playing right field and we loved him. We could almost touch him while we shouted words of encouragement to him. Selkirk had replaced the one and only Babe Ruth. As they used to say in vaudeville, ‘How do you follow the banjo, act?

Ruth's greatest line by far, was when confronted by a reporter that he, Ruth, was making more money than the then President of the United States, Herbert Hoover. Ruth said,’ “I had a better year than he did.”

But seeing The Babe was special. He would talk to us bleacherites. He was one of us. We always watched him, with fascination, trot into the dugout, always, superstitiously, stepping on the second base bag. And he had a beautiful, rhythmic swing. He looked great, even when striking out.

Buddy and I would arrive at Yankee Stadium for the Series at around 5:00 a.m. After a bus and subway ride, leaving home at 4:00am, we would talk baseball with those around us who were also waiting to get into the Stadium. Talk isn't quite right. We would scream to argue our cases that our favorite ball players were the best in baseball at their positions.

If you couldn't name the 25 players on your favorite team, their batting averages and ERA of the pitchers, you were a really dumb schmuck to be ostracized by us geniuses. All of us waiting for the gates of heaven to open to let us into the fucking ballpark.

The only NY Giant ball players worthy of discussion with Yankee fans were Mel Ott and Carl Hubbell. The fucking Polo Grounds was in Manhattan and compared to the Yankee Stadium in the Bronx, was a 'piece of shit'. (It was later torn down because it really was a total piece of shit.) Giant fans on the waiting line, dared not open their fucking mouths about the Giants except to mention Mel Ott or Carl Hubbell.

1937 Official Program

Nobody cared that we were just early teen age kids who had hardly squeezed a tit, much less having been laid. Nah, as we used to say, we were not blued, screwed or tattooed. Young or old the only thing that mattered in that fucking line was how much baseball you really knew. And Buddy and I knew enough to be accepted by the hardnosed, know it all, bleacher based, baseball fans.

The gates into the ball park would open at around 11:00 a.m. We had been on line, screaming and shouting for 6 hours. At noon, out would come a marching band to entertain us. Then Army, Navy and Marine drill squads would strut their stuff. We were truly awe struck with their precision and the bleachers would go wild with applause after each drill. The big, rich guys in the grandstand seats which were reserved hadn't begun to arrive.

Right before the ball game started, the so called "Clown Prince of Baseball" would come out and do some stunts with a baseball in right field. He would end up at home plate with another ball player on third, and they would start to steam the ball at one another all the while closing the gap between the two. The crowd just roared with every throw, waiting for one or another of the ball players to miss and get clobbered.That never happened.

The outfielders would put on an exhibition of throwing the ball to home plate without a bounce. Myril Hoag, a little guy and center fielder, was really good at it. (In later years Joe DiMaggio would do the same.) Today's entertainment at a ball park is to watch those overpaid jerks high five one another.

To get the day's action started, Buddy and I would take the bus and the subway to the ball park. We would bring sandwiches that my Mom had made for us the night before and at least a pound of peanuts. We weren't going to get fucked at the Stadium and pay a dime for a lousy small, bag of peanuts when we could buy a pound at the grocery store for less than $.25 cents.

My Mom would give me $2.00 to cover the whole shebang; $1.10 to get into the game, 10¢ for subway carfare coming and going, and all the treats that I could get for 80¢. Hot dogs and cokes were a dime each...although we complained loudly that a dime for a fucking coke was a total rip off. But Buddy and I were in hog heaven. As happy as pigs in shit.

We didn't know that we were living in the Great Depression. We weren't just 'making do'. $2.00 gave us all that we wanted. We were living high on the hog. Watching our idols in person, waiting to get their autographs as they left the Stadium, going up to the Concourse Plaza Hotel, a few blocks from Yankee Stadium, where they stayed just to see them.

We didn't bring a baseball glove to the ball park. If you were fucking lucky enough to have a ball hit your way you were expected to catch it with your bare hands. No, one wanted to take the chance of somehow losing their hard to come by baseball glove which had been 'broke in' plus being dark from being well oiled. We would oil our glove with Mazola Oil and then tie it up with the ball in the center, to guarantee that our glove had a pocket. And looked like a major leaguer's.

As long as I didn't have to show my folks my chronically awful report card, my life, Great Depression or not, was perfect. Life was simple then.

'Those were the days, my friend.We thought they 'd never end."..Fiddler On The Roof...