Where Have You Gone, Jerry Kenney?

By John J. Cox
A Resident of Woodside


Spring 1969. Forty years ago Sundays during the baseball season were special. Right after 8:00 a.m. Mass, my 7th grade buddy, Kenneth, and I, armed with baseball mitts and a five bucks apiece, would make our way to Grand Central Terminal and board the Number 4 Woodlawn train to 161st Street—Yankee Stadium. We would arrive at the players’ entrance just as most of the players did. As each Yankee crossed the street from the parking lot we dutifully hollered encouragement and begged for autographs. In those days the police barricades were set up so that the players had only a narrow pathway across the street and into the stadium. You could get so close to the players that you’d be able to tell if they had shaved that morning or not. We were particularly eager to see Bobby Murcer and Jerry Kenney, two prospects who had returned from military service and were now the face of the new Yankees. (Mickey Mantle had retired that spring.)

Not until we were certain that every player had arrived did we even turn our attention to buying tickets. There was no need to purchase tickets in advance, unless, of course, such special events as Old Timers’ Day or Bat Day had been scheduled. And with five dollars apiece there was no need to resign ourselves to the lowly Bleachers which cost 75 cents. Oh no, we could do better than that. So we’d line up at a ticket booth and pluck down $1.50 for a grandstand seat. Not only would this afford us shelter in the event of poor weather and permit us to visit the small Yankee Hall of Fame which then was located under the right field stands, but more importantly, it gave us closer access to the field and players before the game started and before we’d be forced to surrender our spots to those wealthy enough to pay as much as $4.00 for a box seat up close to the field.

Once through the gate and into the Stadium we raced to the lower right field stands. In those days the gates opened early so you would be able to watch both teams take batting practice. Our mission was simple: To position ourselves in the stands where we stood a fair chance of snaring a ball. Alas, it what was not to be that season, though the following year we finally had some luck. I caught one hit by Frank Tepedino and Kenneth caught one hit by Curt Blefary. I can’t recall anything of more importance that happened to us that year.

On Sundays the teams frequently played doubleheaders. Now I’m not talking about today’s idea of a doubleheader where after the first game everyone must leave so that a new crowd with different tickets can be seated. Back then a doubleheader was a doubleheader: two games for the price of one.

When the first game started our grandstand admission required us to take seats in the upper deck. However, by the fourth or fifth inning, after scouring the lower stands for such opportunities, we would note which seats close to the field remained unoccupied and we would move downstairs. When the usher responsible for the section of seats we had set our sights on turned his back or was otherwise distracted, we scampered like mice down the aisle and slunk into the empty seats. Then we held our breath for a bit hoping the usher hadn’t seen us or that some other patron hadn’t ratted us out. If we survived an inning we were home free.

During the games we were ever alert for the possibility of snaring a foul ball. And between games we’d have a hot dog and a couple of sodas. As the day wore on and the second game neared conclusion we’d secretly hope that the losing team (usually the Yankees that year) would tie the game so we could stay for extra innings. Either way, when the last game finally ended our excursion was not yet over. We would race down the ramps and out the exits so we could get a good spot to watch the players as they left. And there we would stand, as we did before the game, until we were sure that every player had left the ballpark.

Then we would get back on the subway and head for home. Our parents never worried or complained, even though we were frequently gone for a dozen hours or more. And after roundtrip subway fare, ticket expense, and hot dogs and soda, we came home with change to spare from the five bucks.

Until last year I had been to at least one Yankee game every season--some years I was there a couple of dozen times--for well over 40 years. As the Yankees and the Mets open this season in spanking new, state of the art stadiums, with big name players and big payrolls, I wonder if I'll ever see a game in either place. Not because most tickets are obscenely expensive (although that is certainly reason enough), and not because today's baseball stars are grossly overvalued (if the market can bear it so be it), but because today's experience of what the game has become is no match for my memory of what that experience once was.