The Era -- Day By Day

[Fading Fast]

While we all know the Dodgers are now in LA and Seinfeld has a point that we're just rooting for laundry, there is still an echo of the Golden Era and a touch to baseball lore in this twelfth World Series meeting of the Yankees and Dodgers in 2024.

Jackie Robinson's Dodgers and Yogi Berra's Yankees met in the World Series six times from 1947-1956.

 

[LizzieMaine]

I was rooting for the Mets, but I gotta go for the Dodgers in the Series, both for history's sake and for Mookie's.

I often wonder how Joe and Sally will react thirteen years from now when the unthinkable becomes reality. Dr. Levine better clear her calendar. But the aftermath might go something like...

+++++

"S'funny," muses Joe, standing on an Empire Boulevard sidewalk on a certain warm May afternoon in 1960. "I toin aroun' an' I look down'is way, an'nit'sa same's it awrways was. Ev'ryt'ing's like it awrways was an' prob'ly's awrways gonna be. But t'en," he adds, turning around to gain a clear view of the intersection of McKeever and Sullivan, "I toin aroun'again, an'..." "I know, Pa," sighs Leonora, shaking her head at the sight of the last remaining fragments of brick and steel. "I seen stuff like'at," nods Joe, "durin'a wawr. Y'd see t'ese buildin's awl blowed up an' ya'd neveh know what t'ey useta be. But," he continues, his voice hitching with emotion, "ain' no mistakin' what 'tat useta be." Leonora nods. "I neveh thought he'd go thru with it," she declares. "Awl a bluff, I thought." "So'd ya mot'eh," sighs Joe. "She neveh give up, right t't'las'. An'nen..." "Yeh," sighs Leonora. "I wish she'da come with us t'day. There won't be nothin' left t'morra but a empty hole." "You hoid what she said," shrugs Joe. "She's neveh gonna come past heeh again. "S'fawr's she's consoined, t'eh'r awna laaaawng road trip, an' Ebbets Feel is awrways gonna be t'eh wait'n f'rm t'come back." "That's not healthy, though," observes Leonora. "In my psychology class, we..." "Ya ma ain' got oveh Coscarawrt bein' traded," notes Joe. "Y't'ink she's gonna get oveh t'is?" Leonora nods in sad agreement. "You was awrmos' bawrn inneh," Joe sighs. "I know," replies Leonora. "You awlways say that." There is a pause in the conversation as a wrecking ball swings into the last remaining bit of the rotunda, collapsing bricks and mortar into a scattered heap, as with an angry groan the last rusty framework topples. "T'at's it," observes Joe. "It's awl gone." "Let's get outa heeh, Pa," says Leonora, taking her father's arm as they turn toward Rogers Avenue. "Thezz nothin' more t'see..."

 

[Fading Fast]

..."Ya ma ain' got oveh Coscarawrt bein' traded," notes Joe. "Y't'ink she's gonna get oveh t'is?" Leonora nods in sad agreement....

Explain to me Sally in the fewest words possible.

 

[LizzieMaine]

But resuming our story in 1944...

("I still dunno 'bout t'is, Sal," sighs Alice, settling into her seat. "Absenteein' fr'm woik..." "Ev'ry day'a'ya life y'c'n go t'woik," snaps Sally, raising her glasses to peer thru a pair of Davega opera glasses toward center field, where men in sodden raincoats are fiddling with a canopied sound amplifier. "How many days inya life ya gonna get a chance t'see t'Pres'dent in poisson?" "I neveh sit in seat'is good f'ra bawl game," concedes Alice. "How'ja swing it?" "T'at cop we met comin' in," explains Sally. "Doyle t'cawp, fr'm Empieh Bouehvawrd precinc'. I useta know 'im when I was a kid. He uset'a keep'n eye awn us when we was playin' potsy." "He t' one," snickers Alice, "run ya in f'writin'at Socko an' Vaznetti stuff on choich wawls?" Sally shoots a look, and then raises the glasses again to her eyes, as Willie fidgets and Krause scans the crowd for a vendor. "Uh-oh," pipes Leonora. "S'rainin' again!" "Ahhh, t'at ain' nut'n," scoffs Sally. "T'Pres'den' useta be inna Navy." "Hey!" nudges Alice, as the center field gate swings open to admit a black convertible and the crowd explodes with a roaring cheer. "Lemme look!" she insists, snatching the glasses away from Sally. "Huh," she observes, focusing on a man in a soaked pinstripe suit, his thinning grey hair plastered to his head. "T'at don' look like t' President. You sueh t'at's him?" "O'couehse it's him," snaps Sally, grabbing the glasses back. "He don' look so good," notes Alice. "Looks sick." "He ain' sick," growls Sally. "He's tiehd. An' wet. I'd like t'see you rid'naroun' in a convoitable inna rain." "I'd put t'tawp up," mutters Alice. "What?" "Nut'n." )

("I thaaaat'chee said," growls Ma, cinching the coat tight about herself against the lashing rain, "thaat Doyle was gaaahnt'a get oos in. Look 'eer, Francis, thaaar cloosin' th' gates!" "It's yaaar oon fault," grumbles Uncle Frank in reply. "If ye hadn'a staaahpt t'wait aahn them coostomars." "Oi doon't make soo mooch money," argues Ma, jostling thru the crowd toward a uniformed functionary, "that Oi can aaffard t'tarrn away ev'n a fifteen-cent pack'a cig'rettes. YOU THARR! LET OOS BY!" "Sorry, Ma'am," shrugs the Ebbets Field Special Officer. "No moeh seats." "Francis!" snaps Ma. "Pay th' man." Uncle Frank reaches inside his coat, and blanches. "Oi can't pay th' man," he mutters. "Soombody picked me paaahcket!" "INSIDE YE COAT?" bellows Ma. She cranes her neck trying to see over the thousands of bobbing heads clustering into the rotunda. "This is r'idculous. Oi gaaahta get back t'th' stoor. What toime ye got, Francis?" "Ohhh," exhales Uncle Frank. "Oi can't tell ye. He gaaaht me waatch too!")

In Buffalo, New York, a man, his wife, and their roomer are in the psychiatric ward of Buffalo City Hospital after the two men locked the woman in a chin-to-hip chastity belt and kept her prisoner for more than three months in a bedroom. Thirty-eight-year old machinst Paul Roof told police he had padlocked his wife Gertrude in the leather and canvas garment at the instruction of their roomer, 57-year-old William Alferts, a barber and self-styled "healer," in order to "keep evil spirits away from her." The garment was locked at the waist, and closed at the bottom by a contrivance of safety pins and heavy twine covered in adhesive tape. Alfters consulted a neighborhood priest for further advice on how to keep spirits away, and the clergyman, after learning of the situation, called the police.

(Just the same, though, he probably SHOULD put the top up.)

("And once you DO get used to it, this "boogie woogie" sort of grows on you...")

(A $100 player deal? Wait till television.)

(There sure is a lot of this going around.)

("It has come to our attention that you haven't paid income tax since 1919." "But I don't have any income, except from -- ah -- I don't have any income...")

("And they didn't even settle my paid-time-off!")

(You know, most of these farmhouses get their water from wells. I just thought I'd point that out.)

(Sagging eyelids? Paranoia? Has AMERICA'S NUMBER ONE HERO DOG been nibbling on ditchweed again?)

 

[LizzieMaine]

And in the Daily News...

"Spiritual advisor."

The pollers haven't gotten to Bensonhurst yet, but the 11th District, home to Ma and Uncle Frank, is predictably strong for Mr. Roosevelt, even if an infiltrating Dewey voter DID get Uncle Frank's watch.

Horseshoes? Shouldn't he be throwing the bull?

Future senator, right there.

"All right then. Back to work!"

Hey, didn't you used to be a fortuneteller? Can't you predict what's going to happen?

The Maquis in action!

"Well, that and your mother told me two days ago."

"Oh -- ew, I forgot about that egg salad sandwich."

Well, you might as well go join the Army now.