Clipped

Retroactive Demand

The sky was overcast and drizzling off and on, as if deciding whether to rain or not. The black clouds intermittently let loose with a quaint burst of thunder to punctuate the dreariness of the day. The line of cars entering the parking lot was five blocks long, and moving slower than the people on the sidewalk. But none of this put a damper on the moods of the fans headed to Keyspan Park—for baseball had come back to Brooklyn.

A chill wind was rolling in off the water, where polluted waves crashed over litter-strewn sand. The beach was empty, save for two foolhardy teens in open button-down shirts and cargo shorts tossing a Frisbee back and forth through the briny air. Holding on to the last vestiges of warm weather, they launched the disc, ran it down, and snagged it with the single-mindedness that only oblivious teenagers can produce.

Couples walked the boardwalk huddled together for warmth, hair whipping backwards, shielding their faces from the wind. A forty-something bald man with a full beard—Chasid style—sat on a bench, jacket open and flapping. The amusement parks had shut down for the day, save the clackety-clack of the Cyclone’s ten cars going up, up, and then down, and then up again. There were muffled screams whenever someone went down the first drop. It’s a doozy.

The stadium was beginning to fill. People made their way across the parking lot, trying not to get splashed by the cars that went up and down the rows, searching for spots that were increasingly harder to come by. The Team Store was under the stairs that led up to the stands. They were sold out of fitted caps again. Supply may never meet the fifty years of retroactive demand.

The ticket takers are all seventy plus. The old men have a gleam in their eye. Baseball in Brooklyn is not a novel concept to them. They remember back when “Wait ‘til next year!” was the rallying cry of a borough, and not the rebuilding promise of small-market teams hoping to home-grow the talent they can’t afford.

The grandstand wraps around the ballpark- souvenir stands and bathrooms behind, the bustling stands below. With capacity for only 6,500 fans, every seat is field level. The Dippin’ Dots® (“Ice cream of the future”) stand is on the extreme right of the stadium. There is a line three people long. A father is at the front, fumbling for money as he tries to manage the four-year-old in one arm, his wallet in the other, and the seven-year-old tugging on his pants. Only when a dad leaves mom at home to take the kids to a ballgame do you see ice cream purchased on a rainy day. The cries and tugs of, “But- You PROM-ised!!” win out over reason every time.

The teenaged program vendors hawk wares with a passion. Getting paid on commission will do that. But it’s no matter. The programs would be scooped up anyway. It takes some work to dump off the golf pencils. They are sometimes given away three at a time.

Lightning strikes the water off in the distance. A clap of thunder follows, and the drizzle begins to come down steadily- nice and even, nothing that will stop the game. The voice of the PA announcer echoes through the stadium, and the buzz in the stands settles to quiet tension. The national anthem is sung, the crowd cheers, and the ump calls, “Play Ball!” as 6,500 fans ease in to 6,500 red plastic chairs and focus their gaze on the diamond.

Baseball has come back to Brooklyn.