Memoir

When the Dodgers Left Brooklyn My Father Acted Like a Zombie

They were like a second family to him

My father, being a creature of habit, was so regular that one could set a clock by him. Every day he got up at the same time, shaved, doused himself with Old Spice, ate breakfast, then left for work carrying the same lunch in a brown paper bag — the same items he’d been eating for years. Home each night at the same time, but on weekends, it was the ballgame — the Brooklyn Dodgers, to be exact.

Before we had a TV, he listened to them on the radio, but once our first black-and-white came in, he would never miss watching a game, leaving his green chair only during the seventh-inning stretch.

Even though his other favorite activity was playing handball with his buddies, he would schedule that around the Dodgers’ games, as they came first, always making sure he was in front of the TV with a huge bag of Wise Potato Chips, a 6-pack of Rheingold beer, and a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes in his green recliner.

What I remember most is not being allowed to bother him in any way, shape, or form. We couldn’t be in the living room while the game was on. I also remember the announcers’ annoying voices as they bantered back and forth, recapped every move, then commented. They could be heard throughout the whole apartment as my father kept the TV at high volume.

Over them would be the loud cheers of the crowd, which became background noise for us kids, and, of course, my father almost jumping out of his chair and yelling at the players as if he were in the stands.

Yes, he loved the Brooklyn Dodgers as if they were his own flesh and blood. He knew all their names and successes and memorized every home run ever hit by whom and when.

It’s enough to make a grown man cry

One day, out of the blue, it seemed, it was announced that the Dodgers were leaving Brooklyn and being sent to California. If ever a grown man cried without tears, it was my father. He became a zombie.

He went through four out of the five stages of grief, first denying it was going to happen. When he realized it was true, he went through anger, complained to anyone who would listen or share his grief, and became edgy and grumpy toward all of us.

There was no bargaining, of course, so he quickly moved into depression and stayed there for a long time before finally reaching acceptance. He moped around the house as if he had lost his best friend. He was dumbfounded. He went through the motions, but he wasn’t present. The life went right out of him.

When there was something on the news about it, he would ask, rhetorically to no one but the TV or radio, “Why? Why?”

We were surprised, too. They were the Brooklyn Dodgers; how could they leave Brooklyn? And what was my father going to do with his weekends during baseball season? Would he take us to see our grandmother more often, play games with us, or watch more horror flicks, which we all loved? What would he do?

Time to pick a new team

It took a while for him to recover, and I have to say I was sad for him, even though it was nice not to hear all that noise from the games. We knew it was something he loved, and he was devastated.

Nonetheless, being the creature of habit that he was, my father had to get back in front of the TV with his 6-pack of beer, a pack of cigarettes, and a bag of potato chips, and soon realized he had to pick a new team.

It had to be another New York or Brooklyn team, but at that time there was only the New York Yankees, who had been around for a while and played against his beloved Dodgers many times. He felt that would be disloyal and could not start following them.

Occasionally, he would watch some other type of sport on TV, but his heart wasn’t in it. And then, in 1962, the New York Mets came on the scene. Ah, yes, it would be like watching children grow and develop like he did the Dodgers; there was no feeling of being disloyal involved, and he could go back to his old habits.

And that he did. We weren’t thrilled with all the noise again, but you know what they say, you don’t miss something until you lose it. We were happy to hear the old familiar sounds of the announcers and cheering crowds, and we were glad he was back doing what he loved to do, even though it was never quite the same for him.

There was very little yelling at the game now, just watching and complaining about how they’d never be as good as the Dodgers. Maybe not. But the Mets are still around, and so are the Yankees, and so are the “Brooklyn” Dodgers out in California, and life goes on.

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