‘My Older Brother Made Sure That I Grew Up to Be a Yankees Fan’

Yankees Cap

Dear Diary:

I was raised in Los Angeles, but my older brother made sure that I grew up to be a Yankees fan. And when I moved to New York for graduate school in 1997, he gave me a Yankees cap to wear in my new hometown.

I proudly wore my hat all over, signaling that I shared something with New Yorkers and that I was one of them.

I had the cap on one night when I went to the drugstore. As the young man behind the register rang up my items, he looked at me.

“Nice hat,” he said.

I thanked him, satisfied that I’d made another local ally.

“What does the N.Y. stand for?” he asked. “Is it for Neil Young?”

“It’s a Yankees cap,” I said, “for the New York Yankees, the baseball team.”

The man looked into my eyes with an irritated expression.

“What’s wrong with Neil Young?” he said.

— Allison Magee

Inside Out

Dear Diary:

I was riding the subway uptown with my sister. A young man interrupted us as we were talking.

“Excuse me,” he said to me. “Your sweatshirt is on inside out. I hope you don’t mind that I told you.”

I thanked him and said I was happy that it wasn’t anything worse.

“At least you weren’t wearing your shoes on the wrong feet,” an older man sitting nearby said.

Then a woman who overheard the conversation said she had once left home with laundry sticking out of her back pocket, where it stayed until someone was nice enough to tell her.

What an unexpected and pleasant subway ride.

— Tam Freeman

Making Tracks

Dear Diary:

In the early 1990s, when I was 7 or so, my Uncle Jack came from Massachusetts to live in our basement in Kew Gardens, Queens. I didn’t know the circumstances of what brought him to our house and I still don’t, but I remember our weekends vividly.

On Fridays after school, I would spread a subway map out on the kitchen table, and we would plan a Saturday adventure.

It always started with us walking down to Jamaica Avenue to catch the J train. We usually ended up at an arcade in Coney Island. But how we got there, the in-between, was what I lived for. We called these outings “making tracks.”

We would ride mostly in silence, me staring out the window, Uncle Jack sitting with his legs crossed at the knee, content, I think. On the way home, we would stop for pepperoni slices at Alfie’s Pizzeria in Richmond Hill.

Uncle Jack died some years ago. He was not a social person, and I’m not sure anyone ever fully knew him. But he was loved, and he is missed. I wish I had made more of an effort to keep in touch after I left for college.

But I will never forget those Saturdays, and I’d like to think Uncle Jack is still making tracks.

— Julian Dayal

Making Change

Dear Diary:

The sky was an azure blue as I stood on Fifth Avenue. Nearby, the plaza and steps outside the Metropolitan Museum of Art were filled with people enjoying the beautiful afternoon weather.

Having worked through lunch to make a deadline, I was famished, so I stopped at a hot dog cart.

The older woman in front of me was ordering a hot dog and a bottled water.

“That’ll be $11,” the vendor said.

The woman handed him a $20 bill.

“Do you have a single?” he asked.

“No, I don’t,” she said, sounding a bit put out.

“I have a dollar,” I volunteered, offering it to her.

“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” she said. “I have no way to pay you back.”

“No worries,” I said. “It’s a gift.”

“Well, thank you,” she said, slightly flustered. “You’ve made my day.”

“Happy to help,” I said, “Just pay it forward!”

She walked away, and I ordered a hot dog and a bottled water for myself. I handed the vendor a $20 bill and a single and then stuffed the change in a pocket rather than fumble for my wallet.

It wasn’t until I was on the train home that I pulled out the change to put it in my wallet. The vendor had given me a $10 bill and a single for the one I gave to the woman in front of me.

— Maureen McCormick