Batting Practice
Dear Diary:
It was July 1984. My brother and I had just landed in New York from Paris. It was our first trip to the United States, and we were standing outside Yankee Stadium.
It was hot, really hot, and we had only one thing on our mind: to see Don Mattingly or Dave Winfield take batting practice.
Under the cool, dark overhangs inside the stadium, we could hear the sharp “shlacks’’ of balls being hit before even seeing batters in the cage.
We climbed the shadowy stairs up to the empty stands along the third base line. Then, sudden light. The grass was a fluorescent green.
No sooner had we stepped into the sun when there was another “shlack’,” and we saw a foul ball flying our way.
It took one bounce before my brother blocked it with his stomach like a genuine third baseman. Welcome to the Yankees.
That night, back in our room, he lifted his shirt. The red seams of the ball were etched into his skin.
He smiled.
— Pierre Callewaert
Gesundheit
Dear Diary:
I was walking up Second Avenue behind a man with a chubby, curly haired, black and white dog.
Suddenly, the man gave a loud sneeze. The dog stopped in its tracks and looked up at him.
“Sorry,” the man said before the two of them continued on their leisurely stroll.
— Sarah Jung
Planting, Interrupted
Dear Diary:
We had recently moved into a prewar apartment in Chelsea when I volunteered to do the plant containers and window boxes in front of the building.
I missed working in what I considered to be a traditional garden as I had done at our old house in New Orleans, but I was apprehensive about creating my floral vision on a busy New York street.
The possibility of people bothering me as they walked by made me ill at ease. For me, gardening had always been a private and quiet activity.
“Well,” my husband said, “at least you’ll get to play in the dirt again.”
Putting on my headphones to discourage the possible interruptions of passers-by, I got down to business.
When the plants and flowers were finally in place I stood back on the sidewalk, sweaty and dirty, to admire what I’d done.
A dapper young man stopped and looked at my arrangements and then at me, as if he wanted to say something.
Slightly annoyed, I took off my headphones.
“That’s beautiful,” he said. “If you were in Brooklyn, you’d definitely win their flower box contest.”
I smiled. His compliment had quickly changed my sour attitude.
“Really?” I said. “Thank you!”
Later that day, an older man smiled as he looked at me and my floral creation.
“I’d marry you if I wasn’t already married,” he said. We both chuckled.
The next week, a woman stopped to admire my display while I was watering.
“I started walking down this street just to see your flowers,” she said.
I don’t wear my headphones anymore.
— Jeannie Glisson
Pet Cemetery
Dear Diary:
I was in Manhattan and needed a taxi to get me to Grand Central Terminal so I could catch a train to Hartsdale, where I was supposed to give a speech at a canine cemetery celebrating its 100th year of operation.
Coming from Texas, it was my first time in the New York City. When a taxi pulled over, I opened the passenger door and was stunned to see that every inch of the dashboard and back shelf were covered with bobblehead dog figurines.
Unable to contain my surprise, I told the driver where I was headed and why. We soon pulled up to Grand Central, and I paid the fare.
The driver refused to take a tip. Instead, he got out of the cab, and then he reached back inside to pull one of the figurines off the dashboard.
“I love dogs, too,” he said, giving me a little hug and pressing the pup into my hand.
— Mary Thurston
Bagel Banter
Dear Diary:
I was coming up the stairs at the 79th Street subway station on my way to Zabar’s.
There was an older gentleman in front of me who was climbing slowly, one step at a time.
I asked if he wanted any assistance.
“No,” he said. “I’m fine.”
I decided to keep him company as he made his way up the stairs. He turned toward me.
“Where are you going,” he asked.
“Zabar’s,” I said.
“So, what are you going to get?”
“Smoked fish.”
“So, what kind?”
“Sturgeon.”
“On a bagel or rye bread?”
“You know,” I said, pausing for a moment, “just a plain bagel.”
By now, we had gotten to the top of the stairs and were walking toward the market, and he wasn’t done with the questions.
“Cream cheese?” he asked as we went inside and prepared to part ways.
“I like to spread the fish on a bagel without anything,” I said, “so I get the full flavor of the fish.”
“Oh,” he said. “A perfectionist.”
— Art Resnikoff
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