A Memorable 1955 Night At Ebbets Field in Brooklyn

My love of baseball started in 1952 as a 10-year old. My mother and I would watch Brooklyn Dodgers games on WOR, Channel 9 in New York. She hadn't been a fan but somehow we developed something we could share.

Her father, Walter Maunton, died in October of 1918 during the influenza pandemic. The same month, his sister Lulu was taken by that ravishing illness. As many as 100 million people were killed worldwide. My grandmother was left with three children, including mother, who was two years old at the time.

Walter Maunton was a sign painter in Brooklyn. I remember being told that he knew the owner of the Brooklyn Dodgers, Charles Hercules Ebbets, who built Ebbets Field. Construction began in 1912 and the first game was played in 1913.

My grandfather painted some of the signs at Ebbets Field, I was told. I know very little else about the man and only one photo of him, that I know of, remains. It was pasted in my baby book. When my mother was in failing health in her late 80s, she said she looked forward to dying "so I can be with daddy again."

It must have been the family connection to Charles Ebbets and his ballpark that made us Dodgers fans. At the time, there were three baseball teams in the New York metropolitan area, and if you followed the game, you had to choose a team. Levittowners were mostly Dodgers or Yankees fans, and there were many arguments about the merits of our team and its players. "Duke Snider is better than Mickey Mantle!" was a favorite chant of Brooklyn rooters. Not many of us were Giants fans.

I remember a game we attended at Ebbets Field in 1955. It was a hot, humid night and sitting next to my mother was a rather large African-American woman who vociferously loved her Dodgers and especially its black players. When Jackie Robinson or Roy Campanella came to bat, she was in her glory. Junior Gilliam was one of her favorites and kept referring to the young player as "honey.”

My mother had grown up in an all white world, and 1955 Levittown wasn’t much different. She was out of her element and went out of her way to cheer for her friendly neighbor's heroes. She did not feel threatened but was more than a bit intimidated. This was a new experience.

The new experience peaked in intensity late in the game on this humid evening. Her neighbor was wearing a short-sleeved dress and was perspiring profusely. Much to my prim-and-proper mother's discomfort, Junior Gilliam's fan whipped out a huge handkerchief and started mopping her armpits. The look on mom's face, somewhere between shock and horror, was priceless.

After completing her underarm drying effort, the neighbor unfolded the damp handkerchief and spread it over her lap with more than a little to spare for mom's right leg. Well, I thought mother would pass out on the spot. Bravely she kept a stiff upper lip and did not complain. However, she gave me a furtive glance that expressed her true feelings.

My mother survived and pleasantly joked about the handkerchief incident as dad drove us home to Levittown in our 1949 Plymouth. And from then on, Junior Gilliam became one of her favorite players. "Come on Junior honey," she would yell at the black and white Admiral television screen when No. 19 strolled to home plate. Later that year, our Brooklyn Dodgers won their only World Series, edging the Yankees in seven games.

For more from Frank Barning visit his blog, "Early Levittown and Beyond":http://theworldaccordingtofrankbarning.blogspot.com/