For many years, baseball has been my constant companion. Our friendship dates back to when I was six and—stop me if you’ve heard this before—my father took me to see a game at Yankee Stadium. After what seemed like an endless journey up stairs and ramps and back down some more stairs, we found our seats. Beer in hand, Dad reverently pointed down to centerfield. And there stood his idol, the great Mickey Mantle…
That’s how my beer traveling began, with quick trips “into the city.” But by that time, the urge to travel had long been in my blood.
That was 1957. During the Fifties in the New York area, baseball was still king. And there was no better place for fans to discuss it than at their corner taverns. These were no-frills establishments, whose decor was limited to simple breweriana (which would fetch a small fortune today); a black-and-white TV with a rabbit-ears antenna; and maybe a shuffleboard table or two.
Sometimes Dad would take me to his neighborhood local (who could afford babysitters back then?) where he held court. Then, one day, I was officially admitted to the charmed circle. During a heated discussion of the upcoming World Series, a friend of Dad’s turned to me and uttered the magic words, “Well Paulie, what do you think?”
Still, my real rite of passage into manhood—actually getting to drink beer—was still some years off. At least I didn’t have to wait as long as many Americans. In those days, the legal drinking age in New York was 18. I went through another important change then. By the time I became legal, I’d shifted my baseball loyalty to the Mets. (You see, I’d been raised by a strict National League mother.)
As often as I could, I hopped a bus, then a train, and then the famous No. 7 subway to Shea Stadium. A highlight of the game was pulling out two singles and flagging down the beer man, who came over and poured me a Schaefer. Or was it a Rheingold? Both of those beers (along with Ballantine and Piels) sponsored local sports teams at one time or another.
