AN ARTICLE FROM THE BASEBALL
MAGAZINE:AUGUST
PORTRAIT OF A PHILLIES
GREAT
The first thing you sense
is the mixed smells of popcorn, taffy, frankfurters with mustard and the
acidic smell of sauerkraut, caramel corn, and then there are the electric
bowling machines, the glass incased Gypsy Fortune Teller (wide eyed with
a malicious grin on her face) who will tell you your fortune for a nickel,
pin ball machines ring-tingling away, ping pong tables with a consant back
and forth flow of bodies and ball, miniature basketball lanes incased in
long rows with balls plunking in and off the rims of baskets. Surrounding
everything are glass cases filled with miniature Statue Of Liberty’s
and Empire State Building’s with King Kong climbing them, pins with
pictures of Niagara Falls, movie stars like Tyrone Power, Linda Darnell,
Chaplin, Betty Grable, sports pictures, picture postcards of the Adirondacks,
the White House, Lincoln, F.D.R, Herbert Hoover, vacuous looking Kewpie Dolls,
Mickey Mouse watches-glasses and dolls, T-shirts, miniature chocolate bars
wrapped with pictures on New York State, Hula girl figures who’s skirts
rise up when you press a button and more, more.
THIS
IS HUBERTS PLAYLAND ON 42ND ST. AND BROADWAY, & IT’S
1948, 3 YEARS AFTER WW2.
Across the way is the
hurly–burly of people, and around and about are movie houses (The Victoria,
The Paramount, Trans Lux, Roxy, The Palace, Radio city Music Hall), large
cavernous restaurants like Hectors, Romeo’s, Jack Dempsey’s, and
the best place of them all-Horn and
Hardart. Directly opposite
Hubert’s is a large newsstand with a small heavy-set man behind the
counter. His face is full-fleshed, a cigar hangs from his lips, and he keeps
announcing, “Indian Leader, Mahatma Gandhi feared assassin-ated early
this afternoon”. Hanging from paper clips and on the counter are newspapers
such as The World Telegram and Sun, The Herald Tribune, The Daily Mirror
and The Daily News, The New York Times, The Brooklyn Eagle and dwarfing them
are the magazines. Life, Look, Coronet, Saturday Evening Post, Ladies Home
Companion, Argosy, Field and Stream, Boy’s Life, Readers Digest, Mechanix
Illustrated, Photoplay, Movie Stories.
Coming in through a back
entrance was a stoop shouldered man dressed in a brown sweater (shirt collar
half in and half out), well worn dark trousers, scuffed shoes, and a dark
blue cap with the letter “P” embroidered on it. Holding the banister
tightly, he climbs the stairs with a shuffling, slow gait and walks into
the second floor above Huberts main gallery. Half the room is filled with
two bowling lanes. Limping over to a platform, he passes several rows of
canvas chairs half filled with men in their 40’s, 50’s, and 60’s.
Women are there as well holding children, some of which are wearing baseball
caps and holding baseball gloves by their sides. He goes up to the platform
and from the audience someone calls out, “Pete, you were the best.”
He sits down and waves to the people below him. His hair is thinning and
grey. There are cobwebbed lines jig-jagging down from around his eyes and
snaking to his mouth and then descending into a jumble across his neck. Behind
him is a large, clumsily taped poster of Bing Crosby with an air-brushed
aura surrounding his face, holding a cigarette in his hand, talking about
smooth, mild, Chesterfield Cigarettes. Next to it is an even larger poster
of Ted Williams in a pilots uniform, drinking a Coca
Cola.
He takes a pack of Raleighs
from his pocket, leans back into his chair and with unsteady hands, lights
up. Leaning forward, he smiles thinly, and begins to talk. Once again he
is striking out Tony Lazarri in the World Series (and candidly mentions that
he was hung over from the night before). Once again he is back to his brilliant
days with the Phillies, again he is seeing action in WW1. He stops for a
moment, wipes his forehead and mouth with a handkerchief, smiles as a baby
begins to cry, and then goes on. There is mention of his loss of hearing,
he talks about his epileptic fits which he managed to keep hidden while he
was in the game and asks his audience to be kind to him if it happens now.
He lights up another cigarette and takes a sip from a glass of orange juice
on a table next to him. He goes on and mentions that he has been off the
bottle for years. He finishes, signs some autographs, pose for pictures with
kids on his lap and slowly goes down the stairs.
He is met by a small, thin
women wearing a peacock hat and supporting herself with a cane. They walk
away together and two years later Grover Cleveland Alexander will be dead
from war wounds, epilepsy, and heavy drinking.
