On the road with Dad in Jersey and Manhattan
By Joseph W. Smith III
My dad and I share an obsession with trains, baseball and golf; so he arranged a mid-July road trip that included them all — with a little nostalgia as well.
GPS got us from Montoursville, PA, to Montclair, NJ, where my father was born in 1935; a friendly campus security driver then led the way to Montclair State University’s ballpark — and Dad sweet-talked us into a handicapped parking spot.
This involved some prevarication; Doug Smith, as you’ll soon see, is probably least handicapped 78-year-old around.
Among other things, he’s been to 234 different ballparks in his life, and he set up this trek to add a fresh pair to his tally:
Yogi Berra Stadium in Montclair, where the Can-Am League New Jersey Jackals had an 11 a.m game; and later that day, Richmond County Bank Ballpark on Staten Island, home to a New York Yankees affiliate.
Little did we know we’d picked a week when Northeast temperatures would reach triple digits.
MADE IN THE SHADE
Fortunately, Berra Stadium — named for the beloved coach who lived in Montclair for most of his career — has fine shade just below the press box, where we met up with Lloyd Ramsland, a friend and fellow ball-buff from Oradel, NJ.
It was “camp and business day,” and the spacious 3800-seat stadium was nearly overrun with kids from a dozen local day camps.
I flipped when the PA welcomed Camp KoosKoosKoos, a name that figures prominently in E. B. White’s beloved book “Trumpet of the Swan”; but despite inquiries made of staff and the Internet, I never figured out whether White borrowed the name from the camp, or vice versa.
Berra also boasts the self-styled “Trumpet Guy” — Scott Freier, who attends most games and accompanies good plays (especially strikeouts) with a resonant blast.
Scott’s horn is painted Jackal black-and-orange; his colorful business card tallies 1000-plus games, with a running total of 5,402 K-O fanfares.
My father, meanwhile, befriended a seatmate who’d traveled from Michigan to watch her 20-year-old son work as third-base umpire; they chatted cordially despite the fact that Dad had already hurled several volleys of comical abuse at the home-plate official (“That hasn’t been a strike since the Carter administration!”).
The Jackals played a handsome bout against the Newark Bears, winning on a flawless 1-3 double-play.
Dad and I then bade farewell to Lloyd and his Manhattan pal Bobby, who both planned to meet us at the Staten Island park later on.
YOU CAN GO HOME AGAIN
After a sultry stop at the house where my father was born, the two of us — both longtime rail fans — swung by the local New Jersey Transit depot, where Dad whipped out his schedule, glanced at the clock and suddenly barked, “Grab your camera and get out of the car!”
Roughly one minute later, the 2:04 was eagerly snapped by your train-starved author, whose Central Pa. home is nearly 100 miles from the nearest passenger line (Amtrak through Harrisburg).
“As far as I’m concerned, that makes us two-for-two on the day,” declared my favorite travel agent, tucking in his own camera and fishing out our reservation at the Best Western in Rahway.
This jaunt was the only time GPS fumbled, somehow navigating us to the wrong side of Routes 1 and 9; a missed turn in Jersey is no laughing matter, and we fought our way back to a tiny dead-end street that had nothing on it but our hotel — and the small but picturesque Rahway Yacht Club.
Who’d a thunk it? Central Jersey with a marina view!
Quickly depositing our bags, we hurried to Rahway’s busy NJT stop for the first leg of our Staten Island trip — a 40-minute rail ride into Manhattan.
I’d traveled this line daily in the 1980s, but the automatic ticket machines were new to me; several trains rushed by — including Amtrak at blistering speed — but we missed them as I fumbled with my credit card. (The machines also take cash.)
Best to do this on the platform, though; tickets on board cost $5 extra.
MORE THAN WE COULD CHEW
Our off-peak train was packed by the time we reached New York, having acquired countless travelers and carry-ons at the Newark Airport stop — including a young tourist from Tennessee who sat with us; he’d never been north and appeared to have brought along nothing but his camera!
It was here I began to wonder whether we — also carrying nothing but our cameras and a book or two — had bitten off more than we could chew.
Penn Station is underground, and it was paralyzingly hot — not a breath of air. As we waited in a stultifying queue for subway tickets, a middle-aged woman yelled to friends in line, “I need air!” and bolted for the stairs.
But the Old Man didn’t break a sweat; waiting calmly for tickets, he wrestled with the heat-stricken turnstiles and led us up to the 1-train platform — where we ran smack into Lloyd and Bobby on their way downtown!
Reaching South Ferry, the four of us caught the boat for Staten Island, a trip that’s free of charge both ways — the best tourist deal in New York.
The route passes Freedom Tower (built on the site of the World Trade Center), Ellis Island and the Statue of Liberty — though I was most impressed by a regal black-crowned night heron standing blithely on the pier. (An inveterate bird fan, I was shocked to have my first sight of this species on a Manhattan dock!)
Our rush-hour vessel had plenty of room for its jostling crowds (some of these ferries hold 6000 passengers), and I got a spot at the rail for 30 minutes of sun, sea breeze and stupendous sights.
EARLY TO RISE
Equally impressive was Staten Island’s ballpark, where the view past the outfield wall consists of New York’s Upper Bay, along with the Manhattan and Jersey City skylines. (A massive container ship lumbered majestically past during the fourth inning.)
The S.I. Yanks play in the New York-Penn League, and tonight were facing the Batavia Muckdogs, who won 9-8 despite a late rally by the Yanks. The game was sloppy, and besides the view, my evening highlight was a glass of Jersey-made Beach Haus pilsner, the best $7 I’ve spent in weeks.
We left early and somehow made the 9 p.m. ferry, the Old Man hustling at a speed that challenged his younger companion; a guard literally closed the entrance doors as we passed.
Though it was late on a weeknight, the boat was jammed with tourists wanting nighttime views of Liberty, Freedom Tower (lit in red, white and blue) and the ghostly Verrazano-Narrows Bridge.
Our return trip to Penn Station and Rahway was uneventful, and as we flopped into bed we could scarcely believe the day we’d had.
Which did not prevent my stalwart parent from rising before six for the traditional morning golf match that’s become a staple of our times together.
He’d found a par-three course in nearby Scotch Plains, and we were anxious to be off the fairway by nine.
I’d have been better staying off the dang thing altogether, notching all 4’s and 6’s — a pathetic performance that I’d like to blame on the scorching heat.
FOR OLD TIME’S SAKE
My father went to Rider College in Trenton, and one of his classmates, Joe Cassarella, met us for lunch at Mastori’s in Bordentown.
Joe — whom I had never met — began by describing a recent visit to the nostalgic County Theater in Doylestown, PA, for a screening of Hitchcock’s “Vertigo.”
“My all-time favorite movie!” I cried.
“Mine, too,” Joe said — the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
The three of us had soup, entrée, drink and dessert — all excellent — for a grand total of $34. Vowing to meet again, the Smiths departed for more train time.
In addition to stadiums and golf courses, Dad has an eagle eye for rail lines he’s never ridden, and Bordentown has one — NJT’s River Line, a one-hour light-rail trip between Trenton and Camden.
So named because it parallels the Delaware, this line has carried trains since 1830 — that’s right, darn near 200 years — and some of that old-time ambience surrounds the bucolic Bordentown station, where tracks curve out of the trees on one side and roll off into woods on the other.
The actual train looks more like a trolley car, and with near-silent diesel power, it clearly belongs in the 21st century. Good for two hours, tickets cost $1.50 — considerably less than the New York subway.
Arriving right on time, the train took us to Trenton, where we spent a brutally hot hour on the depot platform taking pictures — highlighted by the 1:27 arrival of Amtrak 648 from Harrisburg to New York. (We missed Amtrak’s more impressive Crescent, which was running two and a half hours late from New Orleans.)
GET OFF HERE
Dad hoped to take the River Line to Camden, where connections could be made to Philadelphia or Atlantic City if we felt up to it.
I didn’t. Unbeknownst to me when we re-boarded the railcar in Trenton, I had already been undone by the heat.
This particular River Line unit had no AC, and as we trundled south, I told the Old Man I was all in. My shirt was soaked as if it had been dipped in a swamp, and I simply could not stop sweating.
But what to do? We’d already passed Bordentown, where our car was in the lot, and were on the way to Camden 40 minutes down the line.
Believe it or not, a man in the car was selling drinks from a cooler, and I bought two while Dad once again perused his schedule.
“Grab your camera and get off here,” he barked as we pulled into Roebling, where a northbound train met us mere moments after the southbound unit disappeared; we were back at Bordentown in 10 minutes, and in another 10 were on our way home — with the temperature gauge reading 100 degrees.
MAYBE NEXT TIME
Like my father, I’ve been a journalist for decades, and I know this article is too long — but it was a labor of love, and I’d like to thank readers who toughed it out to the end.
Happy trails, Dad. Maybe we can finish that Atlantic City trip next year.
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