Saturday, October 25, 1986, a few minutes before midnight.

Why did Sean Phelan think anyone would surrender a ticket to Game Six of the World Series in New York City when history was on the line?

He gave it the old college try earlier in the evening, showing up alone, two hours before first pitch carrying a sign with “NEED ONE” scrawled in blue marker.

There were a few curious inquiries, but nothing serious. In the end, the $158.99 in his wallet and jeans pocket—cash he needed to survive till payday on the 30th of the month—wasn’t enough to get him inside the stadium he’d been visiting since his fourth birthday, a place that felt like home as much as the house he grew up in.

The best he could do was a spot at the railing on the ramp that led to the Shea Stadium-Willets Point stop on the 7 Line. That perch afforded a clear view into the ballpark, over the New York Mets bullpen beyond the right field wall, and down the first baseline to home plate.

Maybe it was for the best, he thought; he was standing there cheek to jowl with the sort of people who sat inside the stadium from April to September, but found themselves on the outside looking in during October baseball.

It was, as genteel Manhattanites might say, a “bridge and tunnel crowd.”

High school classmates and track athletes from Rosedale, Brian and Wendell bummed a ride to Flushing from a neighbor headed into the city. Brian, a sprinter with a slight build that obscured his athletic talent, stood a shade under 5’6” even if you counted his afro. Wendell, who favored a closer cropped cut that pleased his Army veteran father, topped out at 6’2” and looked like he was ready for the Olympic Track and Field Trials.

Rosie was a Puerto Rican girl from Jackson Heights studying to be a pharmacist at LIU in Brooklyn. Somewhere else looking for food was Ramón, her hustling boyfriend. Mornings, he drove his own truck, picking up and dropping off linens for corporate dining rooms on Wall Street, circling between Lower Manhattan and a storefront in Bellerose Village where they were washed and folded.

After getting a closer look at Rosie’s dark hair and eyes, Sean hoped Ramón would find a way to get lost, permanently.

Rosie arrived at the park with Ramón on the 7 Line, as opposed to Sean, who had come in on the LIRR direct from Douglaston, where he parked his beat-up Corolla, avoiding the infamous “change at Jamaica.” Sitting on the train he met Bruce and Linda, a couple from Great Neck who, just like him, didn’t have tickets, but after taking a shot at scalping a pair and failing, found a place on the railing too.

Rosie, getting comfortably/uncomfortably close, was to Sean’s immediate right, with Brian peering over her shoulder. Wendell, high above the crowd, was directly behind Sean. Linda was to his left, with Bruce behind her, arms wrapped around her chest to keep the two of them warm as the game time temperature in the low 50s steadily dropped to near 40 degrees as the evening wore on.

The attraction wasn’t Sean’s personality, it was his Sony Watchman portable television. Not more than the size of a brick, it boasted a two-inch black-and-white screen and a tinny speaker. Sean stashed it inside his leather jacket to follow the game on the radio by earphone, but planned to break it out if the game reached extra innings.

It had been an excruciating night, with Boston on the verge of clinching their first World Series since 1918. At the same time, Sean thought, the Mets were lucky it got this far after dropping the first two games at Shea before reviving their fortunes winning two out of three at Boston’s Fenway Park.

New York threatened in the ninth, but Lenny Dykstra flew out to Jim Rice in left field to end the inning with Ray Knight, representing the winning run, stranded on second. The game went into extra innings tied 3-3.

Out came the television and in came the crowd. Close. Real close.

Leveraging his three years of high school Spanish, Sean decided it was time to…

“Dónde está Ramón?” asked Sean.

“No lo sé,” said Rosie.

Sean thought he saw the hint of a smile.

“Qué lástima,” Sean replied through a grin.

“Muy bien hecho,” Brian interjected.

Wanting to take it down a notch, Rosie said “Take it easy, gringos, I was born in Newark.”

Brian was not taking that lying down, “Con permiso, no soy gringo.”

Linda, a veteran of two Spring Breaks working in an East LA soup kitchen, tried to stifle a laugh and failed, inspiring Bruce to lean in and steal a peck on her cheek.

“That’s enough,” Wendell interjected, patting Brian on his shoulder. “We’re all on the same side, at least until the end of the game.””

Even though Sean was occupied with adjusting the antenna on one hand, and doing his best to flirt with Rosie on the other, that crack didn’t escape his notice. It caught him off guard; he hadn’t gotten any threatening vibes off the kid all night long.

What was different now? It didn’t help that three weeks before, his kid brother was mugged on an E Train arriving at 179th Street, losing his jacket and wallet.

He made a mental note; after the final out, stow the TV in his jacket, cut behind the couple from Great Neck, slip into the crowd and beat feet for the LIRR station.

Get the train back to Douglaston, and find the boys for a beer at The Weeping Beech.

Rosie would need to find Ramón by herself. Dammit.

Rosie edged nearer to Sean to get a better view of the Watchman. Underneath a battered brown leather jacket, Sean wore a red hooded sweatshirt that read: St. John’s University Redmen.

“You look a little old for an undergrad,” she said.

That got his attention. He smiled.

“That’s because I’m in law school,” he said. “In my second year.”

He could have said 2L, but he knew it made him sound like a pretentious prick.

Peter Gabriel’s “Sledgehammer” blared from Shea Stadium’s sound system, and Sean finally got the antenna angle right to catch Channel 4 clearly.

The voice of Vin Scully squeaked out of the Watchman’s speaker:

“This telecast presented with the authority of Major League Baseball may not be reproduced or re-transmitted in any form without the express written consent of Major League Baseball.”

Sean made a mental note to register for Copyright Law in the spring.

Leading off the tenth was centerfielder Dave Henderson, hero of the American League playoff series against the California Angels. Scully narrated as NBC replayed the home run that saved Boston’s season.

“—The Sox were one strike away from being eliminated when Henderson took a Donnie Moore pitch and hit it out.”

Rick Aguilera, who pitched a scoreless ninth for the Mets, came back for the top of the tenth inning.

Aguilera’s first pitch was a fastball right over the plate.

Henderson swung late. Strike one.

Bruce spoke up. “If Rick is on any other team he wins 15 games. But he’s stuck behind Gooden, Darling, Ojeda and Fernandez and gets fewer starts. He’s gonna be great.”

Everyone heard Henderson hit the next pitch before they saw Aguilera throw it on the tiny screen. Sean didn’t need to see it, the solid crack of the ball off the bat said it all.

It was gone.

Was it a hanging breaking ball or a hanging slider?

Only Aguilera and catcher Gary Carter knew for sure.

But what was certain: Henderson swung and didn’t miss.

The ball traveled in a high arc toward deep left field. Mookie Wilson drifted back, but it caromed off the auxiliary scoreboard and bounced back onto the outfield grass.

Home run. 4-3 Boston.

Scully interjected: “A note on Rick Aguilera, he gives up the most home runs on the staff.”

“One every nine innings, to be precise,” added Bruce.

Thanks for nothing, stat boy, thought Sean.

Here and there you could hear the cheers. Refugees from Lewiston, Burlington, Hampton, Medford, Warwick and Bridgeport, exorcising nearly seventy years of baseball demons at New York’s expense.

The enemy was inside the gates.

Aguilera shook off the Henderson home run, striking out shortstop Spike Owen and Boston pitcher Calvin Schiraldi, who would be back to pitch the bottom of the tenth.

Up next came the chicken man, third baseman Wade Boggs.

He doubled to the left-center field gap over Mookie’s outstretched glove.

The PA announced the next hitter: “Now batting, second baseman, Marty Barrett.”

“They can’t get this guy out, can they?” said Wendell from the back.

“Nope,” said Bruce. “And there’s no excuse for it either.”

He singled up the middle, centerfielder Dykstra sailed the throw home over Carter’s head, Boggs scored and Barrett advanced to second on the throw.

Scully hit it home on NBC. “It’s 5-3, Red Sox. And what a big run that was.”

The “chowderheads” were eating it up.

Aguilera got out of the inning but the damage was done.

The gathering started to take on the feel of a funeral, with some of New York’s sunshine patriots taking the cue to beat the crowds back to mass transit. But the small knot clustered around Sean and the Watchman grew tighter.

“Thirty-nine times,” said Bruce. “Thirty-nine times the Mets have come back to win this season.”

He’s wearing me out, thought Sean, straining not to lash out at Bruce.

“Why not forty?” Linda replied.

“Ya gotta believe!” shouted Wendell, borrowing the rallying cry from the 1973 Mets.

It helped lift everyone’s mood, at least for a few moments.

Then came the bottom of the tenth.

Wally Backman, a Mets spark plug, hit a fly ball to Rice in left field.

One out.

Keith Hernandez drove a shot to the edge of the warning track in centerfield.

Henderson did a joyous shuffle as he caught the ball and fired it back to the infield.

Two out.

On the screen, everyone could see the Red Sox already celebrating in the dugout.

The Mets were down to their last out.

Deep inside Shea Stadium, the operator of the DiamondVision screen prematurely flashed the message, “CONGRATULATIONS, RED SOX,” before pulling it down.

Pouring out of the stadium speakers came the canned cavalry charge the team used to gig the crowd and help spark a rally. It fell flat.

Carter stepped to the plate.

“Hi, I’m Gary Carter and I’m better than you,” said Bruce.

“I’ve got news for you pal, he’s better than all of us,” snapped Sean, immediately regretting it.

“Gary Carter loves the baby Jesus,” said Brian, through a hearty laugh.

“What’s wrong with the baby Jesus?” Rosie replied, giving Brian a reproachful glance.

“Nothing!” exclaimed Wendell. “We all love the baby Jesus! Hallelujah!”

“I heard baby Jesus was cute,” Linda said. “He got lots of gifts for his first birthday.”

That Linda was quite the find, Sean thought, and more than Bruce deserved. He prayed the Almighty would appreciate the moment of ecumenical levity.

Which was when the baby Jesus delivered.

Carter, line drive single to left field. Still alive.

“And the congregation said Amen!” shouted Wendell amidst a smattering of cheers.

Everyone strained to watch the hit on the screen, but gradually it started to shrink.

In a moment, it disappeared altogether.

“Looks like you’re out of juice, friend,” Brian said.

“No worries, I got a backup battery pack.”

While Sean was changing out the power pack, the PA announcer filled the white space.

“Your attention please, batting for the pitcher, Kevin Mitchell.”

The rookie who played everywhere hit a line drive single to left-center. Carter to second.

We had a chance. Maybe one we didn’t deserve, Sean thought, but we did anyway.

Sean clipped in the new battery pack, and he noticed Brian holding out a fist for a bump.

“Hey man, thanks for letting everyone invade your space,” said Brian.

“No problem,” said Sean, obliging him before turning back to fiddle with the antenna.

Third baseman Knight stepped to the plate.

During Game Five in Boston, Red Sox fans heckled Mets right fielder Daryl Strawberry with chants of “DARYL. DARYL. DARYL,” prompting Strawberry to derisively tip his cap to the crowd. But now the shoe was on the other foot, and the locals serenaded the Boston reliever and former New York Mets pitcher with a vengeful glee.

“CALVIN. CALVIN. CALVIN,” echoed across the stadium.

While the group was straining to see Knight step to the plate, in the NBC booth, Scully and his partner Joe Garagiola, were watching a camera trained on the Red Sox bullpen.

“Sambito and Stanley are standing in the bullpen for John McNamara, but neither man is throwing,” Scully said, referring to the Red Sox manager.

Back on the field, Knight took strike one over the middle of the plate; and then chopped a grounder up the third baseline that Boggs let roll foul.

The game, the Series, and the entire season were down to the last strike.

“That Ray Knight is one tough son of a bitch,” said Bruce to no one in particular.

As Schiraldi fired the next pitch, Sean felt a hand gently squeezing his right bicep.

Schiraldi hung the ball over the center of the plate, and Knight, swinging his bat like a samurai sword, drove it softly into right center field for a third straight single.

From their perch on the ramp, it was easy to identify Carter, who was moving on the pitch, round third and score. Meanwhile, the figure of Mitchell disappeared behind the scoreboard as he advanced to third.

It was 5-4, and Queens was stirring again. The roar emanating from Shea Stadium bristled with the energy of a cell block of prisoners getting sprung from solitary.

Emerging from the Boston dugout, McNamara had seen enough, waving his right hand to signal the bullpen to send in the rubber-armed righty, Bob Stanley.

Which was when Sean felt someone muscle in between Rosie and Brian.

“Hey brutha, cahn I get in theah and take a look?” came a voice from behind.

Sean instinctively pulled away and faced the interloper, a guy about 30 years old, wearing a gray Boston road jersey and ball cap, dark hair curling out back in a mullet.

He looked the guy straight in the eye and felt a fight coming. It would be close.

“I don’t think so pal. Why don’t you keep your hands to yourself?” said Sean, shielding the Watchman from the man with his right shoulder.

“Aw come ahn, let me take a look. I wanna see who’s warmin’ up,” he said, Sean smelling the Budweiser in between sprays of spittle. “Don’t be a pussy.”

“Man said no. Do we need to tell you twice?” said Brian with a touch too much edge.

Sean could see Wendell tense up. Bruce and Linda slowly edged away.

Rosie, boxed in between the Red Sox fan, Brian, and Sean, just looked scared.

“So these are your friends, huh? These are the sort of people you hang with? Where are your people from?” said the refugee from somewhere outside Dorchester.

“What the Hell does that have to do with anything?” Sean said.

His grandfather was from Derry and served a stretch in Cavan Prison with Éamon de Valera, but this guy could piss up a rope.

“Young man, I think that’s quite enough,” said a voice booming from behind.

The Masshole spun and found himself staring at a police name tag: PALERMO.

“Son, you might have a right to be here, as long as I don’t determine that you’re interfering with the flow of foot traffic to the stadium,” said the NYPD Sergeant.

“Hey, I’m just watching the game, I’m not causing any trouble,” said the man.

“I might charge you with disorderly conduct, public drunkenness, and even petit larceny. I could ruin your whole day,” said the Sergeant, who let his 6’4” frame do the talking.

“That’s bullshit. My brother’s a cop, you can’t get away with that.”

Palermo was nonplussed. “I’m guessing you won’t be arraigned till Monday afternoon at the earliest because judges don’t work weekends. And trust me, Queens Central Booking isn’t as pleasant as the rest of Kew Gardens.”

The Masshole got quiet.

Palermo continued. “Young man, have we come to a peaceful resolution?”

The man nodded and walked toward a knot of Boston fans a few paces away.

The Sergeant touched his right forefinger to the brim of his hat and said, “Carry on.”

“Thank you Officer Friendly,” said Wendell through a smile.

“So that’s what it’s like to have the po-lice on your side,” said Brian to Sean.

Wendell smacked Brian on the shoulder. “What the Hell were you thinking?”

“I appreciate the sentiment, kid, but as your attorney, I believe you took an unnecessary risk,” said Sean, laughing. “I could have taken him.”

“Glad we didn’t have to find out,” said Bruce, as he and Linda inched back toward the group with the threat neutralized, at least for now.

While the confrontation had been playing out, Stanley warmed up and it was time to play baseball again. The PA called them to attention: “Now batting, Mookie Wilson.”

As the most beloved member of the New York Mets stepped to the plate, the sound of more than 55,000 fans shouting, “Moooooook …” descended onto the field.

Which was when the Watchman screen started to shrink again.

“Sorry everyone, the battery is no good. Switching to radio.”

Sean clicked over to the AM band and Mets announcer Bob Murphy. The sound of his voice was thinner and swimming in static, leading Sean to carefully adjust the volume so everyone could hear Murphy’s voice without it being lost in the wash.

“Bob Stanley in the World Series making his fourth appearance. He has not given up a run. Now the tying run is on third, that is Kevin Mitchell. The winning run, Ray Knight, is on first. The hitter is Mookie Wilson. Mookie, one hit in four times at bat.”

First pitch: fouled off. Strike one.

Second pitch: high and outside, one ball and one strike.

Third pitch: high and outside again, two balls and one strike.

Fourth pitch: fouled in the dirt, two balls and two strikes.

Fifth pitch: fouled in the dirt again, still two balls and two strikes.

Sixth pitch: fouled into the crowd, still two balls and two strikes.

“God I believe this is killing me,” said Bruce through a knowing smile.

“You and me both,” said Wendell.

“Mook is a battler. He won’t give in,” said Brian. “He won’t be the last out.”

The seventh pitch was inside and tight, so close Wilson left his feet to avoid getting hit.

Boston catcher Rich Gedman got his glove on the ball, but it slipped past and bounced all the way to the backstop behind home plate.

“It’s away, it’s away!” screamed Murphy. “Here comes Mitchell! Tie game! Tie game!” Peering over the fence, they could see Mitchell cross the plate in the distance.

It was 5-5. Knight, representing the winning run, advanced to second.

All around, Sean felt enveloped by a wave of joyous noise. The little group formed a tighter perimeter. Yelling, jumping, and cruising on pure adrenaline. Somehow, the other five locked their arms around each other’s shoulders, surrounding Sean and emitting a cleansing primal scream.

In the midst of the celebration, Sean made eye contact with the Masshole, shuffling with his buddies just a few feet away, profoundly stunned.

Sean pointed at the antagonist and mouthed his words slowly, making sure if he couldn’t be heard, the Masshole could read his lips.

“Hey, you dumb son of a bitch. Fuck Boston. Fuck the Red Sox. And fuck you!”

As the last syllable left his mouth, the massive frame of Sergeant Palermo blocked his view. Now it was Sean’s turn to lip read. The Sergeant spoke slowly, raising the index finger on his right hand for emphasis.

Sean’s heart started racing. A lawyer in training didn’t need to be tangling with police.

“That was your one free shot. No more.”

Sean, chastened, nodded in reply as the group exchanged backslaps and high fives.

“It’s a night to remember, isn’t it counselor,” said Rosie leaning in closer than ever.

Sean let out a sigh of relief. “Indeed it is. The Mets need to finish them. No mercy!”

Wendell leaned over his shoulder. “I get it, he’s a jackass, but we don’t want to give that idiot an excuse to come back. We might not be able to rely on that cop all night.”

Sean nodded again. “I’m sorry, I guess he got my Irish up.”

Wendell shook his head and laughed. “Yeah, I’m familiar with that.”

After a conference with Gedman, Stanley returned to the mound, hoping to get that last out and extend the game to the eleventh inning. Wilson was waiting for him.

Eighth pitch; popped foul into the seats. Still a full count.

Knight on second base would be running with the next pitch.

Ninth pitch: lined foul into the seats behind the third baseline, the count still full.

As Stanley composed himself again on the mound, three NYPD patrol cars, sirens wailing, raced down Roosevelt Avenue behind the stadium ramp.

The Sergeant grabbed the radio off his belt and keyed the button to talk.

“Central, this is 109 Sergeant Palermo. 10-5 on the units responding?”

The dispatcher responded clearly enough for everyone to hear.

“109 Sergeant, 10-4. We have a 10-34 in the stadium parking lot, units responding. Hispanic male, early 20s, multiple stab wounds. Ambulance responding.”

“Central, 109 Sergeant Palermo. Responding to the 10-34. En route.”

He strode off without saying another word.

Oh shit, thought Sean. That could be Ramón. Not this. No. Not this way. Not now.

Rosie’s eyes welled up with tears.

“I’m sorry,” said Rosie. “I have to go. Goodbye.”

She squeezed Sean’s hand and ran in pursuit of the Sergeant.

On the mound, Stanley looked in, got the signs from Gedman and started his windup.

Linda locked eyes with Bruce and tilted her head in the direction Rosie had headed.

“Let’s go!” she said, grabbing his arm and leading him off in Rosie’s direction.

“The pitch by Stanley …” said Murphy through the Watchman speaker.

Brian tapped Wendell’s shoulder. “We lost police protection—”

Wendell interrupted. “And we have five angry white guys from Boston looking for blood.”

Brian took a quick look over his shoulder and saw the Boston fans ignoring the game and discussing something intensely with one another.

Brian turned to Wendell and pointed down the steps to the area behind the stadium. Instead of bolting, the two kept it casual at first before taking the steps two at a time and disappearing into the gloom.

Before taking the first step, Brian shouted to Sean, “Good luck, brother. Vaya con Dios!”

No police. No friends. And maybe no way out.

The next words Sean heard were from Bob Murphy’s radio call.

“… a ground ball trickling … it’s a fair ball, it gets by Buckner. Rounding third is Knight and the Mets will win the ballgame! The Mets win! They win!”

He bowed his head and looked at the poster, blue marker smudged and creased in the upper-right corner.

NEED ONE.

***

Eric McErlain lives in Virginia. The Ramp is his first published work of fiction. He began freelancing in 1993, when he wrote one of the first regular columns on fantasy sports for The Washington Times. In 2002, he started Off Wing Opinion, one of the first independent hockey blogs. In 2005, he received press credentials from the Washington Capitals, and later worked with the team to develop professional guidelines that helped legitimize independent media in the eyes of the NHL. His work has also appeared at Deadspin, The Sporting News, NBC Sports, AOL Fanhouse, Pro Football Weekly and The Washington Post.