"The date was May 12, 1957. My dad, born in Poland and like me an immigrant to this country, knew nothing about baseball except that I was crazy about it, and he did not let on that I was imposing upon his bounteous good will. Just like an American - which he had only recently become - he even hollered vigorously for the peanut vendor to throw a bag our way. Ten years old, I was already baseball mad, via the tv and the cards, and my hero was Duke Snider of the Brooklyn Dodgers. We went to the Polo Grounds to see the Dodgers play the Giants. My hero obliged by hitting a home run and Johnny Podres threw a shutout. Heaven! Yet for all the pleasures of that sun-splashed Sunday, the feeling that I can summon up most vividly today is my transcendent awe, coming up the runway to t he grandstand, at the great green field. A city kid, I didn't know there was that much grass ANYWHERE. "