The third and final volume in Thomas Porky McDonald’s “Irishman’s Tribute” trilogy, Hit Sign, Win Suit: An Irishman’s Tribute to Ebbets Field, takes the reader back to a time that pre-dates the writer himself.  As in the first installment of this set, An Irishman’s Tribute to the Negro Leagues, McDonald summons up the ghosts of a time long ago, before his own birth and that of all the just about every Major Leaguer around as the 21^st Century dawns.  Using all the relevant resources that have been at his disposal for a lifetime, that is, those who were around before the integration of Major League baseball, McDonald whispers a hymn of praise to the emerald grass that once grew at Ebbets Field in Brooklyn.  Sprinkled with stories that celebrate the early years of Brooklyn baseball at the corner of Bedford Avenue and Sullivan (once Cedar) Place, as well as the “Daffiness Boys” of the 1920’s and 30’s and the fabled “Boys of Summer” of the late 40’s and early 50’s, Hit Sign, Win Suit: An Irishman’s Tribute to Ebbets Field may well be the most polished of the three-book set.  This is most significant when you consider that only the second volume, Over the Shoulder and Plant On One: An Irishman’s Tribute to Willie Mays, is taken even partly from actual events in McDonald’s life.

Also containing a representative helping of McDonald’s signature baseball poetry, including seminal pieces “The Park That Isn’t There” and “A Church I Never Went To”, Hit Sign, Win Suit attempts to enlighten anyone who wasn’t around when the Brooklyn Dodgers made history by signing Jackie Robinson, while also looking to those who were there for acceptance of his perception of a time most of us today couldn’t imagine.  Profiles of players, managers, announcers, writers and fans, all an integral part of the Brooklyn baseball experience, rounds out a most unique look at the National Pastime.

Thomas Porky McDonald is a poet and writer who often uses baseball and the ballpark venue to relay his views on life, in general.  His most recent releases, Where the Angels Bow to the Grass, A Boy’s Memoir, and The Air That September, each showed a different part of the writer’s soul.  Where the Angels Bow to the Grass, taken mainly from his childhood days of the 1960’s and 70’s, described the bond between McDonald and his father, Bill “The Chief” McDonald.  The Air That September was a singular lifetime New Yorker’s look at the events of September 11, 2001, sandwiched by the Summer that had been and the post-9/11 relevance of the game of baseball.  Previously, McDonald has published the first of a scheduled four poetry collections, spanning the years 1989-2002.  Ground Pork: Poems 1989-1994, was released in 2002; a second collection, Downtown Revival: Poems 1994-1997 is scheduled for a 2004 publication.  The remaining two volumes of the set, Closer to Rona: Poems 1997-1999 and Still Chuckin’: Poems 1999-2002, are slated to follow in short order.  Hit Sign, Win Suit: An Irishman’s Tribute to Ebbets Field, is the third and final volume in McDonlad’s “Irishman’s Tribute” series.  The first two books in the trilogy, An Irishman’s Tribute to the Negro Leagues and Over the Shoulder and Plant on One: An Irishman’s Tribute to Willie Mays, each contained short stories and historical references, as well as a small dose of McDonald’s trademark baseball poetry.  The Ebbets Field collection continues in this vein.  McDonald has also published a book of short stories called Paradise Oval.  Born in St. Albans Naval Hospital in Queens, McDonald has lived in nearby Astoria his entire life.

One Day in April

April 15, 1947 – The boy was 11 years old, white and fatherless.  He had heard of Jackie Robinson for the past year or so, and today was the first time he could see him in person.  He didn’t quite understand what all the fuss was about, but he knew that he wanted to be at Ebbets Field on this particular Tuesday afternoon.  So he had saved pennies, nickels and dimes he’d made from turning in deposit bottles and pooled them with remnants of any loose change his mother had given him recently.  He snuck out of school early and headed for the ballpark, to get a bleacher seat.

The old man was 51 years old, black and childless.  He knew of Jackie Robinson.  He knew of much more, though.  For many years, he’d gone to Negro League games, even before Rube Foster had organized the Negro National League in 1920.  He could clearly recall when he was a young boy growing up in Harlem, going to the Dyckman Oval to see Alex Pompez’ Cuban Stars.  He also remembered going to the Polo Grounds (a few times) to see the Giants and the Yankees play, before the Stadium in the Bronx opened in 1923.  There was also a place called the Catholic Protectory Oval where he witnessed the legendary John Henry Lloyd play for the New York Lincoln Giants.  Legendary, that is, to the black community and to the decent Major Leaguers who played against them on occasion, like Honus Wagner, a legend himself with whom Lloyd was favorably compared to.  So, having seen segregated ball up close, his whole life had waited for a man like Jackie Robinson.  He left Harlem early in the morning and headed for the downtown trains that would take him to Brooklyn and Ebbets Field.

The boy was nervous, because being alone, he stuck out in the crowd (or so he thought), which was easier to do in a small park like Ebbets Field.  He remembered when he first went to the park when he was 7, with his dad.  He still could hear that crazy lady with the cowbell screaming at the players.  He remembered asking his dad how such a small woman could have such a loud voice.  His dad brushed off his amazement by stating “Hilda was blessed, son.”  Hilda?  Dad even knew her name.  So this might not be the safest place to hide for a kid playing hooky.  But the only reason he was straying from his studies was to see this great player, Jackie Robinson, who also happened to be a colored man.  He reasoned that if this Opening Day was even more special than usual, due to Jackie Robinson’s presence, surely no one would rat him out for skipping school to be here.  Or would someone?

The old man hopped on the IRT and took it downtown to Times Square where he transferred to the BMT that would take him to Prospect Park in Brooklyn, just around the corner from Ebbets Field.  He wished the game was at the Polo Grounds, a park he could have walked to from his uptown apartment, or even Yankee Stadium, the big yard just across the river in the Bronx.  The comparatively long ride to Brooklyn gave him too much time to think – about his wife, who’d died ten years earlier and his young son, who’d been one of 300 killed in a San Francisco Naval ammunition base in 1944.  Death had been all around him, and any idle time he’d spend would bring it back to him.  Jackie Robinson meant life.  That’s why he’d called in sick to the midtown hotel that he worked at.  This Tuesday, he’d have to see for himself.  He craved life, and death had been chasing him much too vigorously of late.

The boy entered the park with his head down, trying not to stick out.  He walked close to a couple moving at an easy pace, so as to appear to be with them.  He could veer off when they reached the bleachers, then find an inconspicuous seat.  His plan was looking good until he saw a small souvenir stand.  There were caps, t-shirts, pennants and pins, all arranged just so.  He recalled how his dad had bought him the Brooklyn cap he was wearing at the moment.  It had been just last season, when his dad had first begun to explain about Jackie Robinson, and how important it was for anyone with talent to have an opportunity.