December 1, 1998

I moved into Jersey City yesterday. Just south of Hoboken, Jersey City is grittier, less Yuppie, and more industrial East Coast than its more polished northern neighbor. I moved there because the rent is a lot cheaper, the commute is a little shorter, and the apartment is a lot nicer.

The section of town I live in is pretty decent; lots of old brownstones and factories-turned-apartment-buildings. I actually like it a lot.

"Jersey City gets a bad rap" my real estate agent told me. "But there are some really nice parts and some really great deals."

I told her I agreed.

"Now, I must tell you" she added, "the neighborhood is very...diverse."

Diverse is white-speak for "lots of blacks, Hispanics, and other minorities."

But diversity doesn't bother me. Not since I bought my official New York Yankees ballcap.

Back in September I purchased my 100% wool, New Era, 59-Fifty series, black ballcap with the interlocking white "N" and "Y" on the front. As soon as I started wearing it, I was getting head nods from folks from all backgrounds.

Black guys were nodding at me. Dominicans were wishing me well. Old Italian men said hello. Even the Egyptian deli owner in Hoboken started talking to me.

I attribute all of this harmony to my Yankees cap.

Sports is the great unifier. No matter what our perspective on life is, the athletic field is common ground. In sports, people are judged by the statistics they accrue and by the attitude they display in the huddle or in the dugout. At night, when the banks of stadium lights go dark, and the millions of fans go back to their millions of different lives, they do so with the shared memories of homeruns and three-pointers and big yardage runs.

So last night, there I was walking through Hamilton Park among a "diverse" group of young Jersey City residents, proudly wearing my ballcap of peace and love. In the glow of a street lamp, a young black man in a poofy coat looked at me and nodded his head, which was also adorned with a Yankees cap. As I passed within a couple feet of him, the guy lunged at me, hit me in the face, and began groping me for my wallet.

Lying on my side, praying to God that the young man wouldn't kill me, all I could focus on were the white interlocking "N" and "Y" on his ballcap.

I never knew how much it hurts to get kicked in the side. But it does. It hurts a whole lot.

"Why are you doing this?" I gasped in the darkness. I thought about how we shared the same hat; I thought about the common denominator of baseball that was supposed to bring us together.

"Fuck you, Cracker!" the young man snapped.

But you know what the most fucked up part of this story is? The fact that you believed it! You're such a racist. It's a lot easier to believe that a young black kid in a park at night would jump me than to believe what really happened.

What really happened was this: I was in Hamilton Park last night. I did walk among a bunch of "diverse" teenaged boys. One of them walked my way. The kid said "hi." I said "hello." And as I passed within a couple feet of him, he remarked, "nice hat."

Actually, I'm the racist. The fictitious scenario I described was what was running through my mind when the young man approached me. His simple greeting of "hi" threw me for a loop. I hadn't expected something so...well...normal...and pleasant.

 

Broadway Jim Jenkins