Credit: flickr4jazz/flickr
The baseball ghosts were easy to find on Halloween in New York City this year, the day after the Boston Red Sox beat the St. Louis Cardinals to win the World Series. At Foley’s Pub and Restaurant — “An Irish Bar with a Baseball Attitude” (and a St. Louis attitude, to go with it) — the offseason was suddenly apparent, halfway down the block on a crowded street off Herald Square.
“I don’t expect to see any Cardinals tonight,” says owner Shaun Clancy, at the corner of his bar, surrounded by televisions and baseball memorabilia. “They had a tough couple of weeks. They were here every night.” Foley has owned the bar for 10 years, and it’s been a Cardinals bar for three, since an event organized through Meetup.com morphed into something permanent. The bright red paint outside and dusty Busch stadium seats perched above the liquor cabinets provide the essence of tradition. St. Louis patrons provide the rest. Just the day before, for the final game, Foley’s was at capacity, a line stretching down 33rd Street. It was one in, one out. A Red Sox fan who got rowdy was out as quick as he was in, though such behavior wasn’t the norm. On Halloween the back tables are mostly empty, though the bar stools have their occupants.
“It’s a sports bar,” Clancy says, fiddling with the remotes for the many TVs. In Ireland, when Clancy was coming up in the bar business, there were hardly any TVs. Clancy finds the channel for the Rangers game, which some patrons are languidly eyeing. Pregame for the Knicks is on a different set. “We’re busy throughout the year,” Clancy says. “We’re a sports bar,” he says.
Two men drinking beers at the bar had not been to Foley’s recently to watch Cardinals games, though they were regulars. One explains that he is from Russia, and the other is from Italy, and they prefer watching soccer games. “Baseball I don’t get, football I get a little bit,” says the first. “Hockey?” asks the second. “A little bit,” says the Russian. The Italian man is exhaling from an electronic cigarette, whose vapor floats up to the un-partisan memorabilia hanging from the rafters — a Ty Wigginton jersey (former Mets third baseman), Hideki Matsui’s number 55. A St. John’s Red Storm banner, and a host of boxing gloves from Frankie Figueroa to Joe Frazier. And, of course, the high wall of signed baseballs, prominently including Joe McEwing’s, member of Foley’s own Irish Baseball Hall of Fame, and beloved former Met and Cardinal. “McEwing was here Monday,” Clancy notes. “He stopped by to say hi.”
On the edge of the bar, two waitresses lean against the wood. “I’m bored,” one says, though she has been steadily working. The bartender, Raul Martinez, has time to talk that wouldn’t have been available to him yesterday. “They drank Bud and Bud Light,” he says of the Cardinals crowd. “And Schlafly pale ale. They called Goose Island ‘Honkers.’ And they loved toasted ravioli.” At one point there had been six orders of the specialty at the bar at once. The St. Louis clan tip well — not like some rare non-baseball fans the night of Game Six, who left $6 on a $68. “There was a guy named Scott,” Martinez says, “who knits cozies.” All the Cardinals fans had one. All their Buds had cozies around them. But, of course, it was the type of thing that slowed down. “Some people who were buying buckets for the first series were like, I’ll have one, by the end.”
World Series over, the Cardinals fans are all gone, and the beer drinkers are still talking about soccer. “This country,” the Italian declares, “in a few years will be a major power in soccer. No one has the resources.” “Well . . .” the Russian man says. “Well,” the Italian answers. They order mozzarella sticks, but only the Russian man eats them.
Before the Rangers score their first point, early in the first period, a middle-aged woman with two shopping bags wanders into the bar. “I just want a table to have a drink,” she says. She sits down at one of the empty tables in the back, with TVs assorted helpfully in all directions, but she faces the stacks of memorabilia, the bobbleheads and old beer taps chasing the ceiling. Soon she has a Corona and a shot of bourbon in front of her, and it’s not long until only half the Corona remains.
The Russian and Italian leave, and the bar continues to quietly hum. The woman calls the waitress over: “Question,” she says. The waitress hurries. “Is there a baseball game on tonight?” the woman asks. The waitress informs her that unfortunately, no, there isn’t one tonight — the season is, in fact, over. The Cardinals lost. “Did they really,” says the woman. She slaps her knee. She orders another Corona and a shot of Johnny Walker. While she drinks she marvels at the televisions, and sings along to the commercial music when there is some. Her gaze wanders un-self-consciously around the room.
It’s a sports bar. Nachos come in plastic football dishes. An old New York City umpire’s association uniform hangs from the highest rafters, gathering dust. Shaquille O’Neill is just a commentator now on Box 4, giving his thoughts on Dwight Howard’s first game with the Houston Rockets. Joe McEwing’s jersey is retired, and he’s the third base coach for the Chicago White Sox. A commercial fusing Papa Johns and the NFL network is hard to differentiate from regular sports programming. So it goes. The woman enjoys her Coronas, with or without the Cardinals.