(See Cover)
Hunched on the eastern shoulder of Manhattan, the grimy crest of Coogan's Bluff glowers across the Harlem River toward The Bronx. All day, traffic snarls past its littered slopes. Torn newspapers rustle in the limp breeze that swirls along the dirty asphalt of Eighth Avenue; street urchins scuffle in the dust and cadge quarters under the rusty shade of the elevated tracks.
Crowning this dismal landscape, a great, curved, steel-and-stone shrine called the Polo Grounds beckons to the faithful all summer long. By the tens of thousands they respond. They are a...
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