The smell of marijuana lingers in the air and makes it impossible to breathe in the unkempt elevator.  It’s hard to believe that great men once stood here.

The entrances are marked by broken glass and blood stains that serve as permanent decoration to an already decorated landmark.  Yesterday children waved and cheered as their heroes entered the place that held the community together, now the roar of crowds is replaced by the sounds of onlookers as young kids partake in violent acts towards one another.

Ebbets field is not what it once was, “I would have loved to have seen what it looked like, and now I have to see this mess every day,” says one Brooklyn resident.

A field that once housed great men now has an extraordinarily small plaque in remembrance of the legendary Jackie Robinson, a plaque that no one ever takes a moment to acknowledge.  It makes sense because it represents what happens over time to everything of substance.

The wall that stood strong on a slanted piece of land and held up the borough of Brooklyn now slides into obscurity while barely being held up by scaffolding and time.

The enormous apartment complex stands tall, yet it is overlooked by the sport which it once represented with great summers.  In the past, the summer air was calm and exciting; the grandness of its players made the minuscule state of the field itself insignificant.

Brooklyn never had such a place, a place where time stood still for what seemed like forever and grown men were once again allowed to be kids; a place where innocence yet again made its presence felt in the midst of chaos.

Now the air tells a different story, a story that screams for what it once was. A story in which the characters are lost in search of who they are and most importantly who they were.

As you walk along the path that leads away from one of its many entrances, the smell of hotdogs is no longer there.  It is instead the smell of urine and beer that smacks the senses; the smell of the homeless, who sit on top of cardboard boxes that sit on top of broken glass never to be removed.

This is what has become of history.

A rich history that was cut short by greed and opportunity; this is what has become of Ebbets field.

There are those who speak about Jackie Robinson and compare the Brooklyn Dodgers to the Chicago Bulls and Michael Jordan.  A comparison the legendary Michael Jordan could never hope to merit as a basketball player nor as a black athlete.

The tragedy that is Ebbets Field is made worse by those who are not even aware of the greatness that once stood on this slanted hill on Flatbush in our beloved Brooklyn.

55 Sullivan Place was once as famous as the old Yankee Stadium, the place where a retired Babe Ruth coached, even if only for one year of his hall of fame life.  Now impoverished African American along with others pile up on top of one another due to the high rent all over the city that has officially made its impact on Brooklyn residents.

Baseball has forgotten about Ebbets Field and so has the rest of the world. Now, at a place where great ballplayers once lived for 4 hours at a time, the sign “No Ball Playing Allowed” is visible for the whole community to see.

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