It is almost noon, some 45 minutes into my journey, and I am in Harlem. In less than 10 blocks, I pass a dozen delicatessens, eight restaurants, and eight hair salons. I stop by Mama's Juice Bar. Neighborhoods may have distinct boundaries of race, class, and tradition. But, as I would find later with Yankees fans in Queens, baseball manages to traverse all manner of neighborhood lines.
Next door is a funeral home.
A nearby bench is home to a pair of women's black pumps, mysteriously left behind. Both wear Yankees caps. Ocundo shakes his head. I head south on Madison Avenue, then work my way across to Park Avenue at 96th Street. Here, the class lines change abruptly.