1957 was a sad year.

For one young kid sitting in his Queens bedroom, the summer was devastating. The impact of that awful time reverberates today. It pounds in my head, it rips at my heart, and it tears at my soul.

For me, it was the end of loyalty.

Kids don’t think about faith and continuity or stuff like that. They often don’t know why they’re hurting especially when they can’t see the blood. But sometimes little kids suffer and learn. And sometimes the painful lessons are so deep-seated, that 50 years later – in the summer of ’07 – they sit down again to try to understand.

It was more than the announcement that my New York Giants were playing their last season of baseball in New York. It was more than the fact that their arch-enemies the Brooklyn Dodgers would move with them to the West Coast. It was a blow far greater than the loss of those weekend days with dad at the Polo Grounds. It was the day the American Pastime changed.

It was an end to faith – to loyalty – a blow so terrible that this young kid cried for weeks.

I was not alone. The Giant fans in the Bronx and Queens suffered with me, expressing sad outrage at the betrayal. We even were one with the evil Dodger fans in Brooklyn – oh how I hated them – as we couldn’t comprehend that a business decision by some baseball suits – Horace Stoneham of the Giants and Walter O’Malley of the Dodgers – could shatter hopes, and defy the tradition of baseball’s oldest rivalry; the Giants and Dodgers had been at war with each other since 1890.

New York was a baseball town – the baseball town. And National League baseball was what we grew up on. The Yankees would remain an American League baseball team built on mythic giants (with a small “g”) Ruth, Gehrig and the gang, but they were still the anti-christ to us. Why, we would root for the evil Dodgers over the likes of Mantle and Berra -- and we did, often.

Duke Snider was a Dodger. He was the enemy but he had National League class. It mattered.

There was one hero that stood above them all. Willie Mays, who ultimately would return to end his career with the Mets, was going west with the Giants -- the world was ending. No more “Say Hey” kid, no more basket catch, no more, no more.

The pain was deeper than what was inflicted on that young kid sitting in his bedroom in the summer of ’57. Professional sports had declared that it was no longer about the fans or the kids. Sure, they were the source of the revenue but loyalty was available to the highest bidder.

So for the promise of new homes and new fans and a couple pieces of silver, baseball expanded to the West Coast and set the stage for the new American Pastime: loyalty for sale.

And the bidding was just beginning.

Other teams and other sports started following the golden brick road in search of new stadiums, new fans and business growth.

Soon the players caught on and a Giant of yesterday became an Oriole tomorrow. Players learned to jump from team to team quicker than owners could change cities. Free agency was born. Loyalty was to the almighty buck alone. The “me generation” of sports became evident in the locker room, on TV and in life.

It didn’t stop there. Baseball has always been at the soul of the nation – a nation of children grew up learning its values. And those children soon got to the corporate boardrooms and seats of government and lived their lives based on the model that baseball set. Some coached their kids sports teams and demonstrated the newly accepted sportsmanship acquired by example. Baseball cards became sought for their dollar value and the new loyalty took hold.

And America grew up learning from baseball that loyalty was for sale. It was for sale in baseball and therefore, it was for sale in life.

And 50 years later, the summer of ’57 still marks one of the saddest moments for baseball, for American and for this kid.

Michael Schenkler can be reached via this contact form.