It is, simply and frankly put, the saddest ballfield in all of New York.

No, not Shea. Smartass.

On this, the unofficial national holiday and brightener of spirits known as Major League Baseball Opening Day, we salute the most pathetic baseball field–this Field of Nightmares, this Diamond in the Rough–we’ve ever seen.

If you’re on the Harlem Line heading south, look to the east just past Mount Vernon West, just after the lot filled with yellow and white cement mixers. (If you’re heading north, it’s a little past Wakefield.) It’s under a broken sign that once read “HUGH RICHARD” or somesuch but now reads “HUGH RICHA”.

It’s a dirty and lonely stretch of the metropolitan area right along the Westchester/Bronx border known as Bronkers. And right along the border is this former ballfield. You’ll see a black backstop that actually looks to be in good shape. You’ll see concrete walls along the baselines, perhaps to hold fans, perhaps to protect adjacent lots from foul balls.

You’ll see what was once the infield covered in an array of blighted industrial decay: Trucks, machinery, rubble.

As we venture out to those corporate-backed temples to our national pastime today, let us take a moment and raise a $9 Bud to the loneliest little field in the world.

There (s)he was on the 7:16 to Stamford last night, all 11-inch heels and fishnet dress and tights with the ass cheeks cut out.

Yes, the giant black drag queen was shaking up the stuffy decor on the Metro-North again, brushing his blonde wig in the vestibule as riders peered over their Posts at this most unique of spectacles.

There were what looked like a man and his granddaughter, maybe 11, sitting across from each other as the drag queen entered the car a little before Fordham. The older man struggled for the right thing to say, then struggled some more, and looked like he was concerned he might actually be held responsible by the girl’s parents for what she was forced to witness on her trip to New York.

Finally, the oldster let loose this philosophical beauty:

“There’s a whole big world revolving around you,” he said as his arms whirled about to show just how big the world actually is. “You ought to…pay attention.”

As we neared Mount Vernon, a young woman in the vestibule near the queen asked about the heels. “These are 11-inch,” the drag queen said. “The company just started making 12-inches yesterday.”

He then added, “If you were to take this off and hit somebody, you’d kill ‘em!”

An Indian woman and her toddler got on in Mount Vernon. The toddler’s eyes went as big as pingpong balls, humming “Old MacDonald” as she took in the biggest, blackest Barbie Doll she’d ever seen.

The conductor walked by, and made a point of shaking his head emphatically, letting the whole car know he did not approve of the rider’s choice of black fishnet dress with the feathery waist.

A few more images I’ll not soon forget is the look of the poor guy, grayish black hair and business-casual attire, next to the queen as (s)he brushed her wigs and blonde strands fell on poor fella, and the whole of the car cringing as the queen bent over to retrieve something from her bag–exposing those tights with the ass cheeks cut out for all to see.

Where the hell was (s)he going?  

She was a young Latina, maybe 30.

She had two boys in tow–a Hispanic kid of about 11, a black kid who was a little older.

She went over the train schedule with the Hispanic boy over and over–get off in White Plains, get on the local train, get off in Woodlawn. She was warm, but seemed too formal to be his mother.

The Hispanic kid nodded. He talked about his family getting a new house. He had a deep voice for a boy.

“It’s as big as…those trees,” he said of the house, nodding out the window.

“Where is it?” the lady asked.

He hesitated for a moment, digging up the answer.

“Mount Vernon.”

The black boy was mostly silent as he ate a bacon-egg-and-cheese. He wore a baggy white t-shirt, huge denim shorts, red low-cut Nikes.

She asked what they wanted to do when they grew up. The Hispanic boy said he wanted to be an actor. Both wanted to go to college: The Hispanic boy wanted to go to NYU, the black boy “down south somewhere,” perhaps Virginia Tech.

White Plains arrived. The lady went over the schedule once again, making him repeat “Woodlawn.” He got off.

The black kid didn’t say much. As the train cruised past Fleetwood, he fell asleep.

Yesterday, it was snow, sleet, freezing rain and locusts falling from the sky (”I’m shoveling Margaritas,” one Brooklyn maintenance man told the Times), and the train was all of two minutes late.

Today, it was sunny and clear, though butt-cold. And what hell awaited me on the 8:17. The train pulled up at 8:21 — not unexpected on the heels of a Nor-easter. We were going slow past White Plains and Scarsdale, and probably on course to be a bit late.

But that was OK. I had a two-seater to myself. I had the papers, the iPod and the new BlackBerry.

Then we slowed to a trickle somewhere between Fleetwood and Mount Vernon West. Then, at 8:52 — when we’re usually pulling into 125th – we slowed to a dead stop.

“We’ve got a switch failure,” said the conductor. “There are a couple trains ahead of us, then they’ll let us go. Should be 5-10 minutes.”

People called work. People shuffled. Other trains flew by. Why hadn’t their switch failed?

The conductor came on four minutes later. “They’re on the scene, working on the switch failure,” he said. “We’ll keep you posted.”

I got a little nervous. I hadn’t realized there were fix-it guys involved. I had no water. I had no food since I’d eaten my “emergency” granola bar a month ago and never replaced it. I was done with the Times (though saving Sports for lunch…spring training!) and half done with the Journal. I should’ve saved the Money section, instead of throwing it out. Why hadn’t I packed an emergency book?

At the stroke of 9, the man came back on. “The switch failure has been…uh…solved,” he said. We started moving.

It was a crawl the rest of the way, along with another dead stop under the 153rd Street sign in the Bronx, when I actually thought of busting through a window and walking.

We got in at 9:41. That’s 36 minutes late; even by Metro North’s generous “on time” standards, that’s just plain late.  

Dreadful commute? Let us know: trainjotting@gmail.com.