Home Turf Spots

If you’ve ever killed an afternoon refreshing box scores on your phone while a Q train limped over the bridge, this one’s for you. These are the New York sports places I actually end up in — nosebleeds, playground cages, ballparks that smell like sunscreen and sausage — not just the postcard stuff. Some are shiny arenas, some are poured-concrete relics, all of them make me weirdly emotional about steel, sightlines, and the fact that strangers yell in unison here and then go back to ignoring each other on the subway.