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Last week in Forgotten Faces of Flushing, we took a detour. No player. No box score. No forgotten middle reliever who once wore #47 for six weeks and later sold insurance in Tampa. Just the escalator at Shea Stadium — that sacred conveyor belt to baseball heaven, where scorecards, tiny pencils, and childhood joy all waited at the top. Funny thing about memory: you never know what opens the door. Sometimes it’s an old scorecard. Sometimes it’s the smell of a stadium concourse