But if one memory stands out over all others, it's my father and I going to Yankees games. We lived in Paterson, which is where I still have my office. The drive from our house to Yankee Stadium was eight miles on Route 4 to the George Washington Bridge, then the Cross Bronx to the Major Deegan to the stadium. Without traffic it's about twenty-five minutes, which means that in real life it takes about an hour and a half. But I never minded, because I knew at the end I was going to walk through the tunnel and out to our seats, and I would see the most beautiful sight in the world. The Yankee Stadium infield.
The green of that infield was and is unlike any color ever produced anywhere else. You could buy a box of half a million Crayolas and never begin to match that color. Set against it is the understated tan of the dirt part of the infield, which becomes a deep, powerful brown when watered by the groundskeepers. Their job, the job of maintaining the Yankees’ home field, is a heavy but rewarding burden that they shoulder flawlessly.
Today I'm going to get to see that infield, as my father and I have tickets to the game. As always, I pick him up at his house and head for the stadium. The drive there is just as glorious, just as filled with anticipation, as it was in my youth. The only difference is that I'm the one behind the wheel, which can't be right, since when we go to the games I'm eight years old again.
But we'll get there, we'll park in our special place, which gets us out after the game faster than anyone else, my father will become my “Dad,” and everything will be right with the world.
Today the Yankees are playing the Red Sox. I used to hate the Red Sox, just like I hated the Orioles, and the Indians, and the White Sox, and anybody else not in pinstripes. But I don't hate anymore, I'm too arrogant for that. To hate is to grant a level of importance that those teams don't deserve. We dismiss our opponents, we don't hate them. They are not worthy of that.
Our seats are field level boxes, third row behind third base. If there is a more perfect six feet of real estate, I have no idea where it is. I am sucking on a snow cone and wondering why food sold at the seats by vendors tastes better than the same items bought anywhere else, when my father nudges me and points to the scoreboard. He doesn't have to say a word; it's the fourth inning, time to start betting.
I don't know when this started, but I think it was in my early teens. My father and I bet on everything in the fourth inning. We keep track of the bets; at one point, I think I owed him a million dollars. It was a big burden for a high school sophomore, but I won it back and then some. Today he owes me forty-one thousand, three hundred and fifty-five dollars. I'm on a roll.
Trot Nixon steps up to the plate to face Roger Clemens. It's my father's turn to choose the bets because he's behind. His mind calculates the infinite possibilities as if he is planning a legal argument.
“I'll bet you five hundred dollars the first pitch is a strike,” he says with confidence.
“You're on,” I say unnecessarily, since every bet is on. Clemens throws a slider a foot outside. Good start for me, but I don't get cocky. The fourth can be a very long inning.
“Six hundred says he gets a base hit. You give me three to one.”
I just nod this time, he knows he's on. Nixon pops up to center, Williams calls off Knoblauch and handles it easily. I make a fist in triumph. “Yesssss.”
While we're waiting for Garciaparra to come up, my father says, “I was hoping Nicole would join us.”
Not now, Dad. You're supposed to leave the real world out in the parking lot.
“Nicole and I are separated, Dad. You sometimes seem to forget that.” He also forgets that I go back to being eight years old when I'm here. How could I have an estranged wife?
“An old man can't hope?”
“An old man should concentrate on the game, because I'm cleaning the old man's clock.” I'm trying to refocus