Night Game

Another Yankees season is coming to an end and I hadn’t been to a game yet in the 2003. So my brother, Jonathan, and I pick up a six-pack of Bud Heavies and hop on the four-train traveling toward the “House That Ruth Built”. I place a brewsky in a little brown paper bag to keep it real; Jonathan does the same.

“Who’s pitching today?” he asks. “I believe David Wells,” I retort (I say believe as if David Wells pitching is a strong belief of mine). “ Maybe he’s hungover and will pitch a no-hitter again.” My brother takes a sip, gains a bitter-beer face, but on the happy side remembers when he pitched a no-no. Those were the days. Little League Baseball – the second greatest sport there is, second only to D1 college b-ball. We were the Cardinals; Mom was our biggest fan. She probably cared whether we won or lost more than our whole team. My brother pitched as well as playing a Jeter role at shortstop. I, having to wait my turn to play short, acted like Bernie Williams in centerfield, who plays the guitar in his spare time. I have a guitar too, but it doesn’t get much playing time. Instead, I choose to write in my spare time. But back to the lecture at hand. Dad was our Joe Torre, except he smiled. Could Joe Torre smile once? Just once.

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