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| *Originally posted 7/16/13 |
I can think of no
bigger waste of time then going to see a live baseball game. To me it’s just
grown men sweating in public. Yes, I know this is blasphemy especially when one
lives in one of the greatest baseball cities on earth. We’ve got the Mets, the
Yankees, and some (and by some I mean anyone over the age of 70) will argue
that New York is still the spiritual home of the Dodgers. I know this. And I’m
sorry. I’m just not that into it. So what was I doing sitting behind home plate
at a minor league, Brooklyn Cyclones game? Chalk it up to the things we do for Dad.
I went to the game with my Dad. And
while I don’t love baseball, I do love him. If you talk to my Dad about
anything – and I do mean anything – I guarantee you the conversation will
magically circle around to baseball, Jackie Robinson, Branch Rickey, and The
Dodgers. My Dad remembers details of the team’s move from Brooklyn to Los
Angeles like it was yesterday. If you press him, he’ll even be able to tell you
what the weather was that day. I’m sure it was overcast.
In case you missed it, my Dad was a Brooklyn
Dodgers fan. His father, of course, was a New York Yankees fan. In some homes
this is grounds to be disowned, but first born males in a West Indian household
get certain privileges. My Dad, in this case, was allowed to live despite rooting
for the wrong team.
Rivalries aside, what they could
agree on was a love of the game. My Dad, like most men, still recalls and cherishes
the memory of going to Yankee Stadium at the age of five to see his first
baseball game with his father; the immensity of the stadium, the feel of his
father’s large hand around his small one.
On
our drive to MCU Park, home of the Brooklyn Cyclones, we talked baseball. Well,
my Dad talked. I listened and learned things about baseball that I didn’t know
like the fact that Satchel Paige started in the majors as a “rookie” at the age
of 48. So much for a youth-worshiping culture that claims you’re washed-up two
seconds after you turn 21.
My
Dad said, “If all things had been equal
the Cy Young Award would be the Satchel Paige Award.” There was no hint of bitterness when he said
this, only the knowing resignation of man whose formative years were not spent
in post-racial America.
In all the games my Dad has been to
in his life, he’s never had the pleasure of sitting behind home plate. This was
the first time. I did not realize the significance of this until we began the
descent to our seats. As we passed tier, after tier, the backs of the batter
and catcher growing closer and larger, I began to feel the excitement. When we
sat down, the only thing between us and the players was a protective fence and
a few feet of dirt. We weren’t close
enough to touch them but we had the TV camera, close-up view. It was awesome.
No. It was freaking awesome!
As we sat there in the heat eating
sausage sandwiches and swilling sodas we struck up a conversation with the only
other folks in our section. As luck would have it, it was another father and
daughter pair: Marty & Stacey. They were life-long Brooklynites, season
ticket holders, and extremely cool people. Stacey and I talked baseball. Well,
she talked. I listened. I’ve never met anyone – male or female – with a deeper
knowledge or love of the game. I was impressed.
Marty
gave up the pretense that we were strangers and came over to sit by my Dad. To
hear two old timers swap stories about players, teams, trades, and stats was
like a scene out of a movie.
“Young lady,”
Marty said to me. “Do you know the
original name of the Dodgers?”
He
turned to my Dad, thumped him on the shoulder and said, “Don’t help her!”
I
looked at my Dad, but the sly smile on his face told me that he was in cahoots
with his new friend, Marty. I looked at Stacey and she shook her head. I’m sure
she knew the answer, but this trivia question was meant for me.
I
had no idea the Dodgers had any name other then … well… the Dodgers. When I
gave up, Marty smiled and said, “The
Trolley Dodgers.” My Dad’s matching conspiratorial smirk confirmed that
this was true and I filed the information away in my mental Jeopardy answer treasure chest. “I’ll take ‘Baseball’ for a thousand, Alex.”
And this is how we whiled away an afternoon.
Marty telling us (and by us I mean me because I had no idea) that the Cyclones
were playing the Boston Red Sox’s minor league team, The Lowell Spinners. This,
of course, was a reference to the town’s textile manufacturing heritage.
(Basically, Marty’s the guy you want to have as your lifeline if you’re playing
Who Wants to be a Millionaire.)
We didn’t talk the whole time. While
they watched the game, I started out very busy on my phone: texting, tweeting,
answering email. And then I found myself just enjoying the breeze. I got caught
up watching the clouds float by in a blue sky that I’m ashamed to say I don’t
notice nearly as much as I should. I was feeling incredibly relaxed and even wondering
how much season tickets might cost.
I’m
sorry I can’t tell you much about the game. I think the Cyclones lost. But
somehow, the afternoon still feels like a win. It’s the best time I’ve had with
my Dad in a while. Apparently, wasting time for love is time well spent. I’d
like to do that more often.
Leighann Lord will be speaking at the New York Society for Ethical Culture, 11am Sunday, June 29. Daddy’s Girl: Putting Pop on a Pedestal! It’s a light-hearted look at while Moms get almost all the credit, why Dads are so important too. For more info go to NYSEC.
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