Although Victor is a dyed-in-the wool Mets fan, his father doesn’t want to hoof it all the way into Flushing to Shea Stadium, so he has to settle for his team’s rival. It is to be the first baseball game he will ever see in person, and at the very end of the season no less.
He waits impatiently by the front window watching each car as they drive down the street, his heart racing, only to be crushed when it simply drives past the house. It feels like an eternity waiting for him, but he finally sees his father’s dusty brown Buick pull into the driveway and he can’t contain his excitement. He immediately grabs his baseball cap and his first ever glove, which is now thoroughly oiled and broken in, and races into the kitchen just as his father enters the house and kisses his mother hello.
I see you’re ready, kiddo, his father says. Give me a minute to change and we’ll get going. We have plenty of time.
His impatience is killing him and he decides to wait his father out in the living room, sitting on the couch watching television with his sister as his father changes out of his work clothes.
Now dressed in his brown leather jacket, brown slacks, and matching pork-pie hat, his father grabs the car keys and Victor leaps off the couch and excitedly races towards the door, only to be held up again by the usual small talk between the parents — Be careful, make sure he doesn’t eat too much junk, no more than one soda…
Victor is already out in the driveway attempting to open the car door. Lou unlocks the door with an amused grin and opens it for him. It seems as if it is taking forever for his father to walk around the car and climb into the driver’s seat.
He turns the ignition and they’re off.
They aren’t the best seats but we should be able to see pretty good, his father says.
Victor doesn’t care where they sit, so long as he’s there. To finally see a ball game in person, and not through the confines of a television screen, fills his heart with joy.
You sure you want to wear that hat? You might get hassled.
I’m a Met fan, Victor says, and I don’t care who knows it.
Victor rarely, if ever, sees the neighbourhood around the stadium, which looks like a war zone. Trash, burned out buildings, empty lots, and frightening looking characters, it’s something his father wishes his son didn’t have to see but that was the state the city is in. At least his son is too young to venture out on his own, his world consisting of the few streets within the traditionally Italian-American neighbourhood, where one still had to be careful, though certainly not in any potential danger the neighbourhood around the stadium posed. It’s a cool, autumn evening, the air crisp, coupled with with the smell of the incinerators from the nearby housing projects.
Armed with his Met hat and new baseball glove, which he received for his prior birthday, father and son make their way up to the gate hand in hand. Lou can tell his son is a little nervous by how hard his hand squeezes his, so he offers a few return squeezes to reassure him he’ll be fine, that he would never allow anything to happen to him.
You got the tickets?
They’re in my pocket, his father says. Don’t worry, I didn’t forget them.
Victor cranes his neck looking up at the massive stadium before him. He’d never seen anything so big and vast. It reminds him of the photos of the Roman Colosseum he saw in his history books, and for a moment he wonders if Roman citizens felt the same sense of awe approaching the entry gates to theirs. It’s a bit overwhelming for him and worries his fear of heights will prevent him from enjoying the game if their seats are in the top level.
They don’t sit in the top level, but they’re high enough to give him a bout of vertigo. He clings to his father’s hand as they climb the steps towards their seats, his eyes scanning the enormous boisterous crowd all around him, some of whom give him the stink eye due to his Met hat, but that’s the least of his worries. When they reach their row and take their seats, the vertigo is a little worse and it takes a few moments for him to collect himself.
You okay, kiddo?
It’s the height, Victor says. I’m not used to it.
You’ll be all right. If you start to feel dizzy just close your eyes.
Lou gives his son an affectionate pat on the back which immediately calms him. He’s too busy taking everything in — the packed stands, the grand scoreboard in the outfield, the rich green of the grass, the bright white baselines, the players scattered about the field tossing the ball to one another, the burst of the pipe organ, the expansive sky at dusk, now full of its autumnal oranges and reds, it’s like being transported to another world.
My father used to take me here as a kid, Lou says. I got to see all the greats — Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Joe DiMaggio, all the greats. Those were the days. You don’t have ballplayers like them anymore.
Lou digs his soft pack of Pall Malls from his coat pocket. Victor watches his father perform the usual routine, gripping the butt end of the smoke with his lips and pulling it out of the pack. He lets it dangle there for a moment as he fishes for his silver Zippo, then lights it, the brief odour of kerosene drifting into the cool autumn air. It’s an image he’d always associate with his father, his face partially obscured by a whitish-grey cloud, along with the acrid smell of cigarette smoke.
Lou glances at his son, smiles, and places an affectionate hand on his shoulder. It seems like yesterday when he was sitting with his own father at the ballgames, and he sees himself in his son, looking up at him with that same sense of wonder, his little eyes probing, trying to make sense of who that big man is sitting beside him.
Lou’s father was much tougher on him than he is with his own son. Lou’s father was a hard, controlling, old-school Italian immigrant who most definitely did not spare the rod. He could never imagine him disciplining Victor in the same manner, though there were certainly times he wanted to. Remembering what his father had done to him always kept his temper in check. Discipline and punishments were harsh, something Victor couldn’t possibly comprehend. It was a different world then. There was a world war on, Italians were considered ‘enemy aliens’, the family was divided over Mussolini which often caused many a shit storm at the family gatherings. He was too young to understand it but he remembers hearing the name and the explosion of emotions which would follow. Any transgression, no matter how minor, was met with a severe beating. Lou never beat his son, though he had spanked him now and again. Lou never forgave his father for such abuse and he vowed he’d never subject his little boy to anything remotely like it. He can’t imagine seeing his son cowering in a corner, being whipped by a leather belt, buckle side out, or being punched and kicked, and tossed around the room like a bail of hay. All around him are children Victor’s age and he wonders how many of them put up with some form of abuse, whether physical or psychological. One never knows what goes on behind closed doors. He worries about his son and the world he’s growing up in. He worries for all these kids.
The announcement comes over the loudspeaker for the audience to stand for the national anthem. They both stand up and Victor removes his hat and holds it over his heart, and a smile tugs at his lips as Lou watches how serious and solemn his son appears, then another memory invades him, the one where his father beat him black and blue because he didn’t remove his hat at during the national anthem, not in front of everyone but once they returned home from the game. He never forgave his father for that either and each time the national anthem is played during any sporting event, this is what he remembers. After that beating he threatened to run away from home. His father placed a suitcase outside the door, told him if he takes one step through the threshold, he wouldn’t be coming back. He believed him, so he retreated, returned to his bedroom, and listened for his father’s footsteps outside the door, anticipating another beating for even thinking of running away. Thankfully that didn’t happen, but the fear of being forever locked out of his house put an end to any ideas about running away.
With the national anthem over, the players take the field. He can see the anticipation in Victor’s eyes and how happy he is to be there. No, he would never put his son through such an ordeal, no matter what stupid shit he eventually does. Kids do stupid shit. That’s part of being a kid. They don’t know any better. Seeing how small his son is, the thought of a grown man heaping such abuse on such a fragile body sickens him. It was an accepted form of discipline and more often than not, it was the child who was to blame for his own abuse. Well, you should listen and not act up! That’s what you get! Serves you right for being a brat!
Milwaukee Brewers second baseman Ron Theobald stands at home plate, is ready to receive the first pitch. Lou sits back, drapes his arm around Victor’s shoulder, musses his hair, and puffs on his cigarette.
DoubleSpeak 