My son, grandson and I are watching the Red Sox and Yankees battle it out on television.  Now, admittedly, Jess and I have to explain a good deal of the game to five-year-old Conley, but he's a fan.  You can tell by the way he jumps up and down as we cheer Derek Jeter for doubling in the first two runs.  I should mention that we're Yankee fans.  Although Jess was born in Atlanta, my Brooklyn roots keep him values focused on New York baseball.

Conley appreciates the essence of the game.  His reactions are honest, offering none of the forced grunting or cheerleader-leering of football.  He simply sucks down his favorite beverage--chocolate milk--and imitates the players by swinging his yellow plastic bat as if swatting flies.  We try showing him a two-handed grip, but decide it's dangerous messing too much with a man's natural stance.
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While Jess and I spit statistics, like two ten-year-olds with a little knowledge, Conley babbles something about his kindergarten teacher and the number seventeen.  He completes his discourse with the word, "pineapple," as he often does.  It's his favorite word.  He doesn't particularly care for the fruit, but he loves the word.

The game progresses in its thoughtful, take-your-time-and-wait-for-your-pitch manner.  It's a close one.  Sometimes the Sox are ahead and sometimes the Yanks.  Despite the score, I doze.  But out of that corner of the mind that's always awake during a game, I hear Jess patiently explaining to his son why the infielders are playing in, just as I had done many times with him.

And my father had done with me.

The batter bunts. A-Rod charges the third base line and throws out the lead runner.

"Your daddy called that one," I say, opening my eyes. 

"Wow," he says.  "You wake up, Papa."

"I wasn't asleep," I tell Conley.  "A man has to learn to pace himself for the last few innings."

Jess laughs and cracks wise about my age.  I recall my father falling asleep in front of the game, mouth open, snoring, smelling of sweet pipe tobacco.  He'd use the same excuse I did about pacing himself.

We watch the Yankees put runners on first and third with no out.  "This is where it pays that they went so deep into the count early on," I say.  "What's Beckett up to?  100 pitches? And it's only the sixth inning.  The Yankees can blow this game open.  But they have to get to him now before Boston calls in the bullpen."  With that, Giambi blasts one into the upper deck in right field.

We both jump to the edge of our chairs and clap our hands at the same time.  "Yes!"  We say in unison.  "Nice call, Dad," Jess shouts. 

"Yes!"  Conley repeats, clapping his little hands.  "Pineapple!"

Keywords : baseball, Yankees, family

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