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!"

Impressed with myself as a student of the game, I imagine I'm the new Yankee manager.  I once fantasized playing centerfield after Mantle retired.  Now I'm willing to accept managerial duties.

The next inning, Ortiz negates Giambi's homer with his own three-run shot and ties the game.  Ramirez follows with a go-ahead, opposite field shot. 

"Damn those two.  You know the Yankees could have had them both, but they passed thinking they were defensive liabilities.  Boston was trying to give away Ramirez.  The Yankees should have signed him just so they don't have to play against him."

Our moods have changed.  Even Conley chanting, "Pineapple!  Pineapple!  Pineapple!" doesn't help.  Boston is in first place by two games.  We have to listen to the announcers remind us that if the Red Sox win this one, they put some daylight between themselves and New York.

"Where's the curse when you need it?" Jess asks.

Speaking of curses, after a slow inning in which neither team scores, we watch Johnny Damon beat out an infield grounder to lead off the ninth.  He steals second.  Jeter singles him home to tie the score.  The Red Sox go to their bullpen and A-Rod promptly lines a single to left.  Jeter rounds second, never stopping, and slides into third base headfirst.

"If he's thrown out," I say, "that would have been the stupidest play of the season.  But he made it, so add it to the Jeter legend as heads-up base running." 

An out later, Matsui brings Jeter home on a sacrifice fly.  The Yankees have the lead.  As Jeter is congratulated by his teammates, I tell Jess that's why Jeter will be in the Hall of Fame someday.

"And you would have held him at second," Jess reminds me. 

We laugh.  "Okay, maybe I'm not ready to manage.  But the Yankees still have to get through the bottom of the ninth.  You can't take this game for granted."

"Maybe you can," Jess says.  "Rivera's coming in."
  
It's almost anti-climactic as Rivera secures the last three outs with his easy, efficient motion.  Just seven pitches net him a strikeout, a broken bat easy bouncer to second and a comebacker to end the game.   Jess and I exhale for what seems like the first time since the sixth inning.

Conley has fallen asleep on my chest and Jess and I talk about taking him to a game.  Jess worries how Conley will deal with the height since we usually get cheap bleacher seats.  I remember watching the Brooklyn Dodgers at Ebbets Field with my dad from deep right field.  As a child, Jess had no problem with our cheap bleacher seats.

"He'll do fine.  As long as you ply him with hot dogs and peanuts the way I did you and grandpa did me."

With that, Conley wakes up and says he's hungry.  "I thought you were sleeping," I say.

"I never sleep during baseball.  Like you, Papa."

Wayne Scheer made the journey from Brooklyn to Atlanta, where he's still searching for a stickball game.  Nominated for a Pushcart Prize and a Best of the Net, his stories have appeared in Notre Dame Magazine, The Christian Science Monitor, Pedestal Magazine, Eclectica and flashquake.

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Keywords : baseball, Yankees, family

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