My father was a Mets fan.
He wasn’t a die hard fan, but we did go to several ball games in Flushing while we were growing up. We sat in the upper deck, where the seats were cheap and the fans were rowdy. I remember the sight of the green, green grass of the outfield and reddish infield dirt. Mom would sneak snacks in her huge bag and we’d be eating pretzels out of Ziploc bags instead of hot dogs from the vendor who was pacing around us. My sisters and I would bring our little baseball gloves because there was a chance, just MAYBE a chance, that a rouge foul ball would come our way and we would somehow catch it. I suspect my father was humoring us, but I LOVED wearing my glove during the game.
I’ve always loved wearing a baseball glove.
My father and I would play catch in our backyard when we lived in Peekskill, NY. It was one of the only activities that we did exclusively. Even though we used a tennis ball, I can still feel the tug on my hand, catching one of his throws. It was something that I could do right, when I felt so much else that I did was wrong in his eyes. He was the one who would ask to stop because I would’ve stayed out there with him forever.
I suppose now I’m a Yankee fan. Not a die hard fan, but the YES Network (Yankee Entertainment & Sports) is on at my place A LOT during the summer. The low drone of the crowd, the low voices of the announcers and the sporadic excitement of a homerun comforts me. I don’t know how many other single women have a ballgame on in the background of their lives, but I make no apologies! In a very small way it keeps my father with me and I am comforted.