My father loved the 1950’s New York Yankees, so I did too. I have fond memories of him sitting on the screened-in porch on Stewart Avenue in Kearny, listening to the game on the radio and having a Schaeffer’s beer. Mel Allen and Red Barber didn’t just call the game; they made the game come alive, as if you could literally see each play unfold through their eyes. Like my father, I knew every player, all their stats, and we cheered or groaned together as the Yankees made or missed key plays.
My father had been a left-handed pitcher and strikeout king with the Wisconsin Blues; he left semi-pro ball because you couldn’t make a living at it. I wonder, when he listened to Whitey Ford or Don Larsen taking the mound for the Yankees, if he imagined himself there, spurred on by the roar of the crowd and mowing down batter after batter. I doubt my mother would have been attracted to such foolishness. She liked a steady paycheck and a man who went to work in a suit. But nothing would have kept him from imagining it, just the same. Being a strikeout king for the New York Yankees might have had more flair than a mortgage, a car payment, and a job at The Plant – as we all called Dupont in those days.
Last night the Yankees won the World Series for the 27th time. I watched the whole game, knowing that today my father would have had an extra spring in his step as he put on his suit and left for work.
Tags: competition
