Pitcher's Duel

Pitcher’s Duel

I almost didn’t get to go that day; it not being Dad’s weekend and all. They argued back and forth, back and forth; neither side gaining or losing any ground.

“You should have made arrangements days ago.”

“I wasn’t sure I could get the tickets. I only got them last night.”

“You just had him last weekend. This is my weekend.”

“These are Giants tickets. Were you going to take him to a Major League Baseball Game?”

“I could take him to a Major League Baseball Game.”

“But not today.”

In a moment of comparative silence, I gave Mom my most “I’m really a grown-up” look and said, “I want to go. If you don’t let me, aren’t you punishing me more than you are Dad?”

It was only luck that kept Dad’s mouth shut. If he had said a word, only a word, he’d be out of the house and I’d be out a game. But he didn’t and Mom’s attention turned from Dad to me. She sighed. “Ok. Get your jacket.”

“Make sure he wears his seatbelt. Don’t you let him drink any of your beer! In fact, don’t you drink any beer.”

“Mom.” I waited until she met my gaze. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry.”

She gave me one last hug, I felt the powder from her face rub against and begin to cover my face. It didn’t feel bad, but it smelled kinda girlie.

“I’m fine, really.”

The top was down on Dad’s “mid-life crisis mobile” as Mom called it or his “Cherry Baby” as he called it and the wind blew my hair around wildly. The long bits would hit my face and it would almost sting; I wasn’t sure I liked the sensation. One look at Dad, though, and I could see he was already having such a wonderful time. I just couldn’t spoil it for him.

“So who’re they playing anyway?”

Dad looked at me startled, giving me one of those looks that translated “my little boy is going turn out gay growing up in his Mom’s house.” I’m never sure what to say to make that look go away.

“I play baseball, Dad, I just don’t watch it that much.”

“Yeah, you’re always watching those “ree al ity” programs with your Mother. . .Reality programs. What would your Mother know about reality?”

“Dad. I like those shows too.”

We had great seats, close to the field, behind home base, out in the sun. Dad bought us hot dogs and Cracker Jacks, a coke for me and a beer for him.

“Don’t tell your mother.” He said with a wink.

I pictured the days when he was still at home and we would have a friendly conspiracy against her.

“Shake it off Bob, they’re not that way anymore. Never will be.” I told myself.
Aloud I said, “Only if you let me try a sip.” I winked broadly back at him.

It was my first taste of beer and it reminded me a little of Wonder Bread and the way water by the side of your bed tastes funny if you drink the bit that’s left the next morning. I wiped the foam away from my mouth and my Dad thumped me on the back proudly.

“Atta boy!”

Dad bought me a jersey and by the 4th inning I had it wrapped around my head like a turban. I was trying to block my nose, which I could already tell was getting red. Mom would have kittens when I came home with a sunburn.

They were playing the Cubs and all around us Cubs fans and Giants fans made snide comments at each other. Once in awhile when someone would cuss, my Dad would look at me to see if I had noticed. I just pretended not to hear. Really the fans were more exciting than the game. It was a Pitcher’s Duel and while Dad screamed his praise at Reuter, “Way to hold tough buddy. Way to hold tough.” I wished he’d let somebody hit something. I knew that if Reuter were pitching for my Little League Team and we were scoreless this late in the game; we’d feel like we had it made. On your own team, well, it’s about winning and here I just wanted something to watch. I wanted to see somebody dive to make a base or somebody run to catch a pop fly. It was boring watching player after player have his ups and then just take a seat. Benes, pitcher for Chicago was holding just as strong too and as the 9th inning finished and the 10th started, I worried about Mom. I wondered what she had done today without me.

“How long do you spose it will go, Dad?” I tried not to sound worried.

“Sit back and relax, Bobby-boy. Why some games have gone 18, 19 innings. You want another hot dog?”

19 innings! By that time, Mom would have called the cops and reported Dad as a child kidnapper. Please let her have heard something on the radio about the game running long.

“That’d be great, Dad.”

“Now don’t you let anybody hit anything without me.”

“I won’t.” But I wished somebody would. I didn’t want Dad to miss out; I just wanted to go home. 19 innings sounds great, but only if players are hitting and sliding and running and catching.

Watching tv that night with Mom, the news showed highlights from the game. It had finally ended in the 13th when Barry Bonds hit his 5th home run for the year.

“Hey Mom, look, that’s the game I saw with Dad.”

Shegazed icily at the screen a moment before turning the channel.

“I still say that’s a long time to be gone for a score of one zero. Next weekend, no matter what, it’s my weekend”