Pearlman.
âWhy do you root for such a loser team?â Frank taunted. âIt makes you a loser too.â
âThe Yankees are lucky,â Sherman shot back. âAnd, they have more money than the other teams.â
I was surprised by his comeback. And I was glad to see him fight back. Just when I thought the dispute was over, Sherman launched into a passionate monologue about Jackie Robinson breaking the color line, and Duke Snider being the best center fielder in the cityâmaybe even the whole universe. By the time he was done, Sherman was red in the face.
Iâd always thought of this kid as somewhat of a loser. But I found myself admiring his passion and fierce defense of this much maligned baseball team. Thatâs when I asked my father if heâd take me along with him to one of his Sunday softball games.
In real life, most of my fatherâs teammates lived pretty ordinary lives. They had families and respectable jobs. Some were salesmen like my father, while others worked for banks, insurance agencies, and firms in the city. But when they put their uniforms on, they were transformed into ball players, guys who razzed each other and shouted obscenities at the opposing team, who yelled stuff like âattaway to goâ and patted each other on the back and said âgreat playâ or âgood hit.â
I was captivated by how intense and animated those grown-ups wereâmy father included. It was only pickup ball, but they played with such determination. They argued with the umps when calls went against them, and they bickered with each other about strategy decisions and âwhat ifs.â But as soon as the games were over, theyâd head for Johnnyâs Bar and Grill on 129th where theyâd replay the highlights and mistakes over a few beers.
I especially loved watching my father play. He seemed so alive, so vibrant when he was out on the field. It was the only time Iâd ever seen that side of him. Sometimes heâd get so caught up in the game that heâd barely remember heâd brought me with him. Iâd have to reach up and tug on his jersey just to remind him I was still there.
At first I felt privileged just to be on the fringe of this inner sanctum. It was like being at the track with my grandfather. Was there anything, I wondered, that could ever absorb me the way horse racing engaged my grandfatherâand the way baseball excited my father?
Once I began to take an interest in the game, baseball became the common ground between the two of us. Whenever I rode with him to his Manhattan office, my father would tell me stories about his old ball playing days. I remember how exuberant heâd get when he reminisced about playing shortstop for George Washington High. One of his teammates, he said, was Lou Gehrig, the Yankee Hall of Famer. My fatherâs voice rose whenever he invoked Gehrigâs name. Heâd talk about how badly he too wanted to go to Columbia and play ball, just like Gehrig did.
But college wasnât an option. His family, first generation Polish immigrants, couldnât afford it. Nor was it part of the family ethic. Instead, he worked in his fatherâs tailor shop and played semi-pro ball on weekends. That was before he became a traveling salesman, married my mother, and started a family.
My fatherâs biggest regrets, he once told me, were that he never got to fight in World War Two, never went to college, and didnât get to pursue his dream of playing baseball.
To compensate for the loss of his baseball dreams, he began to educate me about the game. Sometimes on weekends, heâd take me up to the Polo Grounds to watch the Giants play. He taught me how to keep score, and he kept pointing out nuances and strategies: how infielders and outfielders positioned themselves differently for left-and right-handed hitters, when a bunt or steal or a hit-and-run were imminent, what kinds of pitches would exploit a