IRA SADOFF
525
a baseball game," my father tells me, "it's history being made."
Apparently my father has little interes t in history, though, for after he
dUlifully explains whal he knows of the rules of the game ("Three
strikes and you're out, except for a foul tipper.") he takes to reading his
lrade newspaper,
Variety,
circling in red ink whenever his name is
mentioned as so-and-so's accompanist, or as an up-and-coming execu–
tive at NBC. He does buy me all the peanuts, hot dogs , and Cokes I can
eat, and when he takes OUl his wallet I notice a photograph of a woman
who looks like a movie star, a picture taken with one of those fuzzed-up
lenses, the kind they pUl in wallets when you buy them , only I don't
recogn ize the woman's face.
The Giants win in a rout, scoring thirteen runs. As soon as the
game ends , fans rush onto the field, tearing up pieces of sod for
souvenirs, fighting one another for second base, ripping out grand–
stand seats with their bare hands . In this mayhem I ask my father to get
me Frank Thomas's autograph (he's the last place Pirates third
baseman and their only decent ballplayer-now he owns a bar and grill
in Queens). My father takes me by the hand and drags me to the first
row of the third baseline, elbowing his way through the crowd.
"Thomas , hey Thomas," he yells out, "my kid wants your autograph."
Thomas looks over to us and glares: he's just gone o-for-four and has a
look on his face which suggests,
Please Lord, let me be traded.
My
fath er annoys him like a high fly in the sun field. I ask my father if we
can please go, I'm dying of embarrassment, but my father is persistent.
"Come on, for Christ's sake," he says, holding out my program, "give
the kid a break. "
As Thomas passes us on the way to the clubhouse, his red face no
more than inches away from my father's extended hand, he spits on the
program and conlinues walking. My father is speechless, stares at the
program in disbelief while fans push past him to grab players' hats,
uniforms, spiked shoes; then he lakes me by the hand to the car. We sit
silently in our '5 1 green Chevy while traffic crawls out of the stadium,
my father honking the horn and sticking his head out the window,
shouting, "Come on, you sons-of-bitches, clear out of here. " When we
get home, my mother, ch eerful and innocent, asks us how we enjoyed
the game. My father runs upstairs to their bedroom and slams the door.
"The Giants 10Sl," I say, but I can hear my voice rising as though I
were posing a question and my mother stands,.puzzled, open-mouthed,
by the stairway, looking at the closed bedroom door.
Two weeks after the game my father takes me to his office at
Rockefeller Center. This is the first time he's brought me to work with
