From what little I’ve learned, all you can do is give your kid an idea of where he’s from, so that he can figure out who he is. The whole “give them roots, so that they can grow wings,” which is a poor metaphor when you examine it, because really, what creature has both roots and wings? Hmmm?
Anyway, the G-Man was five years old the first time I took him to Fenway. The Sox played the Kansas City Royals. Jimy Williams got thrown out of the game. Nomar performed an inhuman double-play. We sat in the 23rd row on the third-base line. G lasted until the 5th inning, it was a night game. The Sox won 6-5. The G-Man remembers his Cool Dog, an ice cream treat in a sponge cake “bun” that looked like a hot dog.
The second time I brought him to a game was a week after Ted Williams passed away. We had the same seats, (the same print broker hooked us up.) It was Boston vs. Tampa Bay. I invested a day’s pay into hats, and balls, and programs, and Cool Dogs, and popcorn, and Fenway Franks, and soda, and cotton candy—just to keep him interested in the game. He was bored, he didn’t understand what was going on, and worse, he got nervous when the crowd would shout and chant. He takes these things personally, and confused enthusiasm for general aggression.
From an early age, I taught him to jeer the Yankees. Instead, he would cheer them on, just to get a rise out of me. Even when they weren’t playing. Even when we were at a Bruins game. I finally resigned myself to being the lone Sox fan in the house. Perhaps, I could interest my nephews in the team.
Then this season happened and peer pressure intervened. It’s all fine and good to root for the Yankees if it makes your mom's skin crawl, but when your friends refuse to sit with you at lunch, being contrary loses it’s appeal. Two weeks ago, while walking around Boston, we came upon a street vendor with a table full of Sox caps and souveniers. My son, my boy insisted on getting a ‘Yankee-Haters’ cap. I thought I could never be prouder.
That was until this Saturday night, during the first game of the World Series. Up to the plate stepped right fielder, Trot Nixon, and his name appeared at the bottom of the screen.
“Mom,” said G, through a mouthful of peanuts,“is he any relation to Mojo?”
Damn, I love that boy.
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