Home Plate
“ARE YOU WATCHING THIS, KID?!”, davidnemer@hotmail.com pops up in my MSN messenger feed. It’s the fall of 2004 and I’m in my bedroom on the third floor of my tiny Beacon Hill apartment. My desk faces the window looking out on Garden Street as dark autumn leaves bounce high above the cobblestones in the gas-lamp light. The American League Championship Series Game 6 between the Boston Red Sox and New York Yankees is blasting on the living room TV outside my door. My high, hippie, drama school roommates DGAF and have retreated to their incense soaked rooms down the hall while one of the most historic Red Sox games in our lifetime is taking place in my apartment. A. Rod had just slapped the ball out of Bronson Arroyo’s glove for the tag at first base and the Sox inched closer to an appearance in the World Series. This was an epic baseball moment. And my Dad and I had been tracking the team’s progress, long distance, all week. (The Red Sox had been at an 0–3 deficit approaching Game 4, if it hadn’t been for now LA Dodgers manager, Dave Roberts, stealing 2nd base in that game and advancing the team to win it, the Sox would have failed once again to reach the World Series in their 86 year drought. ) But the Red Sox persevered, and should they clinch now, Game 7 is tomorrow — with a chance to defeat the players in pinstripes.
davidnemer@hotmail.com : “If they win tonight I’m buying a ticket.”
My Dad just happens to have a business trip to New York the next day — and he’s a whiz at the Craigslist ticket game.
losannegeles@hotmail.com : “If they win tonight, you’re buying two.”
davidnemer@hotmail.com : “Deal.”
No questions asked. No mention of what thousand dollar Emerson College class I may be missing for this potential once in a lifetime opportunity.
With the score at 4–2, Red Sox up and going into the 9th — we were poised on our keyboards at every pitch. New York was down to their last out, Keith Foulk wound up… delivered… and the Yankees Tony Clark struck out swinging. The Red Sox were going to Game 7. And so are we.
davidnemer@hotmail.com : “See ya tomorrow, Kid.”
losannegeles@hotmail.com : “As soon as class gets out — I’m on the bus. Love ya Dad. Night night.”
When the clock struck 1:43pm I busted out of Studio TV Directing, Red Sox hat and Ramirez shirt on I shouted to my friends as I hauled ass down the grey, campus hallway.
“Peace! I’m out! I’m going to GAME SEVEN!” They seethed with jealousy.
“What da fuck Nemah you’re goin’ to dat game?! No fuckin’ way!” My classmate Josh shouted after me in his native accent I can only describe as Good Will Hunting. How was I the lucky one going to Game 7? My Dad, that’s how.
Along with raising me to be a lifelong baseball (and primarily Los Angeles Dodgers) fan, my Dad bestowed upon me the impulse to always seize an opportunity and experience something big. I was living in Boston, and with our beloved boys in blue sitting this championship out — it was all eyes on our favorite little American League team. And this, this was big. Though our summers were spent averaging two nights a week in Loge Aisle 162 Row A seats 5, 6, 7, and 8 at Chavez Ravine — come my college experience in Boston, we were able to double down on our baseball fanaticism. And it seemed like fate that the Dodgers would face the Red Sox in inter-league play the summer of my 21st birthday (four months prior to the Boston versus NY playoff series) and I would share my first (of very many) ballpark Bud-Lights with my Dad at Fenway. He flew to Boston to make a weekend out of it; rollerblading down the Charles River by day (I don’t recommend it, inline skating and cobblestones don’t roll well together) and jamming ourselves in the T at night, dots of Dodger Blue amidst a red sea on route to Yawkey Way.
As we sat there in our seats along the first base line, halfway up in the stands, me clutching my first, legal, cold beer while my Dad held his in one hand and pointed to a play on the field with the other, a gentleman came up and tapped him on the shoulder. I got nervous at first, thinking we did something wrong — two oblivious LA fans perhaps obstructing the view of the die-hards around us — but the man leaned down to my Dad and said, “Can I shake your hand, sir?” Curious, my Dad held out his hand.
“I’m sitting up there with my kid who’s four years old, and I hope to sit here one day and share a beer with him like you two are. Beautiful. Enjoy the game.”
And he walked back up to his seat.
I don’t think my Dad said anything to the man, he just beamed with pride under his beard, a sparkle and little tear welling up in his eye, he looked at me, raised his cup, chuckled and said, “Cheers kid.”
And now here we were, four months later and approximately four hours away, I was on the Chinatown Lucky Star bus heading to New York City. The bus leaves every hour on the hour from Boston to NYC for only $10. Sometimes it takes three and a half hours, sometimes it takes seven… depending on the driver, traffic, and McDonald’s stops. I was praying this one was a quickie. Game 7 started at 7 — and we didn’t want to miss the first pitch. Alternating replays between the Garden State soundtrack and Tori Amos’ Tales of a Librarian in my Discman to pass the time, I finally rolled into New York’s Chinatown around 6:45pm. I hailed a cab to the Sheraton in Times Square and raced up to my Dad’s room.
“Hiya, Kid!” He said and hugged me.
“We gotta go!” I dropped my backpack, threw my ID and some cash in my puffy black coat pocket, shoved some gloves on and our Red Sox hats and marched out the hotel to the Subway.
We were jammed in with Yankees fans. My mother had been texting us both to keep her updated, terrified we were going to get clobbered by drunken, disgruntled, New Yorkers. She didn’t want us to go. Yankee and Red Sox fans have a rowdy reputation, and a century long rivalry. If it was up to my Mom — I’d be safe in my Boston apartment, not missing any classes, and Dad would be at his hotel bar. But Dad won out on this one, we had the chance to witness history in the making, and in my Dad’s playbook — you go to the game. We gripped the subway post and held on tight, locking worried looks as commuters got on and off shouting Red Sox suck! We smiled though. Once again we were on someone else’s home turf, but I felt safe. I was with my Dad, and if the Red Sox fans could appreciate our bond, I trusted the Yanks could too.
The subway opened up to the portals of old Yankees Stadium and we got to our seats just in time for Johnny Damon’s leadoff single followed by a steal. Then Big Papi hits a two-run homerun. We’re in second tier seats high above home plate, occupying the places of two Yankees season ticket holders who had apparently thrown in the towel. It’s pretty remarkable to make a three-in-a-row game winning streak, the Red Sox were hot, and Yankee fans were sweating.
We got beers, peanuts and hot dogs per usual. Championship series aside, another just as compelling reason to experience a game off your home turf is to taste their signature, stadium, hot dog. Dodger Dogs get a bad rap, and I understand. The Farmer John super long and thin hot dog doesn’t pack the flavorful bite that Wrigley Field’s Vienna Beef or Yankees’ Nathan’s dog does… but let’s be real, Chicago and NY are hot dog cities. LA is not. That said, let me impart a lifetime Dodger fan pro-tip; find the Dodger Dog stand that says “Grilled.” Get yourself a side of nachos with jalapeños. Add onions and spicy mustard to your Dodger Dog, tuck a few jalapeños in, and dip in the nacho cheese sauce. Muahh! It’s a home run. There is nothing better than that chased with a cold Bud Light on a hot summer Sunday day-game. Bliss.
Back in the crisp October air, as I took in bite after bite of New York’s finest, we watched the score climb. In the second inning Johnny Damon hits a grand slam, it’s 6–0 Sox. Another homer by Damon in the 4th, it’s 8–1. Yankees’ stadium starts to feel like an aquarium where air is slowly pushing the water out and the pinstriped fish are flapping their fins, eyes bulging, gasping. Then a 9–3 home run by Bellhorn at the top of the 9th… another run to make it 10… the Yankees come up to bat but the Sox shut them down and rush the field for their first World Series appearance since 1986 and a chance to break the curse of the Bambino.
Daddy and I leapt in joy. Though certainly disgruntled, the New York fans shook our hands with dignity. This was your year. They say. They know. Like that day in Fenway, I know these folks saw more than just Red Sox fans when they saw my Dad and me. They saw the special tradition within us, the one we all share at those once-in-a-moment games with the people we love the most. Rivalry aside, the beautiful thing about baseball is the appreciation for everything the game gives — the cheers, the beers, the boos, and the bond.
We posed for a picture while the players on the field celebrated behind us — a kind Yankees fan taking my Daddy’s phone to snap it.
Then we filed out of the stadium and back on to the subway. The crowds were fairly quiet, minus the few Boston tribes screaming Yankees suck! And Jeter sucks A-Rod! My Dad and I didn’t partake in the yelling, but we high fived a few fans along the way. Though the game was over, our journey was not. And my Mom wouldn’t rest easy until we were safely back at the Sheraton. But we had one more stop to make. As we sat on the somber subway ride (somber for NYC, smiley for us) Dad leaned towards me and said, Carnegie Deli? Because what’s a trip to New York without a ten-inch-high corn beef on rye washed down with a chocolate egg cream?! No matter how many hours are left in the night, or how many hot dogs you’ve just had!
Sitting across from each other in the iconic deli, we texted Mom to let her know we were safe while we recapped and noshed on pickles and corn beef.
“Can you believe we made it in time for that first single?” He says, scruffing off bright yellow mustard from his mustache.
“It was meant to be. They’re gonna kill the Cardinals.”
“They better… it’s almost like the World Series doesn’t matter, this was the game that counts.”
“Yep. Thank you, Daddy.”
He lifts his plastic diner cup to clink with mine.
“What time do you have to leave in the morning?”
“Hah… 6:30.”
“Don’t let the door hit you in the ass on the way out, Kid”
After a sleepy ride on the Lucky Star, still tingling from the win, I made it back in time for Theatre History at 2pm. Though the whole experience amounted to a mere twenty-four hours, the moment would linger and last a lifetime. And to this day, no one believes me when I’m swapping baseball stories and say, “I was at Game 7 in 2004.” They gasp and reply, “how’d you get to go to THAT game?!” My Dad, that’s how.
Today, I’m the legacy holder for our season tickets at Dodger Stadium, and I travel for work just like my Daddy did. He hand picked our four seats and cemented our spot at Dodger Stadium, and I can feel his energy enjoying that view every time I sit there. He bought those seats not only for the love of the game, but with the pure intention of sharing this experience. And while the countless Dodger games with friends, colleagues, and acquaintances are a gift from him that keeps on giving to myself and many others, the most cherished gift is the one he gave to just me — of just the two of us — away from our home turf and taking in a game on the road. Today, when I get assigned to a city for work, the first thing I think is, do they have a baseball team? And, can I wrap in time for the first pitch? I’ve made it to the Kansas City Royals, Cincinnati Reds, St. Louis Cardinals, Atlanta Braves, Tampa Bay Rays, Detroit Tigers, New York Mets, and Philadelphia Phillies. My Dad hasn’t been seated by my side for twelve years now, but when I put on my blue hat and bounce up to the ticket booth with my $50 a day per diem, asking for the best ticket my money can buy, I know he’s right there with me. He’s with me when I charge into the new stadium and pause to stare up at the structure of it all. He’s with me when I buy that Bud Light and chat with the vendor behind the counter — remarking how this beer would cost $14 in Los Angeles and it’s only $6 here! He’s with me when I take that first bite of the hot dog, kick my legs up on the seat in front of me and watch the players run the field. He’s with me when I scream at a home run, and cuss at a bad call. I see the look on some people’s faces… wondering why there’s a tall, blonde, Dodger blue donning young woman alone in the stands… but they smile when they see the confidence I’m posturing — because I’m not alone. I’m rooted right where I need to be, and my Dad is rooting right along above me — in the stands, in the stars, in the stadium.
losanngeles@hotmail.com : thanks, Daddy.
