Thanks Yanks! RIP Dad

For Game 7 of the 2003 ALCS we had a typical crew over the crib on 21stSt., and some time around Grady Little’s leaving Pedro Martinez in for an inning too long things started to get rowdy. Beer bottles banging in synchronization on the living room table, obscenities and insults being thrown through the TV at anyone on Boston or from Boston as the Yankees staged a classic comeback to eventually be capitalized by Aaron Boone’s shot that sent us all into embrace on the couch. That 6-man hug.

“But the Yankees always win,” said the stripper from next door who was from New York but knew nothing about baseball. “Let somebody else win for a change.”

Who invited her over?

I explained to her that albeit ironic, it’s only right that the Yankees “always win” (it’s obviously not literally always — just way, way more than everyone else), as they represent New York. The football Giants are a New York sports team, sure, as are the Mets and Jets, but all over the world it’s the Yankees logo that symbolizes New York (beyond just sports). If we can agree that New York is the greatest city in the world then wouldn’t logic dictate that at least one of its teams boast the most bravado and dominant legacy? Surely we’re not getting such a performance out of the Mets, and by this rationale the Knicks’ past 20 years would be better suited for Pierre, South Dakota.

“So, could you imagine if the Yankees didn’t exist?” I asked the exotic dancer. “If The South Bronx didn’t have the most arrogant, victorious, financially gluttonous, alpha squad in all of sports, where would we be? Who would we be? Would ‘New York’ even hold the same meaning?”

“Oh,” she looked over at me with her jaw open. “I never thought of it like that.”

“Obviously.”

“Okay, I’m rooting for the Yankees.”

Yankee fans often get accused of being bandwagon riders, which is relatively mindless, especially when aimed at NY/NJ natives who at worst had a 50% chance of becoming a fan to begin with. Personally, my love for the Yankees has grown with age, concurrent with pride for my hometown, also with an increasing number of positive associations with the franchise.

One of my favorite things in the world besides baseball is hip hop, which was born in The Bronx, coincidentally in the same year I was just a few miles south of it. For me the Yankees mean hip hop, especially since their arch rival, Boston, has a checkered past (and present) in race relations, and was the last team in baseball to hire a black player to their team.

I love the Yankees’ pinstripes and that they were the first to wear them, also how clever was the original idea, in reference to the bustling “Wall Streeters” that are equally signature to the town’s character (Umm, why do the Arizona Diamondbacks wear stripes?). Maybe even cooler than the pinstripes is that the Yankees are the only team in American sports that does not put the players’ names on the back of the uniforms. It’s about the team.

I love their magical fate, as even before the big spending of Steinbrenner and free agency were the likes of Mickey Mantle and Joe Dimaggio, Lou Gehrig, who gave the greatest speech in the history of sports; and that other guy — only the most famous athlete ever in America. So even if one wanted to minimize their more recent championships as “purchased,” the majority were more likely karmic.

I love that every game at the Stadium ends with Frankie Baby, the New York legend with “his olive oil voice and guinea charm.” Because win, lose or draw, we all love New York, New York after a ballgame at the stadium. I love that every real baseball fan knows which stadium is “The Stadium,” and take great pride in being one of the few teams that hasn’t sold out the name to some major financial institution or corporate conglomerate. You don’t buy me out. I buy you out.

Most of all I love the Yankees because my father did. Dad was born in New York in 1932, the year of their fourth title, and had me in ’78, the year of their 22nd(2+2=4). I suppose two family members both being born in years of Yankee titles during the 20thcentury wasn’t such a coincidence, but nevertheless…

Even in the middle of June Dad digested every game as if it was a Game 7, glued to the TV, otherwise asking strangers in public if they’d heard the score, and God forbid a relief pitcher should throw four consecutive balls with a big lead he would slam a fist on his thigh and foot on the floor, cursing or shaking his head in frustration as if any of it mattered at all. It was ridiculous behavior, and my brother and I would make fun of him for it, in spite of having surely sponged a milder version of the same impassioned tendencies ourselves.

A few months ago Dad called me around 10:00 night, an unusual hour for the elder statesman in his recent years. I looked at my girlfriend, bewildered, then back at the phone and picked up. After exchanging what had become our typically mundane pleasantries he became more vulnerable, more interesting, and I stared at my girl, on the edge of my seat for what was to come. Some gossip about Mom, some elder philosophical reflection — what could it be?

“You know, I think…” he stammered through self-awareness. “I think in recent years I allow myself to be too emotionally affected by the outcome of the Yankee games. Do you find that about me?”

It was probably the hardest he’d made me laugh since I was a child.

I humored the old man and offered to him that maybe he should try adopting my own approach, which is to not allow myself to get too attached to the regular season and/or insignificant games. “Just the playoffs,” I told him. “If you’re going to bed upset about your team getting bounced out of the playoffs that’s relatively understandable. If you’re miserable about going 56–45 instead of 57–44 then maybe you should consider talking to someone.”

He reciprocated my laughter, told me he loved me and abruptly hung up. I hope I was helpful.

Last week at the ripe old age of 85 Dad passed away. He had a great run, as they say, just like “the baby bombers,” but much like losing a Game 7, death is never easy.

In his final years Dad was difficult to communicate with, as his senses dramatically waned along with his patience and once upbeat spirit, and it slowly broke my heart and frequently tried my own patience. We all felt the frustration of struggling to have any conversation of substance with him, which is part of the reason the mundane small talk became so commonplace. Though it never became easy (for me). When forced into a corner, such as sitting in traffic or any one on one interaction, I’d defer to baseball, which is exactly what I did at our final lunch together in the city a few weeks ago. My plan worked and I remember commenting to my brother afterwards that the lunch was pleasant, conversation above average, and I was grateful that the Yankees gave us something of substance to connect over.

I’m so grateful Dad got to watch an exciting season, so grateful he got to see us beat Minnesota and Cleveland, and I hope wherever he was that he got to see those three home games against Houston. The ALCS, while disappointing in the end, served as a wonderful source of distraction, joy, hope and excitement for my mom and brother and I during what was otherwise the most difficult week we’d ever all collectively shared. Instead we got to cheer and yell and rejoice a little, and even occasionally cursed as we slammed our fists into our thighs and feet into the floor, all over this meaningless kids’ game. I love the Yankees, now even more than ever, as they gave me such a gift in so many forms both through my father’s life and passing as well. I thank you, Dad. And thanks, Yanks! Thanks for the fantastic run.

Originally published at davidfostercomedyblog.com.