WEDNESDAY, AUGUST 27:

Mister Salty

The Mets are on television tonight. Mom’s out at a library board meeting, so me and Dad and Ryan camp out in the family room to watch.

We’ve got a low table in front of the couch, and Dad sets a box of saltines and a jar of green olives there. We munch our way through them by the end of the first inning. Koosman gives up a solo homer in the bottom of the inning, so the Padres take a rare lead.

Dad comes back with Ritz crackers and a slab of cheddar cheese for the second inning, slicing it with a big knife with a black handle. I eat a few crackers, but I don’t like cheese, so I get the jar of peanut butter after the Mets go down, and spread that on ’em.

Koosman gets the Mets’ first hit in the top of the third (the Mets have the best-hitting pitchers in the league), then Agee walks. Cleon Jones doubles them both home, and the Mets take the lead.

“Looking good,” Dad says. “Been a lot of years since there was a New York baseball team to get excited about.”

Ryan goes to the cellar for drinks. “Brody!” he yells from downstairs. “What kind you want?”

I try to envision what’s in there. I know there’s lemon (that’s all Mom drinks) and I’m pretty sure there’s some root beer. “Any grape?”

I hear Ryan moving cans around. “No!”

“Then orange.”

“Okay.”

He comes back with a Rheingold and two Shop-Rite sodas.

“What kind of pretzels we got out there?” Dad calls as Ryan enters the kitchen.

I hear a cabinet swing open. “Mister Salty.”

“Bring ’em on.”

The drinks and the pretzels cover us for a few innings. It occurs to me that the Padres haven’t had a base runner since the first.

“Koosman is having an incredible stretch of games,” Dad says. “Seaver, too. And pitching wins championships.”

Art Shamsky doubles in a run for the Mets in the sixth, then scores on Ken Boswell’s single.

“Of course, it doesn’t hurt to have hitters,” Dad says. He gets up and heads to the bathroom.

Mom comes home from her meeting and sits next to Ryan on the love seat. “Exciting game?” she asks. She never pays any attention to professional sports. She did show up for all of my Little League games and Ryan’s basketball games, though.

“Hi, honey,” Dad says. He’s in the kitchen, standing in front of the open freezer. He comes back with a dish of coffee ice cream.

Mom yawns. “Guess I’ll read in bed,” she says.

Koosman hits the leadoff batter with a pitch in the bottom of the sixth, but the Mets immediately turn a double play.

“No contest,” Dad says. “Man, I wish my father could see this team. He was a huge Yankees fan back in the day. DiMaggio, Yogi, Johnny Mize.” He shakes his head. His father dropped dead shoveling snow.

Ryan picks up the olive jar. “Better put this back,” he says. He goes to the kitchen.

“There might be a beer in there,” Dad says.

Ryan shifts some bottles around in the refrigerator. “Nope. I’ll get you one.”

This time he comes up with two of them and pops one open.

Dad eats another pretzel. “What else we got out there?” he asks Ryan.

Ryan shrugs. “I didn’t notice.”

“What good are you?”

I smile. “Mom bought another watermelon.”

They both laugh.

“Now that sounds good,” Dad says.

“Yeah!” Ryan adds. “Let’s scarf it down.”

So Dad gets three massive slices and a big handful of napkins. “No juice on the upholstery,” he warns.

“I better get us some plates,” I say. So I do.

Koosman hits another single, but they leave him stranded. By the time it’s over he’s pitched the last eight and a third without yielding a hit. The Mets are looking dominant, but again, this is the Padres we’re talking about.

The game ends and we sit there grinning. Dad gets up and switches to channel 11. The intro to The Honeymooners is just coming on, Jackie Gleason’s face in the moon.

“Awesome,” Ryan says.

“Funniest thing on television,” Dad says. “These shows are fifteen years old, and nobody’s come close.”

They both take a swig of their beers. I go to the cellar for another can of soda, and we laugh our heads off for another half hour.

Nothing like summer. Too bad it’s almost over.