War and Watermelon

Me and Ryan can’t even sit down, pacing back and forth in the family room. The Mets are clinging to a one-run lead over the Cubs, who’ve started slumping just as the Mets have caught fire. If the Mets can hold on to this one, they’ll be inches away from first place.

Top of the ninth. One out. Shea Stadium is rocking. I stuff a handful of pretzels into my mouth.

“It’s late!” Mom yells from the top of the stairs.

“This is the greatest baseball game ever!” Ryan calls back.

I roll my eyes and shake my head. “Two more minutes!” I yell, hoping she’ll close her door and go to sleep. Koosman is two outs away from finishing this thing.

He gets his thirteenth strikeout. Ryan throws out five quick punches, gritting his teeth. “Dig it!” he says.

I can’t even look. I walk out to the kitchen and open the refrigerator. There’s a pitcher of watery lemonade, a few slices of leftover bacon from this morning on a paper plate, and a half-eaten chicken breast. Plus all the stuff in jars, like olives and pickles and mustard.

“It’s over!” Ryan yells. I sprint the eight feet to the family room, where Ryan is dancing around, punching at the air again.

“I am stoked!” he says. “Seaver’s pitching tomorrow night and I’m off. We’re going!”

“You better believe we are. What time do you get done with football?”

“I’ll pick you up at the field. You can change in the car.”

I can hear Dad walking down the stairs. “Where are you going?” he asks.

Ryan is kneeling on the couch now, bouncing up and down. “Shea Stadium. Tomorrow night. I can use the car, right?”

Dad tightens his mouth. Mom is right behind him, tying her bathrobe. “You want to take another trip?” she asks.

“Just into the city,” Ryan replies. “We’d never make it in time on the bus. By the time he gets home from practice and gets changed . . .”

“Can’t you go on a Saturday?” she asks. “I’ll make sandwiches.”

“Mom, this game is huge. The Cubs. The Mets are a game and a half back and Seaver’s pitching. It’s like a John Tunis novel come to life.”

She purses her lips and turns to Dad, but she doesn’t ask his opinion this time. “Brody has school the next morning.”

“It’s my birthday!” Ryan says. “And we’ll be home by nine thirty. Ten at the absolute latest. He can sleep in the car on the way home.”

I almost never bring homework home. “I’ll get it done between classes or at lunchtime,” I say. “Please, Mom. This is the biggest sporting event of my life. You know how bad the Mets have always been. The Yankees and the Giants stink, too.”

“This is history!” Ryan says. “The worst team in sports is becoming the best.”

“Haven’t you had enough ‘history’ lately?” Dad asks.

“I brought him back safe from Woodstock,” Ryan says. “And this is a lot closer to home.”

Mom folds her arms. “Brody is already up too late tonight. By tomorrow night he’d be a wreck.”

“No way, Mom,” I say. “I’m up past midnight every night.”

“I can sleep; I just don’t. I listen to the radio.”

“What?” Mom looks at him like he’s speaking Italian.

“Mom,” he says, “the man is getting in touch with his emotions.”

“He’s an old twelve. I promise, Jenny will look out for him.”

Dad clears his throat again and looks directly at me. “Do you want to go, Jehosaphat, or are you being dragged along again so Ryan can justify another trip?”

“I definitely want to go, Dad. I’ve never been to Shea, remember?” He’s threatened to take me several times, but it never happens. I can detect a trace of guilt in his eyes. Maybe he feels bad about yelling at Ryan the other night, too.

“Okay,” he says, not even waiting for Mom to chime in. He points at Ryan. “Straight in and straight out. If you’re going to be one second later than ten o’clock, you find a pay phone and call us.”

“I’ll make sandwiches anyway,” Mom says softly. She gives me a hard look. “You bring a jacket. It can get cold very quickly this time of year.”