War and Watermelon

Coach gathers us after the wind sprints for a pep talk. Everybody’s gasping for breath except me. I can’t even stand still, stepping from foot to foot and wishing he would finish. Ryan, Skippy, and Jenny are already waiting in the parking lot.

“So don’t be getting big heads just because you’ve won a couple of games,” Coach is saying. He picks at a side tooth with his thumbnail. “Over-confidence is a killer. You go into a game thinking you’re a big deal and you’ll come out with a loss, feeling like a bunch of crapheads. . . . So we’ll see you on the field tomorrow, ready to work.”

I sprint across the field and up the hill into the parking lot, then climb into the backseat next to Skippy. There’s a Mets pennant on the seat.

Ryan reaches over and holds out a hand for me to slap. “Brody boy! You ready for this?”

I turn and watch the other players walking slowly off the field. Tony’s by himself.

Skippy lives on the other side of town, so that’ll cost us some time. But we ought to get to Shea in about forty minutes. It’s around quarter to six now. Game time is 7:05.

We pass Corpus Christi and I see Patty and Janet on the steps. Waiting for somebody? I wonder.

I pull my jersey and shoulder pads over my head, then untie my sneakers. My T-shirt is soaked, but there’s a fresh one and a pair of dungarees in a paper Shop-Rite bag, plus a sweatshirt with a hood.

So I yank off the football pants and the cup and put the dungarees on in a hurry.

I peel one off and smell it. It’s wet and ripe, but there aren’t any fresh ones in the bag. So I ball them up, stick them inside my helmet, and put my bare feet back in my sneakers.

“Sure,” Ryan answers. “We’ll probably be in the upper deck, but all the seats at Shea are good. It’ll be packed, I can tell you that much.”

Ryan keeps the station wagon running while we wait in front of Skippy’s house. Something else must be going on in there, because he’s gone for fifteen minutes.

“Look what Jenny got me for my birthday,” Ryan says, handing a record album over the seat.

“Cool,” I say. I’ve been hearing some of this on the radio lately, like “Everyday People.”

Skippy finally comes back with a cigarette between his lips and a can of soda. “What a hassle,” he says, frowning toward his house.

“Home and wasted,” he says. “Wanted me to wash his car. Tonight. Can you believe that?”

It’s way after six by the time we get on Route 80, heading toward the George Washington Bridge. Traffic is heavy. “We’ll make it,” Ryan says. “We can catch the first inning on the radio if we have to.”

“So, Brody,” Jenny says, leaning partway over the seat, “you hear about tomorrow night?”

Jenny always treats me like I’m an equal, like I’m part of the gang. She’s the kind of girlfriend I’d want to have if I ever got one.

“In our town? You kidding?” She laughs. “Up in Syracuse. At my cousin’s college.”

Ryan shakes his head. “I’m off for real tonight. Tomorrow I’m calling in sick.”

He fake-coughs. “You get a lot of bronchitis in that stupid freezer.”

“It’s gonna be so great,” Jenny says. “Very peaceful. A bunch of people are just getting together in front of the student center and reading the names of the war dead and holding candles. It’s basically a vigil to get the military recruiters off the campus. We’ll be there until sunrise.”

“Small signs,” Jenny says. “Just making a point about nonviolence. And screwing the government.”

“Nope. We’re catching a ride with Jenny’s other cousin from Jersey City.”

“Dad doesn’t need to know. But I will tell you this: I’m taking action.”

“Maybe you,” Skippy says. “I’m gonna make enough noise to get this war ended.”

We’ve reached Englewood, but the road ahead looks very congested. We’ve been listening to WMCA, so Ryan switches the channel, looking for a traffic report.

He finds the Mets pregame, and we listen to that for a few minutes, barely moving forward. It’s Tom Seaver versus Ferguson Jenkins tonight, two of the best pitchers in the league. The Cubs have lost five straight, and the Mets have won three in a row and nineteen of their last twenty-five.

People in other cars are holding up Mets pennants and beeping their horns when we hold up ours. But we’re at a standstill now, and we’re still a couple of miles from the bridge.

Ryan finally finds a traffic report. There’s at least one accident ahead of us, and one lane of the bridge is closed, but it turns out that this is mostly Mets traffic. Everybody in New Jersey decided they couldn’t possibly miss this game.

There’s not much we can do. We’re not near an exit, so we just wait it out. Ryan shuts off the engine.

Jenny hands me a small paper bag with two peanut butter sandwiches and a can of lemon soda. There’s no can opener, though. I drank a lot of water toward the end of practice, so I’ll be okay. I eat the sandwiches.

Through three innings, Seaver has a perfect game going, so I can just imagine what it’d be like to actually be there. Donn Clendenon hits a two-run homer in the bottom of the third, giving the Mets a 4–0 lead.

We’ve inched forward about sixty feet since the game started. A few cars have cut across the grass median and headed back the other way, but there are cop cars over there now.

Ryan smiles. “What’s Yogi Berra say? ‘It’s déjà vu all over again.’ But hey, we made it to Woodstock.”

The perfect game gets busted in the fourth, but Seaver himself hits a leadoff double in the bottom of the inning and later scores.

Ryan turns off the engine again. People have gotten out of some of the cars around us and are drinking beers. Everybody has the game on full volume, so we get out, too. Skippy bums a beer from somebody. We lean against the car and enjoy our second major traffic jam of the summer, laughing and cheering after almost every pitch. Everything’s going right for the Mets.

By the time Jerry Grote hits an RBI double in the seventh, the Mets seem to have it on ice. A cop waves us across the median, and suddenly we’re going 55 again, heading for home.

Dad’s not real pleased when he hears about the adventure. He’s standing in the kitchen with his arms folded while we tell him.

“I’m surprised you didn’t abandon the car again and walk to the stadium.”

Dad turns and faces Mom. “That’s typical Ryan. Six miles from his destination.”

“What did you expect us to do, Dad? I mean, has it ever been hard to get to a Mets game before?”

“Then you could have stayed home. But you haven’t learned that lesson, have you?”

“What lesson? I’m not going to spend my life afraid to do stuff. You think reading about things the next day or watching them on TV is the same as being there?”

“It’s better than not being there,” Dad says. “What’d you gain tonight? You missed the whole stupid game. When you went to that ridiculous Woodstock thing, you did more walking than watching. How smart was that?”

Ryan sets the keys on the counter and shakes his head. “Here’s the car. No harm done.” He points to me. “Brody’s home safe and sound. And guess what, Dad? We had a blast.”

Dad snorts and looks at Mom again. “‘ A blast,’ he says. Sitting on Route 80 for two hours is his idea of a good time. Hey, here’s an idea. You like driving so much, maybe you can get a job as a truck driver.”

“Or a tank driver,” Dad says. He raises his eyebrows. “You fill out those college papers?”

“You better.” Dad picks up the keys and puffs out his cheeks. He fixes his eyes on me for the first time. “Nehemiah,” he says. “You better get to bed. . . . We all should.”

Mom and Dad start up the stairs. I look at Ryan and we both hold back a laugh.

“Ryan,” Dad says. “No more stunts, huh? Starting tomorrow, it’s time to get yourself on track.”

Ryan waits until he hears their bedroom door click shut. “Tomorrow this time, I’ll be in Syracuse.”