My Real Birthday Present

It was the top of the last and here we are. More particularly, here she is.

So what if she doesn’t have but the smallest notion of what is transpiring in the area below, the focus of only her occasional glance. Who cares if she must be bribed, or more accurately, distracted, with food and trinkets.

This is the second annual edition of the best gift Papa could ever get. Last year’s inaugural was, in my biased opinion, an unqualified success. It was only with the seventh inning stretch that our then 3 year old ward had, reluctantly, headed to the exits. There was no certainty that this record would be equaled, let alone surpassed.

She is infatuated with matters appropriate for one of her tender years. A fascination with the game of baseball not among those. But she was given the choice to opt out of Papa’s fantasy and yet she had decided to accept the invitation.

The morning fog had dissipated by the time we arrived. The chill wind had settled, even if it had not performed an Elvis and left the building.

She had fallen asleep in the car ride over. So we let her rest as long as we could, before her dad gently roused her and carried her to the House that Ruth didn’t build. Inside these walls, the cheers for the Bronx boys rose. But it was of no moment to me where Mr. Judge situated himself or how Mr. Cole stared in at the plate. My eyes were looking elsewhere.

Remarkably, like last year’s version, she seemed to settle in more and more as the contest proceeded. A familiarity with the surroundings, with the tempo, with the sights and sounds, gave her the unmistakable appearance of one who was enjoying being exactly where she was. And it helped immeasurably I believe, that as of the third inning, her dad spotted some empty seats below us in the sun. The rest of our entourage followed his lead and all was as right with this world as could be.

Last year’s haul included a stuffed Papa Yankee animal. But she knew how much her younger brother loved it, and she did not want to deprive him of a prized possession of his own. And, of course, she was well entitled to her own reminder that she had spent this afternoon in Papa’s playground.

With the implementation of the new rules intended to turn baseball from the tortoise into something resembling the hare, and with each pitcher making the opposing team the picture of ineptitude at the plate, the innings flashed by.

Within a few blinks of an eye it was the bottom of the eighth and goose eggs were all over the scoreboard. By this point, both her father and uncle had other obligations that compelled them to bid us goodbye. But here she remained, her mom and I staring at each other, smiling almost in disbelief.

And when the Yankee rookie, the one they labelled the next Jeter even before his first swing and miss, deposited a pitch in the right field stands, and the home team went ahead by two, she was among those jumping and screaming in joy. For what, she was clearly not certain. But who cared?

We left after the visitors tied the score in the top of the ninth. The Yanks went on to victory in the bottom half of that frame. But it mattered not at all to me. For the game had long since been won.