HOW I HURT MY FATHER'S FEELINGS

When I was a boy, I LOVED the Brooklyn Dodgers. I loved everything about them, like Ebbets Field, their little ball park, that they were the first major league team in the 20th Century to have a black player, that Pee Wee Reese was their captain and Duke Snider hit home runs onto Flatbush Avenue, that they had a pitcher (though not a very good one) that had a last name similar to mine, that Campy was their catcher...I just loved them and all their players.

And it certainly helped that 1955 is the first year that I can remember and that was the year that they won their first World Series.

For all that, though, I'm still not sure what caused me to casually comment to my dad that I'd really like to have Don Newcombe as my father.

Now I assume that I said that in 1956 when Newcombe was having an incredibly good year, but before the 7th game of that season's World Series when he pitched incredibly badly. I pretended to have a stomach ache so I could skip school and watch THAT??? Oh, well. Different story. But my point is, though I said I wanted it I'm not sure why I wished to be Newcombe's son.

Surely I hadn't thought through what it would mean to be multiracial or, for that matter, have to move from the Lower East Side which I loved to the Newcombe home in New Jersey. Nor was I thinking of the genetic value of having a 6' 6" father and what that would mean towards increasing my rather limited height and power hitting ability.

I do recall, though, seeing the Newcombe family once on TV and noticing that they had a ping pong table in their rec room. Now THAT made an impression on me, but I'm not sure if that's why I wanted him as my dad. Really, I can't think of why that struck me as such a good idea.

Of course, what also didn't strike me was how my father might feel about my statement. Actually I still don't know. He didn't react very strongly, as I recall, and seemed mildly amused and curious. And the issue never came up again as I don't think I really wanted to be Don Newcombe's son, and, of course, certainly not after that Game 7 disaster.

But what my father did feel strongly about was the St. Looie Cardinals. He loved them and he especially loved Stan Musial and, throughout his life, never tired of reciting Musial's great statistics, like how many triples he had in 1952 which, sadly, I can't recall. I thought my father was very odd about this. I could never understand a New Yorker not rooting for, indeed, loving, a New York team. Why did he love the Cardinals? I have no idea.

Still, it didn't matter that much because the Cardinals were not a big rival to the Dodgers during the years I cared about them. The Dodgers moved to Los Angeles in 1958 but it didn't really upset me. I continued rooting for them till they gave away the pennant to the Giants at the end of the 1962 season. I was crushed and my love for them was somehow fractured. Worse, there was now a new team in New York to pick up my affection...the NY Mets. I didn't want to become a Mets fan because they'd just lost 120 games in their first season. I knew the suffering that this would lead to. But, as you know, love is inexplicable.

The Cardinals had not been doing particularly well over these years and Musial had come to the end of his career. My father was losing or had lost interest in the team and told me that he'd become a Mets fan. He did it, I'm sure, mostly to support me, as, in addition to having to deal with becoming a teenager I also had to cope (and I didn't do it well) with 100+ loss seasons. But at least I didn't want to be related to any of the Mets players and my dad probably appreciated that.

Then the Mets got Duke Snider from the Dodgers. What a joy it was having the Duke of Flatbush back. I remember the newspapers talking about a great catch he made in his first Mets game, how much he was already helping the team, though they didn't mention that, despite this terrific help, the team lost that contest, 10 - 0, and promptly went on an 8 game losing streak.

And then the Cardinals came to town. And took a 2 run lead into the 9th. I remember my father and I watching that game in my parents' bedroom. Strongly had the feel of yet another Mets' loss. Until they got 2 runners on and The Duke was sent up to pinch hit. The Cardinal manager brought in a lefty. This late in his career, Snider rarely hit against lefties. I got up close to the screen and yelled encouragement. My usually talkative father was strangely quiet sitting behind me. Snider smashed a 3 run home run to win the game and I began screaming and hopping around. I turned to my father just in time to see him get up and leave the room...without a word! Now that was certainly unusual for him!

Turns out my father had not stopped being a Cardinals fan as much as he'd thought. And he was not delighted by my joyful celebration of that rare and dramatic Mets triumph over his team. Nor did he want to take away from my fun. And, of course, he'd never have been watching that game had it not been for me.

No doubt he was upset by it all. And that's how I hurt my father's feelings. I thought of all this today because, if he was watching Chris Carpenter's performance with me last night, he'd certainly be happy and not overly concerned about that 1963 upset.