Years from now, Matthew will not remember this day. Saturday was much more important for me than him. But, I will never forget how he looked yesterday standing on my lap, bouncing from side to side, holding my hands, wearing his new baseball hat, and looking around Yankee Stadium with the shining sun and blue sky above. He was beaming with the innocence that only a child can effortlessly and instantly radiate. For the briefest of seconds, nothing else mattered. This moment was exactly, perhaps better than how I dreamt it.
That this moment was here and now seemed impossible. Just a little more than a year ago, my wife and I were so despondent. We were still childless after six years of marriage, though it was not for lack of trying. Well, we didn’t actively try for the first few years. We enjoyed our time alone together--other important life tasks needed to be finished first. Both of us needed to finish graduate school and find careers. We spent time adjusting to marriage and visiting far and away places, and then spent time finding a home where we can raise a family. Now that those were all done, we could proceed with the next logical step: raising children.
We had had been pregnant once before in mid 2000, and for a eight maybe nine weeks we felt like we were on top of the world. I know I did, one particular day. I was at St. Andrew’s Golf Club in Hastings New York (not the one in Ireland). My current boss, had invited our entire group to play at his club. I was enjoying my round with my co-workers, and got a phone call. I had just gotten my dream job! Unfortunately, my cloud nine didn’t last an hour. I had gotten another phone call from my wife--she thought a miscarriage was happening. At that moment, I felt so helpless and had no idea how to comfort her--I had no idea how to console myself.
Friends prayed for us constantly and told us that “that” had happened to them before. They encouraged us to keep trying and remain hopeful. For a while we were hopeful. I was anyhow. But every month ended with disappointment, and the months turned into one two, then almost three years.
I suppose this is how Brooklyn Dodger fans felt when they always cried “Wait till next year!” Every year, Bobby Thompson hit that home run; Billy Loes loses that grounder in the sun; Mickey Owens drops that third strike; and Billy Martin makes that shoe string catch. After continual disappointment you do think, “Was ‘next year’ ever going to happen? “ Well “next year” did come, and my 2003 is like the Dodger’s 1955.
I actually don’t remember my first visit to a baseball stadium with my father who didn’t like baseball. But, I remember what he did to make us happy. Once for my brother’s birthday, he took all of the neighborhood kids to a double header. In the first game, we all baked in the hot August sun, but for the second game we snuck into shaded seats. For my birthday, we also went to a game. But on that frigid April night to stay warm, my father drank beer while all of us kids held our hot chocolates in our palms.
But I will always remember Matthew’s first baseball game. I will remember buying his hat, putting it on him, and seeing how it fit him perfectly in the mirror’s reflection. I’ll remember taking it off and holding it for him during the national anthem. I’ll remember his hankering for pretzels when his formula was left in the car, and his attentiveness to my explanation of the game. Though he slept a bit, I will remember how he lasted all twelve innings in the bleachers without crying, and how he even befriended the ardent Red Sox fans nearby. I will remember that when we got finally home though Matthew was still sleeping in his car seat, I promised him that we would go to more games. I will always remember how last Saturday was also “next year.”
Today was “Take A Kid to Work Day” at M;s office and it was fun. Before I explain the particulars of how the twins did (they were great ), I must comment that people should ease up.
Let me explain—if I am generalizing or leaving out some important details, please let me know. But a long time ago in a galaxy far away, this day started as “Take Your Daughter to Work Day.” The tradition was changed because those with only sons complained, changing the day to “Take Your Child to Work Day.” OK, I can kind of live with that, though I personally think it’s not such a bad ideas to have this day just for daughters. But then people who didn’t have their own kids complained, so now it is “Take A Child to Work Day.” I can understand that, but are we not missing the point? Isn’t this day for the children? Let’s ease up.
Anyhow, aside from parking a few blocks too far, the day was fun. The kids didn’t potty unexpectedly nor drool on someone’s fancy dry clean only St. John’s suit. They weren’t even annoyed when older kids, patted them on their heads and ate really fun foods in front of them. Both kids smiled when prompted though MJ was bored a slept later on. At least he woke up when we used the Bloomberg machine.
Undoubtedly, CA was the star of the day. First, she ate pizza (from Naples near GCT). OK, so she didn’t really eat it--she gnawed on it. OK, it wasn’t an entire slice--just a piece of the crust. (Let’s not talk about how I “allegedly” raised my voice at M just last night for giving the kids several kinds of foods in defiance to the doctor’s orders). And then (please pronounce those words as they do in “Dude? Where’s my Car”), having been properly nourished, CA “talked” to everyone in the Board Room. All I can say is I was so proud and excited. My “Peanut” is growing up. She “talks” and loves pizza!
M's company does a great job on this day and provides everyone with pizza, soda, juice, candy, and snacks. The kids get shirts, balloons, grab bags, ID tags complete with snazzy holders, and can get their faces painted—as an aside, eight-year olds these days are into having their faces painted like Jaguars, not cats . MJ and CA didn’t get any of these things—they’re too young, but I ate plenty of pizza, downed several cans of diet Dr. Pepper, and inhaled lots of chocolate.
The drive home was difficult, but what else would I expect when you leave midtown Manhattan exactly at 5pm. Doi! But at least, Mirry got me “Blue Pig” ice cream on the way home to break up the drive home. It was a great ending to a fun day. Hmmm…come to think of it, let’s rename this day “Take a 'Child' to Work Day!” :)
It has taken me 12 weeks and a NY Times article to realize this, but I have golfed with Carolyn Kepcher, one of Donald Trump’s minions on “the Apprentice.” We golfed on an overcast Saturday in 1997 with her husband, whose name I forgot, at the Briar Hall Country Club. Briar Hall, after a truckload (or Trump-load) of money even for his standards, has been transformed into Trump National Golf Club.
Briar Hall was such a fun golf course. My friends, my wife and I used to play there all the time. It was a challenging course, inexpensive, close by to Camp Capio, and not really crowded. After our rounds, we would often eat at my favorite little Italian place, Paese, which was right down the street.
I don’t remember much about the round, but afterwards, we exchanged business cards. Ms. Kepcher also tried to sell me a membership to Trump National at a then hefty sum of $60,000. She even mailed me membership information. Mirry and I actually talked about joining, but didn’t. That Trump National Membership was bargain of sorts—memberships now exceed $300,000. Mr. Trump, please fire her. She didn’t do her job--she could have done a better job selling. :)
Schilling is in a Yankee uniform, while A-Rod is wearing BoSox garb-age. It’s what the fantasy draft yielded in my newest PS2 game, EA Sports’MVP Baseball 2004 (“MVP”).
MVP has the normal bevy of features found in today’s sports video games. The graphics are very good; players move fluidly and look realistic. The two announcers add interest to the on-screen action, while the statistical updates are timely. Stadiums look realistic: Minute Maid Park looks as if it belongs in…Florida (hehe), and the foul and flag poles are very prominent in Yankee Stadium (hehe).
However, the programmers made an admittedly minor gaffe. On the Yankees, Craig Biggio, a fine player in his own right, was wearing #7. While this happens to be his real number for the Astros, it also is the number of HOF’er Micky Marble, who appeared on the Flintstones cartoon (hehe).
It’s not surprising that MJ, who has 2 teeth now, loves to eat. He’s a pretty big kid for a six month old with not so big parents. He loves solid foods, especially fruits.
Yesterday, he did give us a scare. At first, we thought MJ had a cold because he was shivering when we were feeding him. But as we soon learned, Matthew was trembling in anticipation of each spoonful while making a whale like sounds. As soon as the spoon comes out MJ rejoices, “Muuuuuuuuuuuuummmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, ” or
“Uhhhhhhhhooooooooooooooooooooo!” In contrast, CA is a bit more subdued, though while eating she smiles so widely that food spills out of her mouth. She wears as much as she eats.
Both might be pianists in the future, though their current technique need refining. “Bang! Bang! Bang!” or “Slam! Slam! Slam!” But they are enjoying themselves.
It really is just a matter of time before they start terrorizing me. One day M will come home and our house will look like Jack Butler’s (Michael Keaton’s character in “Mr. Mom”). Even worse, they might tie me up and I’m going to be the one making whale sounds.
