My continuing love of baseball is inseparably linked to memories of my father.
On summer nights, when he came home from work, the two of us would sit
together on our porch, re-living that day's Brooklyn Dodger game, which I had
permanently preserved in the large red scorebook he'd given me for my seventh
birthday.
I can still remember how proud I was when I first mastered all the miniature
symbols that allowed me to record every movement, play by play, of our favorite
players, Jackie Robinson and Duke Snider, Pee Wee Reese and Gil Hodges. With
the scorebook spread between us, my dad would ask me questions about
different plays, whether a strikeout was called or swinging, and if I'd been
careful in my scoring, I would know the answers. At such moments, when he
smiled at me, I could not help but smile, too, for he had one of those contagious
smiles that started in his eyes and traveled across his face, leaving laugh lines on
either side of his mouth.
Sometimes a particular play would trigger in my dad a memory of a similar
situation, framed forever
in his mind, and suddenly we were back in time recalling the Dodgers of his
childhood — Casey Stengel, Zack Wheat, and Jimmy Johnston. Mingling
together the present and the past, our conversations nurtured within me an
irresistible fascination with history, which has remained to this day.
It fell to me to be the family scorekeeper not only because I was the third
daughter and youngest child, but because my idea of a perfect afternoon was
lying in front of our ten-inch- screen television, watching baseball. What is more,
there was real power in being the one to keep score. For all through my early
childhood, my father kept from me the knowledge that the daily papers printed
daily box scores, permitting me to imagine that without my symbolic renderings
of all the games he had missed while he was at work, he would never have been
able to follow the Dodgers in the only proper way a team should be followed,
day by day, inning by inning. In other words, without me, his love for baseball
would be forever un-requited.
In our neighborhood in Rockville Centre, New York, allegiance was equally
divided among Dodger, Yankee, and Giant fans. As families emigrated from
different parts of the city to the suburbs of Long Island, the old loyalties
remained intact, creating rival enclaves on every street. Born and bred in
Brooklyn, my father would always love the Dodgers, fear the Giants, and hate
the abominable Yankees.