With Sister Sabrina — I can never remember her name — resting up for her surgery on Tuesday, I accepted an invitation from a dear friend to join him and his family at Citi Field today to see the Mets and the Seattle Mariners. Nephew Noah, who works at JFK, offered to drive me in from Long Island and take me to the ballpark. To put this gesture in Mapquest perspective, heading to Jupiter but first dropping something off at Venus is less of a hassle. And did Noah have licorice — black and red — yogurt-covered pretzels, a salt bagel, and an Arizona Orangeade in the car waiting for me?
You have to ask.
We hit traffic — well, of course we did — and I asked Noah if the backup had anything to do with the game.
“Maybe,” he said, '“but it’s probably just ‘fuck you’ traffic — it’s New York.”
I must digress for more than a moment here to remind you of two stories before returning to the game.
A million years ago, I tried telling my father about these posts and the number of people —strangers and friends — who were keeping up with, worrying about, and commenting on his daily life, to which he responded, “Hold it! Are you getting rich off my fame?”
Weeks before the Trump Rally in Tulsa — you may know it as the super spreader event which highlighted Oklahoma officials’ spinelessness and ghoulishness for allowing it to occur (And Herman Cain is still dead) — I applied for and received press credentials. I happened to call then-executive editor of the Tulsa World Susan Ellerbach to see if she was going or planning on sending her reporters.
“Yeah, I am sending some people. But you’re not going, are you, Barry?” she asked.
“Why wouldn’t I go?”
“You can’t go.”
"Why can’t I go?"
“Barry, you have a 93-year-old father. You’d have to quarantine yourself afterwards, and who would bring your dad his chicken and cheese and take him for his egg sandwich and do the other things he needs?”
“You have a point.”
“Remember,” she said, “we like you. We love Jack.”
The game on this beautiful day in this great ballpark (even if I inexplicably miss Shea Stadium) ended with Seattle winning 8-7. The Mets had the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth, two outs, when Pete Alonso struck out on a ball out of the strike zone — and on checked swing no less! It was one of those games that remind you that the mucky mucks who run MLB, no matter hard they try (and they’re trying mightily), can never completely ruin this sport.
Late in the game, my friend introduced me to his two sons.
“Barry Friedman,” one of them said, “My God, it’s you! I love Jack.”
The current Mets owner had me run around for years in an effort to sell him a property and he ended up buying through someone else. Has this colored my opinion of him? Only slightly as he always had FOX on the radio when we drove around so it wasn't high to begin with. On the other hand, the potential #'s were attractive... . Also, I'm a lifelong Yankees fan so wishing ill on the Mets isn't new.
Barry, Barry, dear, sweet Barry, please remember your destiny in this world: A vessel for Jack's insights and reminders of our past, when we see our glory of days long gone as told by a (pushing 96)
cranky, horny Jew who sacrificed a toe so we may enjoy our freedoms today. The greatest generation? I think so.