In the 1960s Dad saw many Giant home games. If he couldn’t swindle a ticket, he’d drive to
Connecticut with several friends packed into one large car. They’d rent a motel room and watch the game on a TV station outside the 75 mile blackout.
On home game mornings, Dad tried sneaking out of the house. I’d lasso his leg.
“Dad, please, please, please.”
“Tommy, if I could, I would.”
“I’ll root quietly. Not a peep. You won’t even know I’m there.”
“I can’t.”
“Give me a player; I’ll give you a number.”
“Sorry.”
“We watch everything together. Who are you going to hug when the Giants score?”
“Hon, I’m sorry. There’s no room in the car.”
“Put me in the trunk. Wrap me in a blanket like a mob hit.”
Dad lingered, then shook his head and continued walking across the kitchen with his free leg doing all the work.
Today, I’m not clear where I’m watching the Giant Packer game. During the action I sometimes stand up too quickly and nearly lose consciousness. This is not safe in an apartment that isn’t childproofed. Still weighing my options. Wherever I watch I’ll be there with Dad, ready to drive Mom bananas.
