A Perfect Game

It was the same day that Don Larsen pitched the perfect game against the Brooklyn Dodgers in the World Series. Monday, October 8, 1956. So many years ago. That was a big day to a baseball fan, especially a Yankee fan like me. Larsen’s life changed forever that day. Mine too.           

I was eight years old. I wore my Yankee baseball cap every day back then. My mother would take me to Sperling’s Sporting Goods and get me a new cap just before the regular season started. I wore it every day until the World Series was over. During that summer we played our baseball games on the empty lot on the corner. I always played third base because my name is Andy, the same as the Yankee’s third baseman, Andy Carey.  

By the time the World Series came around my cap was ratty, of course. In fact, come September when we went back to school, my mother would only let me wear it after school. She couldn’t even wash it anymore. “It’ll never make it through the washing machine ringer,” she said. “It will disintegrate.”

I remember wearing it to school that Monday, though. That morning, I managed to sneak past my mother. Thinking back, it wasn’t hard to do. Lately, she seemed different somehow, especially in the morning. She wasn’t combing her hair and she acted like she was dizzy, holding onto a chair, or the table as if she might fall. And I remember that morning she was upset about something. I could tell she’d been crying. 

By the time we got out of school that day, everybody knew Larsen was pitching a perfect game.  I was absolutely convinced it was because I was wearing my lucky hat. I didn’t go right home. My friend, Joseph Dempsey, lived close to the school so we went to his house to watch the last inning. I was standing in front of Joseph’s black and white RCA television when Larsen struck out pinch hitter, Dale Mitchell, to complete his perfect game. Joseph and I were laughing and hugging each other.

Mrs. Dempsey interrupted our celebration. “Andrew, your father is here to pick you up.”

I remember thinking, why is my father here? He’s at work. Why would he be picking me up? Our apartment was only three blocks away. I turned around, bewildered.

“Let’s go, Andy. Get your books.” His tone told me something serious was afoot, but at the time, I didn’t connect my mother’s odd behavior with my Dad’s sudden appearance at the Dempsey’s. Mrs. Dempsey gave me a hug just before we left, which was really odd. She never did that before.

“So you got to see some of the perfect game, then,” my dad said as we drove to the avenue. Home was in the opposite direction.

“Yeah, Mickey Mantle hit a homerun, but I didn’t get to see that.”

“I saw it. The game was on at Charlie’s.” I started to worry then. Charlies was a bar across the street from the store where my dad worked. He stopped at the bar almost every night before coming home. For some reason that bothered my mother. I heard him promise my mom that he wouldn’t stop by Charlie’s anymore after work if she would promise to stop making love to Jack and Jim while he was working. I remember asking, “Who? I never saw anybody here but mom and me.” I was defending my mother, but for what, I had no idea. Dad allayed my worries with a smile, rubbing his hand over my crewcut.

“He’s kidding, Andy,” my mom said, but she shot my father a strange look.

My dad turned his Chevy onto the avenue. We passed a yellow trolley car headed downtown. I asked my dad where we were going. “I thought you might like a hotdog and potato sandwich,” he said. “That’s your favorite isn’t it? Play your cards right and we’ll top that off with a lemon ice at Ting-a-Lings.” His words rang true, but his tone was hollow and his eyes were red-rimmed.

“What about mom? Isn’t she making us dinner? If we eat now I won’t be hungry when we get home.”

My father let out a long sigh. “I had to put your mom in the hospital today. She has to stay there for a while.”

“Hospital? Why, because she was crying this morning?”  I asked. “Mom cries all the time lately.”

“She isn’t feeling well Andy. She just needs a rest.” We pulled into a space at the hotdog place.

“She never told me she didn’t feel good. Most days she seems happy. Why does she need a rest?”

“She just does, son. Let’s just hope she’ll be home soon,” he said.

“Is it because of those guys?” I asked.

“Guys? What guys?” Obviously my father forgot about our dinner conversation less than a month ago.

“Jack and Jim?”

My father looked at me, a defeated look on his face, probably the way Dale Mitchell looked that day when he struck out. “That’s right, Andy, Mr. Daniel’s and Mr. Beam. Your mother drinks too much.

We were standing in the middle of the store now. I willed myself not to cry. The place was empty, no waiting. The guy behind the counter needed a shave. He was frowning. “What’s yours?” He asked.

“Two hotdog and potato sandwiches, onions and ketchup,” my father said. “Give us a couple of Cokes too.”

We sat at a table near the window. My dad pushed his Coke over to me. “They’re both yours, Andy.” I gave him a quizzical look.

“What the hell, Larsen pitched a perfect game today.” 

He took a bite of his sandwich and pulled a flask out of his pocket.

Perfect.