Stolen Memories

Stanley and Stryker sat together in the sunroom looking out over the lake. They were visiting Stryker’s son Skip, who had a comfortable log home on the lake in upstate New York. The brothers, both widowers, shared a two-bedroom condo in Queens. Skip’s lake house offered a respite from the traffic, the noise and the pollution they grappled with in the borough. 

 “Looks like a good day for fishing,” Stryker said. He was the younger brother by sixteen months. “There’s plenty of walleye in that lake. It’s a good eating fish.”

Stanley looked at his brother and said, “A lot you know about it. I don’t remember you ever catching any fish on this or any other lake. Come to think of it, I’ve never seen you eat any walleye either.”

“Well, Stanley, I lived in Pennsylvania for 43 years. I saw you maybe once a year during that time. I caught my share of walleye and I ate a lot of it too. How would you know?”

Stanley took his glasses off and wiped the lens with a tissue he pulled from a box. “You hated fish when we were kids. That’s how I know.”

 Stryker counted silently to ten. His brother always had to be right. He had to win every argument. Living under Stanley’s roof had become a trying experience for Stryker. After his wife died, he soon realized he couldn’t afford his Pennsylvania home. When Stanley’s wife died six months later, Stanley invited his brother to move in with him in Queens. Stanley said, “We can share expenses. That way, we’ll be able to go to a ballgame now and then.”    

The brothers didn’t talk much. The one thing they had in common was their love of baseball. Both men were avid New York Mets fans. They enjoyed one upping each other about the game’s history, batting and pitching statistics, many of them obscure. Stanley had a stack of old baseball encyclopedias which he used frequently to disprove Stryker’s musings. While Stryker couldn’t match Stanley’s command of batting averages, earned run averages and the like, he knew that when it came to remembering one’s past experiences, men in their 70s often had their so-called facts wrong.  

 Looking out on the lake that afternoon, Stryker, irritated about Stanley’s assertion about the fish, decided to spring a little trap on his older brother. “Saw that the Mets are in third place, seven games out of first,” he said.

“Yeah, they’ll need more pitching if they’re gonna make a playoff run,” Stanley said.

 “You remember the first Mets game Dad took us to at the Polo Grounds?” Stryker asked, launching his setup.

 “Yeah, we saw a Father’s Day doubleheader against the Giants, 1962. Mets lost both games.”

 “Right. That was the only time we ever got to see a game at the Polo Grounds. I’m glad we had that chance.”

 “The only time you ever saw a game at the Polo Grounds. I was there in 1963 when Warren Spahn pitched both ends of a doubleheader for the Mets.”

 “Lunch in five minutes.” It was Skip’s wife Carleen, calling from the kitchen. 

 “That never happened,” Stryker said, delighted that his older brother fell so easily into his trap.

 “Of course, it happened. I was there. Went with Pete Miragliotta, one of my high school buddies.”

 “Nope. You’re wrong, Stanley. It never happened.”

 “Listen, Stryker, you’ve heard me tell that story a few times before. Spahn got knocked out of the box in the first inning of game one and then came back to pitch a shutout in game two. Kranepool hit two homers in game one. Don’t you remember that?” He was raising his voice a little now. Skip, who was in the kitchen helping Carleen, gave her a worried look.  

 “Sure, I remember you telling that story. You’ve been telling it for years. It just isn’t a true story.”

 Stanley stood up and walked over to the window. “You know what, Stryker? I think maybe when we get back to Queens, I should get you an appointment with an Alzheimer specialist.”

Stryker laughed. For once, he was going to pay back his know-it- all brother. Skip walked into the room and announced lunch was ready. Waiting for them in the dining room was Stryker’s fourteen-year-old grandson, Stephen, who had been swimming in the lake. As they bit into their fish sandwiches, Stryker turned to his grandson and asked, “Did you find the box scores I was looking for? You know the 1963 doubleheader when Warren Spahn pitched both games for the Mets?”

 “Nope.”

 “Your father lets you get on the Internet, doesn’t he?” Stryker asked.

Stanley smiled at the boy and said, “It was June 14, 1963. Sunny, a perfect 80 degrees.”

Stephen nodded. He had indeed searched the Web. He looked at his grandfather, his eyes pleading, but Stryker didn’t care. His brother had this coming. “Tell your great uncle what you found.”

 “Well, that pitcher you asked me about, Spahn, didn’t pitch for the Mets until 1965. He never played for them in the Polo Grounds.” He turned to his great uncle. “And, sorry, Uncle Stanley, but he never pitched both ends of a doubleheader either.”

Stanley’s face turned crimson. He took a shallow breath and exhaled. “I was there. I saw it,” he whispered.

 “Right, and I never ate walleye before, either,” Stryker said. He took a triumphant bite of his sandwich.

 When lunch was finished, Skip asked his father to help him clear the table. When they got to the kitchen, Skip spoke quietly to his father. He said, “Was it worth it, Dad?”

“Worth it?”

 “Dad, I’ve heard Uncle Stan tell that Warren Spahn story a thousand times. It was a treasured memory for him. You went out of your way to steal it from him. Why?”

 “I guess I didn’t think of it like that.”

 “Some memories are precious, Dad. Even when they’re mistaken.”