Yaz and My Father

My Father, dead eight years now almost to the day,
Was Boston to the core.
He loved Bill Russell and Bill Monbouquette like they were blood
And getting him to remember out loud how he and his buddies
Snuck into the Garden as kids in the 40s and 50s
Was the easiest thing I could do as a boy.

But I was terrified of my Dad.
His seemingly nonsensical, alcohol fueled, temper tantrums
Directed at Mom or one of us
Left me wondering when bad thing were going to happen in the house in Amherst.
Never "if" but "when."

He could always talk sports, though.
I was the only one of his four children who loved them like he did.
The others were too smart for that, apparently.

And Carl Yastrzemski was the second god of all Boston sports gods.
(Right behind Teddy Fucking Ballgame, of course)
The little, broad shouldered, son of a Long Island potato farmer
Gave everything he had with every swing, every game
And everyone in New England loved him for it.
Never a champion, loser of two World Series, but still the hero to all real Sox fans.
He played until he couldn't play anymore; he loved it so.

In the fall of 1983, times were as bad as they'd get in our family.
My Dad had stopped drinking but not beating up Mom,
Had not stopped screaming in anger at all of us, at any of us
When the mood struck him.
For what?, I never knew.

Dad had scored two tickets to Yaz' last game, to be played at Fenway October 2, 1983
And we were going, no questions to be asked by me.
But that morning, on what I remember to be a sunny, warm, early fall day
I decided I wasn't going,
I didn't want anyone looking at me because in my heart I knew how truly funny looking I was,
Awkward and strange to others eyes. They could tell something was wrong with my face, my limbs, my walk.
And sitting with thirty thousand pairs of eyes laughing at me was too overwhelming.
Dad was disgusted when I told him "I can't go."
But he wouldn't drag me, wouldn't force me.
(Why didn't he go by himself? At the time I did not know.)

So we didn't get to see Yaz' last game, one of the greatest days in Boston sports history,
With the Captain going one for three,
Being taken out of left and replaced with the hulking Jim Rice in the last inning.
And circling the field, touching thousands of fans following the final out.
I had tears in my eyes, watching on the 13 inch set up in my room, a birthday present the year prior from Dad.
The day was so beautiful, so historic.
Even a seventeen year old sixty miles away from the old ballpark knew that.

My Dad never asked me to another game at his beloved Fenway or Garden.
He was sober but not sober.
So pissed all the time despite not drinking
Still putting his hands on Mom.

Today, I have a framed picture of Yaz' tipping his cap to the Boston crowd.
I like to think it was taken on his last day but can't be sure.

We could have been there and had memories to suck on, to bath in.
But, appropriately, didn't attend.