The Bronx were Burning with Bartlings

I have a shameful secret in my house. I always thought I had been pro-active in keeping my home safe from the infection. However, I am as red with shame as the color of sickness itself. My son Tyler….this is so painful to ….my son Tyler….sorry, I just need to take a breath and choke back a sob….my son… Tyler… is a Boston Red Sox Fan. I am a Yankees girl, and I bleed blue.

Where did I go wrong? We have served as a host family to over 30 Canary players (a local, minor league team) in the past 12 years. Is one of the players who we graciously – and naively –welcomed into home to blame? Did one of them expose him to the deep, dark drug called “the Sox?” When did the Green Monster sneak into my home and steal my son’s innocent, baseball soul?

I may only have myself to blame. Yes, I may have overexposed my boys to my own addiction at too young of an age. We rarely missed a home game at the Birdcage, and when Tyler was old enough to apply for a part time job, I encouraged him to go to work where we had played for so many innings, hours and seasons. My children sat on the third baseline on countless summer evenings watching names like Steve Howe, Darryl Strawberry, Ozzie Conseco, Jack Morris, JD Drew, Pat Mahomes and George Sherrill work their way back, around and out of major league baseball. In our home, we celebrated the opening day of MLB as enthusiastically as Easter and Birthdays…with presents, cake and decorations. All of these are holidays are rich with hope, growth, and resurrection.

However, it was the purple cowboy outfit that was the beginning of my son’s blatant defiance to blue pinstripes. He blamed me. He wanted me to pay.

One of the items of Ty’s job description was to don a purple cowboy outfit, strum a stringless guitar and lipsynch “Happy Trails to You” when the opposing team pulled their starting pitcher. This “performance” took place on the opposing team’s dugout. The outfit itself was the issue. The chaps, the vest and the 10 gallon cowboy hat were all made out of purple bathroom mats…the hot, furry, 1970’s kind. Tyler continues to hold me accountable for insisting that one learns work ethic by sticking it out and sucking it up. If I had only known the severity of the long term effects…..

I take victories where I can find them. I celebrate my son’s love of baseball. Like me, he loves the sound of a wooden bat; he has an unbridled vocal and physical enthusiasm for a well turned double play or a key long ball; he respects the game and its players.

Two weeks ago, I threw a breaking ball. I told him that we needed to have a serious talk. He turned white. “What? What now? Just tell me?” I informed him that it was serious enough that he would need to take a day off of work….I threw him off, and I meant business. Then came the curve. “You and I are going to Yankee Stadium, in its last season, to watch the Yankees and the Sox.” I sat him on his ass.

On Sunday, July 6th, my son, Tyler, and I walked into Yankee Stadium. Me in my Bernie Williams #51 official Subway Series jersey and he in his Manny Rameriz #24 t-shirt. Together Ty and I have walked through Italy and shared the works of Michelangelo, the canals of Venice and the shores of Capri, but walking to our sweet seats between 3rd base and Monument Park may have been one of my favorite moments of all time.

The final score was 5-4 Yankees in 10 innings. Joba was the starting pitcher, Mario Rivera closed it out and Alex Rodriguez homered to deep left…I was thrilled. Tyler was verbally abused…but he, too , was pretty, darn happy. Together we shared a gorgeous night in the Bronx, a great game complete with extra innings, and a passion and love of the game of baseball.