With the Master’s golf tournament; the season’s first major set to get underway tomorrow, the number twenty-two in the title could refer to how many women it has been determined Tiger Woods- who is set to compete for the first time this year- has slept with. Since I fall among those who feel the whirlwind, tabloid fixation surrounding Tiger Woods’ personal life by the media is utterly distasteful; the number twenty-two signifies something of much greater value.The number twenty-two represents the number of consecutive Opening Days I share with my son Cory.
Baseball is something I’ve imparted with Cory even before he was born. During the course of my ex-wife’s pregnancy, the fetus soon to be known as Cory attended many a softball game where I was a participant. In the months leading up to the birth, I watched numerous games on the television with my ex as company. We even went to one or two games at Shea Stadium that summer of ’84.
Pre-natal exposure comes in many forms. We’re told to watch the tone of our voices; that shouting and arguing can cause the fetus great angst. They can feel the tension. Some parents-to-be play classical music in the hope their offspring will become the next Mozart; or Clapton, banking on the notion that their child will become a guitar virtuoso. I had no such grandiose dreams.
I love the game of baseball. The child was just being exposed to what interested the father. After Cory was born my interest did not waver. By default, Cory’s senses were inundated with anything baseball. Had I been a fan of ballet, perhaps that would have piqued his interest, but I wasn’t; I was a fan of baseball. However, I will confess that once the seed was planted, I may have gone a little overboard (as I did with many things in Cory’s infancy) with the cultivation and nurturing of said seed.
We attended the Mets victory parade in 1986; Cory was three months shy of his second birthday. I happened to see a copy of the New York Daily News the next day. On its cover was a crowd shot from the parade. Leaning against a lamppost was a rather tall gentleman holding his small child on his shoulder, on his other shoulder was a diaper bag. I didn’t see anyone else standing close by us the previous day. I assumed it was Cory and I in the photo.
For Cory’s second birthday he received his first bat (aluminum not plastic), his first glove (a Mizuno not some plether piece of shit), his first baseball (not soft and rubbery, but hard and official), and a batting tee.
I brought Cory with me to Shea Stadium the following month to select our seats for the upcoming season. We entered the stadium through the player’s tunnel. The gates behind home plate that led to the field had been left open. There was at least six inches of snow on the ground. I carried Cory out onto the field so he could witness the grandiosity of the ballpark. The feeling must have been as overwhelming for him as one who first looks up at the Empire State building; he began to cry.
As we quickly made our way to the visitor’s clubhouse I regaled Cory with the significance of our surroundings. I explained this was where just three months earlier, the Boston Red Sox were making preparations to celebrate their first World Series Championship in sixty-eight years. I explained how each locker stall he saw was covered in plastic in expectation of the champagne that was going to be sprayed. I pointed out where the platform was erected by the NBC crew where Bob Costas would interview the winning manager and players. I told him this was where the Championship trophy would be handed over to the Red Sox owner. Then I told him how it all had to be removed in a matter of just a few minutes because of what happened on the field. I reminded Cory he had watched what happened many times whenever we played the videotape recapping the Mets 1986 season. Whether or not Cory absorbed any of the information I prattled on about was immaterial; for some strange reason I felt I was obliged to share this information.
Cory’s mother forbade him to attend the upcoming Opening Day three months after his second birthday. I vehemently argued my position to no avail. Had my powers of persuasion been successful, the number would now stand at twenty-three. Cory would have to wait another year.
Opening Day was not the only game Cory and I attended together. While a Mets season ticket holder, it was commonplace for me to attend fifty games a year though driving seventy-three miles to and from Shea Stadium. I was told by the Mets public relations department that I had the longest drive of any season ticket holder. Cory made this trip with me no less than twenty times over the course of any given season. I always reveled in the time we spent enjoying baseball games together, but Opening Day together has a certain distinct aura.
This year some of the zest for Opening Day has dissipated for me. Now that Cory and I live in South Florida, though still avid Mets fans, we have gone to every Florida Marlins home opener, save the team’s inaugural one in 1993. Personally, I feel no loyal attachment to the local team. Sure, I root for them, except when they play the Mets, but I’ve soured on the franchise itself.
I’ve done extensive research concerning the Marlins franchise in the last year. Many of the circumstances, past and current, surrounding the team disturb me; particularly the new stadium issue. I am frustrated by the attitude of Major League Baseball as I try to unearth what’s at the bottom of the leagues decision making process. I am appalled by the lies from ownership, as well as the unrealistic expectations and demands these executives put on the manager and the team. It is for these reasons Opening Day had lost its lustre this year...until a recent phone conversation with Cory brought everything into perspective.
Each year it is my job to procure tickets for Opening Day. Some years I get them the first day they become available, some years I wait until I have the funds. It never affected where we’d be sitting. I do not get the “traditional” best seats available. I have found, due to the stadium configuration, that seats by the visitor's bullpen are best for a couple of reasons.
Since it is a football stadium, the seats down the left field line by the visitor's bullpen allow me to watch the game without having to keep my head crooked to one side. Other seats allow for this as well, but they’re minimally twice the price, others even more.
Another reason I like these seats is access. The end of the row seat is always available. This lets me stick my artificial leg out in the aisle. If I sat in an inside seat, I’d have to remove my leg for any sort of comfort.
Lastly, most games this section is rarely sold out. Since South Florida baseball fans have absolutely no semblance of proper baseball game viewing decorum, sitting where we do, there is minimal patron distraction. By that I mean fewer people obstructing my view while the game is being played. The ying-yangs down here can’t seem to grasp the concept of leaving their seats during lulls in play. And if you’ve ever attended a game, that’s one thing baseball isn’t short on it’s lulls in play. The dopes down here can’t seem to wait for an out or for the half inning to end before they go take a whiz or purchase something that will require you to take one. They’ve got to do it right when there’s action. Sheesh!
This year the Marlins home opener is at night. I’m all about tradition. I like that the Cincinnati Reds always played the first game of the new season because they were the first professional team. MLB did away with that tradition in 2003. Hell, the Reds used to play all Opening Day games at home in deference to their elite status, but that too went by the wayside.
Remember, it’s all about the money, hence Opening Night instead of Opening Day. More “fans” can attend. I say just more casual schmucks that’ll get there late and leave early.
When I told Cory the reasons for my lack of exuberance this year, he said that’s not what this day is about. It’s about him and I doing something that we’ve done together every year since he was three. My guess is that very few fathers and sons have ever gone to as many Opening Days together as Cory and I have, much less consecutively. It is our day, no matter who else may be with us. It’s something we share exclusively. That alone makes Opening Day special. My friend Gregg once said, “In order for something to be an annual event, you have to do it every year.” Cory and I continue to have that privilege.
Last year Gregg, who has spent many an Opening Day with us, brought his two daughters to their first “Opening Day;” this delighted me no end. Sometime in the future perhaps our paths will take Cory and I in directions that for some reason will not allow us to continue our streak of consecutive Opening Days together; that will be a sad day indeed. But the possibility also exists that the streak will go on unabated, and if I live long enough, another generation of Berstler will join in the annual tradition. The very thought of that makes me smile.
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