G,C,E,A, top string to bottom. That’s the standard tuning. Sing it: My dog has fleas.
Dad is drunk-learning to play the ukulele.
I shake my nine-year-old head. Golf clubs, fly rods, Sony tape decks, tennis rackets, army surplus walkie-talkies, Louis Armstrong records, Franco Corelli records, desert boots, juggling balls—Whatever strikes his fancy.
A harmonica, Hohner Chromatic, the big one with the slide you push to go up an octave. He’s good at it, of course. He plays Misty, cupping his hand on the back. Mom clanks the dishes in the sink like she’s angry but I can hear her sing little snippets. …as helpless as a kitten up a tree.
A six-glasses-of-Gallo lecture for my cousin and me about lasers; Atoms and photons. Mirrors that concentrate the beam. Diagramming the whole thing on mom’s shopping list chalkboard. “Uncle Pete is like a genius. Do you think he’s gonna let us eat dinner soon?”
He builds TV sets, ham radios and stereo tuners from kits—smoking and soldering in the basement with opera and Rheingold.
G,C,E,A, starting at the top. My dog has fleeeas! Ok, listen to this, I’ve got it now. Tiptoe Through the Tulips. Wait, where you going?
I shake my head.
Hey! Saturday, you and me buddy!
I look around to see who he’s talking to.
Yankees, Red Sox! I’ve got tickets!
The cement cavern walkways echo with Bronx bravado. Dad talks to everyone like he knows them and forgets I’m there. I follow his Inspector Clouseau hat.
The first view of the field from the mezzanine captures me. I hop-drop down the steps toward the cross-hatched dark-green, light-green field with it’s base path avenues of red clay and white-line-arms that spread to embrace the hero-walls. Cigar smoke is a hovering haze across the scoreboard. The pitcher’s mound is a desert island, tall and wide, impossibly far from home.
And Mickey Mantle. The actual Mickey Mantle. He smiles and spits and talks to the Boston first base coach and kicks the dirt with his stiff right leg and catches the ball in the throw-around and lobs it back to the pitcher and spits and smiles and talks some more to the first base coach. Third base, Shortstop, Second base, First. Toss to the pitcher. Spit and smile.
G,C,E,A. My dog has fleeeas!
I shake my head.
C’mon son, I found you eventually.
Yeah, seventh inning stretch.
All’s well that ends well.
Well, at least I got to hear my name over the loudspeaker.
Sure, you’re practically famous.
And I got to see Mickey Mantle.
Ok, listen to this, I’ve got this now. Take Me Out to the Ball Game.
I shake my head.
Third base, Shortstop, Second base, First. Toss to the pitcher. Spit and smile.
I’ve got this now.
Many thanks to Sharron Bassano from Leaves for some helpful editing tips.
And for those of you who might have clicked on this expecting a cute dog story, my apologies.
Comments are always appreciated and if you liked this story please share.
Umm, that was some day and some dad, Jim! I like the lighthearted style; the spit and smile poetry. Such a wild ride with your dad; special to read this.
That was terrific, Jim! A lot to unpack there. Golf clubs , a Hohner Chromatic, atoms and a ball game. Dad was something else!
And Mickey Mantle, my favorite. A few years later, at a golf tournament he attended at the Eastward Ho Country Club on Cape Cod I was serving drinks in the locker room to the players. He gave me a dollar tip. I held to that buck a long time. He was a very easy going.
Thanks for the memories!