HOMER-RUN

It was a hot and muggy July night. Dad had gotten free tickets for a Mets game against the old transplanted Brooklyn Dodgers, calling themselves the Los Angeles Dodgers. Dad was all excited, loving to go to the ballgames from when he lived in Brooklyn he often took his little kids with him,

Along with Dad and me was a friend and his father, an immigrant from Italy who learned to love baseball and had a passionate stake in the outcomes all games the NY METS played. I’ll call him Luigi.

Luigi took his seat next to dad so the old guys could take turns buying each other beers, and so the game began. As the sun was setting and the lights were turned on, it would be a smooth transition from day into night and we would hardly notice it.

Under Luigi’s arm was a brown greased stained brown paper bag that was guarded with his life. It would be the substitute for the "Medicano’s hot-a-dog".

After a few innings and a few beers, Luigi got involved. The Mets batter stood at home plate pumping his bat vigorously and the pitcher peering back in reading the catcher’s sign, the pitcher went into his windup and as he did Luigi called out.

“HOMER-RUN, C’MON A YOU SONNOFFABITCHER, HOMER-RUN!”

TWACK!” The jumps off the bat and sails heavenly toward the outfield fence drawing the outfielder towards the fence in an attempt to catch the ball.

“RUN A… RUN A…”

The ball bounces off the fence and the outfielder relays the ball into the infield.

“SLIDER… SLIDER… YOU SONNOFFABITCHER. SLIDE!!!”

The batter, rather than sliding into the base goes in standing up and is called out!

“SLIDE, YOU GOTTA SLIDE… HE NO SLIDER…”

Turning to the action on the field he yells:

“A WHYER YOU NO SLIDER? YOU GOTTA SLIDE!!!”

Sitting down he pulls out his peppers and egg sandwich and eats.

He looks at Dad and says:

“He no slider!”