Seventh Inning Letch
"Mr. Feldman," Bette says to me eyeing Christopher. "You've attended every practice, every game. Your devotion inspires us all."
Bette knows the real reason I've been to every practice is I'd never leave my kid alone with a 48-year-old man who wears Aramis and still lives with his mom. So she must want money.
Two out. Rigo pops Lipitor like it was chaw.
Bette collects 20 dollars from me for next week's team banquet. She mutters something about her Barry making a seared beet and goat cheese salad.
"Oh, the boys will gobble that right up!" Christopher says, handing her his 20.
Christopher and I sit with the Mets because for some reason the Blue Jay parents hate us.
"Throw at his head Rigo!" Christopher screams. Perhaps that's why.
Or maybe because we sang "Oh Canada" through SARS masks on opening day. With a war going on nobody cared that our team was supposed to be from Toronto.
Or maybe because right after the one girl on our team hit her first single, Christopher screamed, "She's a guy!"
Her father threatened to punch me for laughing. The mother still refuses to forgive us, and for that reason she also wants to sleep with Christopher.
Rigo shakes off a sign from the catcher then checks his pager.
THRUMP!
"Ball two!" Cries the ump.
Certain it was a strike, Coach Barry high kicks some dirt. With that clipboard he looks like Tommy Tune teaching a Master class at Julliard.
Bette waddles over for one last stab at tickets for "The Producers."
She's been on me all season about that. Deeply injured that an 80-year-old woman finds Christopher attractive but not me, I tell her she sees "The Producers" when I see my son play baseball.
Three up, three down.
Coach Barry suddenly puts my boy in to pinch-hit. I had no idea how hard it was to bag "Producers" tickets.
The score is close, 12-0. We obviously need a few safety runs. I'm on the edge of my seat.
"Will you look at that," Christopher says.
"I know. My darling, darling son."
"Not your darling son. Bette's darling son. Coach Barry has his arm around a chick."
"No way!" I turn to look.
CRACK! The Blue Jays cheer.
Christopher's right. Coach Barry is nuzzling a brunette sporting a tank top and no Adam's apple. From the way everything about her begins to bounce I immediately suspect that my son may have gotten a hit or something.
"Oh my God! It's Miss August!" Shouts Christopher. "Coach Barry's doing Miss August!"
Christopher and I ogle Coach Barry and his porn star. They're squeezing each other even tighter. My boy must have hit a triple.
It's moments like these.
Later that afternoon I exit the park proudly clutching my son's game ball and trophy. Next week the finals. I quietly wonder how I go about making friends with Mel Brooks.
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David Feldman really should stop telling people he can get them tickets for "The Producers."
