Caroline and her Dad at the Spinners game
(3 of 6)
We walk up the stairs and Caroline, her Bosox cap on backwards, grows more excited with each step. I watch her closely as we emerge at the top and she sees the field, dotted with players. "Oooooh," she says, and looks up at her mother with a big smile. Perfect. I have planned perfectly. Caroline's first game is already a stunning success, a big W for Daddy.
We take our seats, and they're terrific. I think what's at work here is a combination of Chaz Scoggins, whom everyone likes, having great pull in this town, and also: Visitors from Westchester County are a little bit of esoterica in Lowell. The Spinners sell out all their tickets before Opening Day, but we guests from exotic lands, dignitaries from afar, get to sit a dozen rows up and square behind home. Caroline is rubbing her hands together with the thrill of it all. In the midst of a year that has seen too many hospital visits for and by various members of our family, I'm as happy as I've been since Christmas.
The Yankees score. No one chants, "Yankees Suck!" and, in my estimation, this is a good thing. (I was different when younger, and not a daddy.) The Spinners mount a comeback in the second, and Caroline and I high-five each other and cheer on the home team. I glance out beyond the centerfield fence and see the old Aiken Street Bridge, painted a rust-colored orange and standing out amidst the leafy trees. It looks even more evocative of this mechanics' town than the painting of it on the cover of my dog-eared copy of Kerouac's Dr. Sax. "Dad wasn't kidding," I say to Kevin. "They really have done everything right down here."
Kevin works for the Post Office in Lowell and is a loyalist. "This has been tremendous for the town," he says. "The Spinners have helped turn things around."
I take some snapshots of Caroline and Luci, then between innings Kevin and I go for sausages, pretzels and Mill City beer. As if to make the evening more perfect than perfection, the concessionaire cards me. I'm 47. As I leave with my licit purchases, I notice that he cards the next guy in line, too. This guy looks about 60, and I surmise the Spinners must have gotten in trouble for underage sales, and now have a general policy. Oh well.
As I return to the seats, I report to Luci, "Apparently there's a kids' area down there." I point to left field. "Games and activities. They say it closes after the top of the seventh, so Caroline should go sooner than later."
Caroline enjoys a bite of pretzel and Luci has a sip of beer. Then Caroline, who is three and a half and therefore hears everything, says, "Let's go, Mommy." We are all so happy tonight that no reasonable request goes unanswered for even a minute. "Okay," says Luci, and Caroline slides off her seat. "Daddy, save my place."
"I will, Sweetie."
Kevin and I actually watch a bit of baseball but, due to circumstances soon to unfold, I will never be able to recall what occurs. I will remember a foul ball: It comes back directly above the netting, rebounds off the brick facing of the press box and is heading at the back of a little girl's head when her father deftly nonchalants it. He hands her the ball and she accepts it unassumingly. I catch the guy's eye and give an expression that says, "Nice play." He smiles and nods.
A batter or two or six later, there is another foul. A Spinner or a Yankee—I will never remember which, nor be inclined to research it—hits a long drive toward the left-field pole that fades over the short fence. I notice that this is where the children's play area is, and I say to Kevin, "They're taking shots at Caroline!" He laughs, as do I. I either say to him as a postscript thought, or think silently to myself, "They should have a net out there."
It is, perhaps, ten minutes later when the hand lands on my shoulder. Usually this means, "Hey Buddy, could you pass this fiver to the hot dog guy," or if at Yankee Stadium, "Hey, Buddy, take that Sox cap off or I'll take it off for ya!". In this instance, I turn and see a man's face very close to mine, an expression between urgency and fright upon it. I'm surprised above all else. "Come," he says. "It was your daughter that was hit with the foul."
What foul? What's he talking about? What's he saying?