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Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Father Brings Conflict To World Series
Growing up in South Jersey had its fair share of problems. Besides people asking me, “What exit are you from?” and the common stereotypes that everyone from the area is a dumb hick (I’m only a morn, Local 6 7⁄8).
But my father did something to my siblings and myself that made it even harder to endure living in an area where the Jersey bird was the middle finger and we had to adopt Philadelphia teams as our own, even though they really aren’t ours. It was the type of abuse that creates a secret shame that even to this day it can bring me to tears.
My father made us all Yankees fans.
Sure, have a good laugh at my expense. I’m sure many of you thought my father beat me or made me watch videos of naked farm animals. But none of you had to see the look on people’s faces when we told them that we were rooting for the New York Yankees whenever they were in town (Philadelphia or a World Series).
Local bullies had another reason to take my lunch money; my friends looked at me with disgust and girls found a new reason not to go out with me. (As if being in the “Star Trek Club” wasn’t bad enough.)
The fact is my Italian father could never entirely pull himself away from the place where he was born: Brooklyn, New York. His family came to Cherry Hill in the mid-1960s, and there were two things he couldn’t accept: The fact that the popular New Jersey town didn’t have a real butcher shop and the fact the only ball team was the Phillies.
In fact, the only bigger baseball disappointment to my father was when the Dodgers left Brooklyn. I would imagine many in the neighborhood felt the same way.
So, on top of teaching me such things that it’s really called “sauce” and not “gravy,” dear old dad from the Old Neighborhood taught us that being a Yankee fan was an even higher honor in our Italian background than being made by Joe Pesci.
Now, the Yankees and the Phillies are in the World Series and it’s not going to be easy who to cheer for. It’s not easy to tell my only son who he should root for. Should I pass down what was taught to me and make him an outcast? Or should I make Nicholas forget his Italian background and make him cheer for the Phillies, so he doesn’t do what I did and join a gang while in high school.
It was a tough gang. Nearly 100 of us carried around metal “instruments,” and we all had matching jackets. We called ourselves, “The Cherokee High School Marching Band.” So, yes, besides being a member of the Star Trek Club, I was in band and a Yankee fan in Phillies country.
Talk about having three strikes against a guy. Well, good luck …
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