IRISHMAN FOR HIRE

I have to apologize for sporadically writing lately. The kids have been sick and life has been extremely hectic but on the bright side, I have been able to watch the Yankees and the Red Sox play on television.

I have also been looking on Ticketmaster and EBay for tickets to Yankee Stadium this summer. Taking my children to New York City to watch the Yankees is a rite of passage in our family. Since we have moved to Boston, it has been difficult to see the Yankees play in person because tickets have been difficult to come by. So, a few years ago, I decided to initiate my children into the fellowship of the Yankees fandom by taking my kids to the stadium when they were old enough. In the summer of 2005, I took my son, Josh, to his first baseball game in the Bronx. It was the type of trip that makes a father think that he is passing on a great legacy to his son.

But before I get ahead of myself, let me digress and tell you why this newly created tradition is so important. You see, growing up as a Yankee fan in Boston has been hard on my son because every one of Josh’s friends is a Red Sox fan. They have Red Sox days at school, his friends wear Red Sox hats and shirts, and his friends talk about how horrible the Yankees are. And if that isn’t bad enough, the Red Sox are everywhere on television, in the clothing stores and in the toy stores. It’s Boston, I can understand the rationale but it doesn’t make it any easier for a father and a son to enjoy being fans of the greatest baseball franchise in history.

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(This is the second part of the story. The first part was posted on Tuesday, April 8, 2008. If you haven’t read the first part, click here to start at the beginning.)

The ball was loose and sliding across the ground. When the ball had been snapped, it went right through Pat’s hands and hit him in the chest. As he was moving his arms in an attempt to recover the fumble, the football bounced off his knee and shot forward toward the line. I saw the ball in front of me just gliding across the ground when I dove for it. Everyone dove into the pile and grabbed for the ball; the fight was on! I was jabbed, poked, punched and grabbed and yet, I fought as hard as I could to get my hands on the football. I didn’t care if we had to punt the ball away but if we gave it back to the other team at midfield, our ship might finally be sunk!

Somehow, Mark came out of the scrum with the ball securely tucked away under him. We had retained possession but we were looking at fourth and five. We had to make a decision about what to do next.

“I don’t want to punt,” I said as I took a knee in our huddle.

“They have the wind at their back. If we don’t make it, we give them a short field,” Mike said as he looked around at all of us. I took a deep breath as I contemplated our options.

“Go for it, Doug,” Dave said. I was stunned, Dave never said anything. He just waited for the play and did his job. “We’ll give them nothing, go for it.”

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“Well this is another fine mess we’ve gotten ourselves into,” I said as I stepped into the huddle.

And it was. We had let the football roll because we thought it would have trickled into the end zone and we would have been able to take the ball out to the makeshift twenty yard line, but it didn’t. The ball took an awkward bounce and rolled out of bounds about five feet in front of the end zone marker and we were pinned down inside the mouth of our own goal line.

I looked around at my teammates as steam rose from our sweat drenched foreheads. Hot mist was pouring out of all of our mouths as we fought for oxygen. With each inhale, the cold breeze created little tiny icicles in our mouths and noses. It was painful to take a deep breath but because our work wasn’t done, we had to put everything in the back of our minds. The pain could wait.

“We got the wind in our face and the ice under our feet, we have to be smart,” I said as I caught my breath. “Anyone got any ideas?”

The gusts of wind were smacking us in the face. If we tried to air the ball out and go for a deep pass, the wind would knock the ball down or hold it up long enough for anyone from either team to grab it. It was a risky proposition and one I wasn’t willing to consider this late in the game and this deep in our own end. We had to be methodical but more importantly, we had to protect the football at all costs.

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I picked up the phone and dialed the number. After it rang twice, I heard a voice on the other end of the line, “Hello?”

“White Castle?” I asked.

“White Castle?”

“Yeah, I think we need to go.”

“When?”

“Soon.” And that was when the idea was reignited but let me digress, because I am getting ahead of myself. This entire exchange started because of a sequence of events that happened over a year ago on an ordinary Saturday night in January…

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