October 1962............

Maybe it was late September; I'm not sure.

I'm sitting in the back seat of a Lincoln Continental. (Nice.) My father's second best friend, Dutch, is driving, my Dad in the passenger front seat. We are in a traffic jam outside of Yankee Stadium.

World Series; Giants versus Yankees! I'm not sure how we got tickets, but I suspect Dutch's wife, Ginny, a big wig with White Castle, may have provided them. (I'm quite sure she provided the Continental.)

Alas, I am not happy.

Thrilled with the opportunity to attend a world series game featuring my beloved Giants, and equally thrilled that my parents have allowed me to miss a day of school, I am deflated because the game has been rained out. Woe is me. I am somewhat despondent.



As we sit silently in traffic, my attention is drawn to an elegant black man on the street.



"There he is! Mr. America. Mr America!"

Willie Mays, in his street clothes, is walking the sidewalks of the Harlem. I am the first to recognize him. He is, after all, my god.

Our car, being stuck in traffic, is stopped. I leap out, continuing to shout, "Mr. America, Mr. America!"

A police officer on horseback, clears a path for me, but Willie is ignoring my pleas.

My dad, the consummate gentleman, exits the car and offers his efforts. "Mr. Mays?"



Mr. Mays responds. I rush to him, shake his hand, and get his autograph.



Thanks, Dad.



I went to the game the next day; my parents understood priorities and let me take yet another day off from school. ( I can only imagine the negotiation between Mom and Dad.)

Giants lost. Crap.



Fast forward a few days to the last game of the series in San Francisco.

The Giants are losing 1-0 in the bottom of the ninth inning.

Matty Alou gets a bunt single for my Giants. Mays doubles. Roger Maris makes a nice play for the Yankees, and holds Alou at third.

Two out, McCovey at bat.



My recollection is that I'm watching this in my grandmother' s room in our apartment.



McCovey lines out to Bobby Richardson. I die just a little bit, and head out the door to escape as much of the world that a twelve year old can, or wants to.

We'll get 'em next year.



Forty eight years later, we (Giants) have yet to get 'em. Maybe this year. That would be nice.



But there is so much more to this story, more than I have recognized until now.



My recollection is watching the end of the series in my grandmother's room? If this is true, she gave up her stories, her soaps, so I could watch the game.

Nice.

But, what is really nice, is that my grandmother was living with us.



My parents, my sister, my grandmother, and me. Two bedroom, one bath apartment.

I can't explain it, but we made it work. I have to assume it was largely because of my mother's love for her mother, and my father's devotion to my mother.

Lessons learned.



Fast forward again; mid '80's. My parents are in need of assistance.

I loved my mother and father. My wife's willingness to have them live with us is......humbling.

A debt I can never repay..................



And here we are. It all happened for a reason, and I consider myself the biggest benefactor. My parents' in law apartment is now my in law apartment, as I chase the endless summer. Very nice.



I must admit, if the Giants win the series, that would be very, very nice.

But is it necessary? Absolutely not. I'm good.

But, it would be nice. I wish I could watch the series with my father; my first best friend. Or my mother, because, well, I would like to do anything once more with my mother.

Among the living, my first choice to watch the series with is........................the ol' ball and chain.
My bride, my better half.
She has witnessed, endured, tolerated numerous sophomoric episodes of inane behavior because of my unnatural devotion to the men of Orange & Black. It's embarrassing. Geeg has provided me with a life of unbridled joy. I'd like her to witness the only joyous conquest that has eluded me; a world series triumph for my San Francisco Giants!

But is it necessary? Absolutely not. I'm good.

Game 1 starts in 40 minutes.