And he'll ask, "Dad, was it always like this?"
So going to the top of the ninth inning of tonight's Indians-Yankees game, my wife, who had gone to bed a little earlier, brought my son out to the TV room because he had woken up and didn't seem ready to go back to sleep. So he and I snuggled under a blanket on the couch, while my Red Sox hat sat on the shelf next to the sofa. As the game quickly made its way into the bottom of the ninth, my son climbed across me and grabbed my hat (something he and his sister both love to play with) and tried to put it on my head. So he and I sat there, him in his pajamas and I in my cap, preparing the Yankees for a long winter's nap. No, seriously, we sat there and watched as Jeter was retired, then Abreu went deep (my son seemed much less worried than I was), then A-Rod flied out and finally, sweetly and unartistically, Posada flailed at strike three in the dirt and the Yankees were once again eliminated in the first round, their biggest bats having long since gone quiet in this not even close series, while their biggest arms, save Pettitte, proved ineffective as expected. I took my son back to our room, gave him to my wife and came upstairs to put up the obligatory "Yankees Lose!" post, all the while remembering how my dad got me out of bed to watch the Sox win the series in 1986, and how I've always wondered how I'd handle a similar situation with my own kids. And while it wasn't my intention to have my son watch the Yankees fail yet again, and while he'll no doubt never remember any of it, part of me wishes he would. I think he'd appreciate it some day.