F I C T I O N I’d already researched the availability of getting Yankee games in Utah, because the inability to view them would have been a deal-buster for Ma. I signed up for a sports package through cable, and by late April Ma was in front of our big-screen TV in the living room enjoying games from the Bronx. She’d taken over the one piece of furniture that had any importance for me—my Lazy-Boy recliner—but I was content to let it go when she said how comfortable it made her feel. My spot on the couch wasn’t bad because it put me next to my honey and our kid, two months old when the first ball was thrown out in Yankee stadium that season. One day as I joined Ma half-way through a game with the then-Devil Rays, I noticed her pouring some clear liquid from what looked like a small vase into a demitasse cup without a handle. I asked her what she was drinking and she said with careful pronunciation, “Sah-kay.” This shocked me, made me realize how little I knew about my own mother even though we were again living under the same roof. Then I thought back to my teen years and remembered that she hadn’t known one-tenth of what I was doing then, so I felt better. “How come you’re hitting the Chinese booze?” I wasn’t being a pain-in-the-ass, I really wanted to know. This was a woman who, when we were kids, drank a glass of red wine each night at dinner with her pasta. “First,” she said with dignity, “it’s not Chinese, ‘sake’ is Japanese. And second, none of your business.” I was willing to conduct research to get to the bottom of this mystery and called my sister Maria. She reported that in Florida, Ma had been introduced to different wines while dating a guy named Henry Blades, a tall Cuban with a toupee and sweet moves on the dance floor. According to Maria, when the music started Ma would hobble on her arthritic knees to join him, suddenly turning into Rita Moreno. But Ma’s golden swinging days were long behind her now that she was confined to the Lazy-Boy in front of the TV. Watching Yankee games with Ma was like the Star Trek manifesto, To boldly go where no man has gone before. That year Matsui went on the disabled list early, but Ma kept confusing Matsui with Wang, and whenever she’d see Wang on the pitcher’s mound, she’d crow, “Thank God Matsui’s back. We need his big bat!” Chevegny and I relished how Ma would parrot the words of different sportscasters, something she did when we were kids and the likes of Joe Garagiola and Phil Rizutto were announcing from the Bronx. That year was Randy Johnson’s last with the Bombers, and his presence seemed to unnerve Ma. “The problem with Randy Johnson,” she insisted, “is that he’s too tall.” When I pointed out that height was an asset for pitchers, she looked at me over her sake cup and said, “Upto-a-point.” Messina, being Italian, was to her the greatest-ever Yankee pitcher, though her maternal eagle-eye sharply noted bags under his eyes each turn on the roster. “That boy isn’t getting enough home cooking,” she said with a sniff.
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WEBER
THE CONTEMPORARY WEST
FALL 2015