Honeymoon

Chapter 88

IT WAS EERILY QUIET as the three of us walked toward our very special campsite for the evening. This was going to be great. It was going to be perfect.

“Are we gonna get in trouble, Daddy?”

I looked back at Max, the younger of my two boys. At the age of six, he was just beginning to grasp the notion of accountability. Meanwhile, it was his father who perhaps needed the refresher course. Though not in this particular instance.

“No, we’ve got special permission to be here tonight,” I explained.

“Yeah, dumbhead,” blurted John Jr. “Dad wouldn’t take us here without asking first. Right, Dad?”

At the age of nine, John Jr. had long since discovered the obnoxious joy of being the older brother.

“Cool it, J.J.,” I told him. “Max asked a good, smart question. You did, Max.”

“Yeah!” said Max. “Smart!”

I smiled to myself and picked up the pace. “C’mon, guys, we’re almost there.”

On some of our past trips together, I’d taken them to Bear Mountain and the Mohawk Trail. I’d even taken the boys out to Yellowstone for a week. Now I felt the need to do something really different. Or maybe it was guilt about Nora that I was trying to ease. Either way, I had one night with the boys and I was determined to make it a great one.

I turned to them as we came to a dead stop. “So, what do you guys think?”

Max and John Jr. stared with wide eyes and dropped jaws. For once, they were speechless… and I was loving it. There aren’t that many campsites in the Bronx, but I was pretty sure I’d found the best.

“Welcome to Yankee Stadium, boys.”

The two of them immediately dropped their knapsacks and sprinted for the field. It was late afternoon and there wasn’t a soul around. Nobody but us. Derek Jeter and company were in the middle of a West Coast road trip and we had the place to ourselves. The House That Ruth Built! Just lock up when you leave, said my friend in the front office. He could do worse than to have an FBI guy in his debt.

I opened up my duffel and broke out all the necessary equipment. Bats, gloves, caps, jerseys, about a dozen scuffed-up balls.

“All right, who wants to hit first?”

“Me, me, me!”

“No, me, me, me!”

Until the very last rays of sunlight slanted behind the massive scoreboard and soaring stands, my two sons and I had the time of our lives in Yankee Stadium.

“Do we really get to sleep here?” asked John Jr. in amazement.

“Of course we do, dumbhead!” chirped Max, turning the tables on his older brother. “Daddy said so.”

“That’s right, I did.” I walked over to the duffel and grabbed the tent kit. “Now which way should we face?”

I had one finger pointing toward center field, and another in the direction of home plate.

“Tell you what, we’ll compromise and face third base. That’s where my favorite Yankee played when I was growing up.”

“Yeah, mine too,” yelled John Jr. “A-Rod!”

The boys and I set up our pup tent. Actually, I set it up as Max and John Jr. continued to run amok on the infield dirt. They were still bursting at the seams with excitement, and it was incredible to watch them. Maybe I was finally getting my priorities in order.