In the bottom of the ninth, my father handed me the July/Aug issue of Smithsonian.
He told me I should read the article about vice presidents. On page 30, there was juju, personified by Raul Ibanez, drilling a liner into the rightfield seats. "Keep reading," insisted my father. It's good luck."
My father is 96. "good luck" is his generations version of juju. My hand stiffened through another bases loaded failure. Through a second inning of Soriano. Through more weak hacks in the bottom of the tenth.
My father asked why I was such a slow reader. I was on about the fifth reading of the malfeasance of Spiro Agnew when my hand began spasm. I rested it briefly on my lap
as one veep after another mocked the office they had held and Cecelia failed to corral Lowe's wild pitch.
I shook my hand, held the mag steady on page 30.