And now, a brief scene from my so-called domestic life:
We were having dinner straight out of 1958: barbecued burgers, baked beans, and a cut-up pineapple. The only way to make it better would have been TV trays . . . or dining in a fallout shelter, I suppose.
On my way to the patio, I passed Nolan, who was watching the Dodger game.
“Your Dodgers are losing,” he said.
“Yeah. They try their best to do that,” I said, “but they’re something like 11-1 in their last 12 games.”
“What? Are we talking about The Los Angeles Dodgers?” he said.
“I’m just as surprised as you are, I said. “Who are they playing?”
“Houston,” he said.
Nolan decided early this year that his two favorite teams are The Angels, and whomever is playing The Dodgers, so it didn’t surprise me when he shouted, “GO ASTROS!”
I gave him the test that I always give him when he’s cheering against the Dodgers: “You love those Astros, huh?”
“Oh yeah!” He said.
“Well, who’s your favorite player on the Astros?”
“Oh . . . you know . . . it’s . . . uhm . . . ” he looked at the TV, “Biggio!”
“Yeah, I’m sure you’re in his fanclub.” I laughed.
I don’t think Nolan really cares one way or another about The Dodgers, (or any other particular team in baseball, for that matter) but I know that we both enjoy our friendly rivalry even more than we enjoy watching the games . . . and I love that.
We looked at each other, and I remembered when the Dodgers went to the World Series in 1988. As part of my teenage rebellion, I totally rejected baseball. You know . . . because it was important to my dad.
Yeah, that made a lot of sense.
As a result, I missed out on several opportunities to share some wonderful moments with him, and all I have to show for it is regret.
“Hey, are you going to come watch this with me?” Nolan said.
As a parent, I never miss an opportunity to be on the other side of something I missed out on as a child, so of course I agreed.
“Yeah. After dinner.”
Shortly after I lit the barbecue, one of Anne’s friends called long distance, so I became responsible for finishing the meal, and getting it on the table. Due to my lack of planning, (I am infamous for my lack of planning — I have a lot of 3-inch lengths of string around the house) the burgers were going to be ready before I could even start the baked beans. So I asked Nolan for help.
“Nolan? Would you help me out?”
“Sure!” He said, cheerfully, “what do you need?”
“Would you take a can of baked beans, and put it in a saucepan on the stove? And maybe crush up some pineapple with it?”
“Okay,” he said. “Oh! The inning’s over.”
“What happened?”
“Sean Shawn Green is up with two out.”
I tried to come up with a snappy comeback . . . but there are some truths that I can’t argue with, so I just said, “D’oh!”
There was a surge of cheering from the TV, and I heard Rick Monday say that Green had, indeed, grounded out to end the inning.
About two minutes later, Nolan called to me from the kitchen. “Wil? I’m having some trouble with the beans. Can you come help me?”
I flipped the burgers, and tossed some seasoning on them.
“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”
I walked into the kitchen, and found Nolan scratching his head in front of the stove.
“I put the can of beans in the saucepan, just like you asked,” he said, with a furrowed brow, “but I can’t get them to cook.”
I looked at the stove. A saucepan sat on a front burner, and in it was the unopened can of beans. There was some crushed pineapple stuffed around the edges of the can.
Nolan looked at me, and did his best to keep a straight face.
“I just can’t figure out why it’s not cooking,” He said.
I put my hand on my chin.
“Yeah . . . yeah . . . that is weird.” I said.
He folded his arms across his chest, and studied the stove.
“You think we should get out a cookbook, or something?” He said.
I snapped my fingers. “Oh! I think you forgot to take the beans out of the can.”
“Hmm . . . you think that would do it?” He said.
“Yes. Yes I do.”
“Okay. I’ll try that,” he said. “Thanks!”
He may not have my genes . . . but he’s certainly got my sense of humor, and that’s just fine with me.