…I am writing this to you
And I hope that you will read it so you’ll know…
That we’re neighbors, and I’m a chai latte person as well.
The real reason I write is not because I am a deranged fan. In fact, my family were Brooklyn Dodgers fans, and my husband grew up in a NY Giants household, so you can imagine what was said about the Yankees.
But here we are, grandparents of a 9-year-old who is never out in public without his Yankees cap and spends every non-scheduled hour in the batting cage that came with the house his family bought last year. He’s already told his parents that he’s “relocating” to Palm Beach Gardens, Florida to live with his uncle Duke, a great coach and the proud father of a high school junior now being scouted by at least two top colleges. “I’m never going to make it to the majors, if I stay in Westchester!” he often shouts at the moon. (I remind him that George Kirby, BJ Surhoff managed to.)
Did I mention that he’s a big kid and a leftie with a great arm, who either throws strikeouts or beans batters? He’s a good first baseman, too, and not too shabby as a catcher.
All I can say is that he’s a prospect. He’s informed us that he’s going to skip college and just read history and play baseball.
Buying him field-level seats at benefit auctions is not the way to get him on the team’s radar, I now realize. I figured that instead of waiting around to bump into you in downtown Rye or on a Greenhaven corner, I would simply ask if you’d like to meet the young man in person. I told my grandson I’d seen you play at Shea Stadium. He knew your stats, what years you played for which team, so he was pretty disenchanted his grandmother couldn’t even remember who the Mets were playing that day. (My response was: “That’s a guy thing.”)
It will take some sophisticated scheduling work to find a convenient time for you two to meet this summer, as he is going to baseball camp and playing in two summer leagues. You probably have made some exciting summer plans, too.
He doesn’t have any endorsements yet, but you can see from the assortment of Little League photos that he’s been working on his strut and delivery.
When Judy Garland recorded “Dear Mr. Gable” in 1937 she was a young kid who was going places.
A lifetime later, I hope this note finds you well and curious about a boy named Pete who can do everything but sing.
