Whenever someone mentions Bill Buckner, I get an erection. Not a simple half mast salute like when one shakes longer than necessary at the urinal; I'm talking about two inches away from bumping into a vagina type of raging boner.
It's not that I find him, or any man for that matter, attractive. While same the incident that befell him one Saturday night back in 1986 made him a pariah in certain sporting circles, I remember as one of the most spectacular events in my lifetime.
The October nights in Harlem were cold enough for overcoats and watch caps, but I shoved open the pane of glass in the living room anyway, keeping it propped open with my girlfriend's high school yearbook. The heat inside was stifling. Between the stove still hot from Saturday dinner, somebody cranking up the thermostat in the eighties, and my anxiety; the apartment was hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock.
The 1986 World Series had the Mets facing the Boston Red Sox. Could the new kids on the block make a name for themselves against the Beantown Bombers? Over 55 thousand in attendance and I couldn't score one lousy ticket. At least, I couldn't afford the scalper's prices.
My own cousin wouldn't come down thirty measly bucks for a nosebleed section. When he wants something, it's all about the family. When he has something, it's all about his bills. After ten hours of shoveling ice down at the Fulton Fish Market, all I wanted was a beer and good reception on the nearest television, which placed me at my girlfriends apartment.
I was extremely antsy about game 6. The Miracle Mets seemed like they were fresh out of them . Dropping the first two at home, winning them back at Fenway, just to lose another at home. The Red Sox were one win away from breaking their curse and they had our asses pinned the wall like a first-time inmate on the first day at Rikers Island with Roger "The Rocket" Clemens starting on the mound.
"Raheem," called Lupe from the kitchen. "You gonna freeze me out, close the window." The smell of dinner hung in the air, remnants of rice, beans, and jerk chicken replacing what little air there was in the cramped apartment.
"Y'all use to much Adobe, L," I replied as I twisted the cap off my first Miller High Life. "That shit is killing me."
"Please; you ate thirds." Lupe appeared in the doorway. "You trippin."
She smirked, dish towel in one hand, spoon in the other as I fanned the smoky scent out the window with an old copy of Newsday. She was an uptown girl through and through. Giant door knocker earrings, gold rope chain, hair scraped back into a perfect ponytail.
She wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the Puerto Rican flag, 100% in black type stenciled at the top, set between a firm set of island grown breasts, nipples making an brief appearance from the chill. Her shapely hips squeezed into a pair of Jordache jeans, so tight I could read her driver license through the back pocket.
As easily as she looked like one of the honeys on the block, on the inside, she was a girl with bigger plans, leaving the concrete jungle for greener pastures. She was born as Guadalupe, but shortened it as she grew older. Lupe in middle school segued into Lu by the time Junior year started, till everyone around the way just referred to her as L. Except her mother. Mothers will never call you by anything less than what named you.
We met at a block party back in June, sparked right away, becoming a couple within a week. We hit all the local scenes; parties, movies, and the Apollo every once in awhile, but there was no real consummation. Other than kissing or a quick grope under the shirt (over the bra), she was mum on doing the nasty.
She played the Catholic card constantly despite the fact that she missed Mass more than I missed away games. I couldn't blame her; both her older sisters had three kids between them, their tenement becoming more crowded by the season. She started the year at City College of New York, but was attending the University of Florida next year on scholarship.
"I thought we were going out tonight." She watched as I wrestled with the rabbit ears on her family set.
"Game 6 is starting."
I swiveled and pointed at my cap before go back to the task of bending the metal rods and adjusting the aluminum foil on the tips till the static lessened.
A commercial for the Crazy Eddie electronic store faded to black and a view of Shea stadium popped up on the screen. Vin Scully welcomed the viewers to the start of the game. I likes it when he called games. A Bronx native, he could make the blind see when describing the action on the field. He also had no fear of dead air; letting the ambiance fill in the gaps now and then.
"Aw,
Papi
," She began the pouting routine I was very familiar with. "I wanted to go to the Latin Quarter; it's Saturday."
Any other time she thrust that bottom lip out, I succumbed to her will, but nothing was changing my plans tonight.
"It's only eight, we'll have plenty time for pop locking and body rocking. Chill out,
Nena
."
She abruptly turned back into the kitchen and started banging the dirty pots and pans around to show her frustration. I sat on the couch, adjusting the stiff manufacturer plastic that has yet to be removed, taking another swig from the bottle. The static dissipated as the channel 9 signal strengthened. I adjusted my cap, shifted more in the seat so the plastic wouldn't scratch at the back of my knees or rip into the material of my new velour sweat suit as my plan came into fruition.
The symphony of pots clashing lessened as she finished cleaning the kitchen. Usually she had help, but her mother dragged the rest of the family out to Saturday Mass. I knew this would be the quietest place I could find to watch the game since our set at home burnt out three days ago.
L reappeared after getting a quilt from her bedroom. She threw it over the plastic before kicking off her suede Pumas and sitting down next to me. Her mother bought this couch over two years ago and never unwrapped it in hopes of preserving it. Plus, they still had a couple of payments left.
As Paul Simon belted out the last notes of the National Anthem, I let out a belch, producing a giggle and slap on the arm from her. I leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead before going back to the game. That was all the intimacy she was gonna see out of me until the end. She sighed, picked up a copy of
Fresh
magazine, thumbing through the glossy pages. She produced a Charms Blow Pop, her favorite candy, and began to unwrap it.
"Want a lick?" she held it out to me only to snatch it away. "Psyche!" She giggled and began to eat it. I glanced at her sideways as she swirled her tongue around the hard red shell, before putting it in her mouth for a couple seconds, drawing in her cheeks as she ferociously sucked the flavor off. She kept repeating the action as she flipped through the magazine. I imagined that I was that lollipop, adjusting my sweats so she wouldn't see my arousal.
I was already down in the dumps by the first inning. Bob Ojeda started off slow; giving up a double to Dwight Evans, bringing Wade Boggs home for the first score. I started on my second brew as I watched the Rocket barely break a sweat, taking us out three in a row to end the inning. Clemens didn't fare so well in his last outing and was pitching like a man possessed.
The second inning was a repeat of the first. Sox 2nd baseman Marty Barrett hit a short line drive to right, scoring Spike Owen and I started thinking about the Yankee fans that would give me shit next week at work. The Mets are still the red-headed stepchild of the Big Apple and losing to the nemesis of the Bronx Bombers, at home, was liken to having your big brother watch you take an ass whipping in the backyard, laughing at you the whole time.
I was left on the couch to my doldrums by the third; L said something about picking out some clothes. I grunted a reply, squeezing the the bottle like it was a Louisville Slugger, size 33. I saw a glimmer of hope by the fifth; we tied it up at two. Those cocky sonuvabitches from
Bahstin
wouldn't give us much joy, gaining a run in the seventh. Clemens left the game with a one run lead, his work completed. We tied it up again in the eighth, but clearly was out of gas.
She returned by the ninth; I heard her giggling on the phone in the back with a girlfriend for the better part of two hours, WBLS blaring from the radio. Mr. Magic's rap attack program was starting which meant it was past ten already. Mets outfielder Leo Mazzilli scored on a sac fly, tying it at 3, giving me a little breathing room.
The Jordache were peeled off, replaced by her old high school gym shorts, just as tight but exposed more creamy butter pecan thighs. Clearly a distraction tactic aimed a me. She leaned in the door jamb, watching me for a few minutes, before trying to sit on my lap.
"Not now, L." I pushed her off.
"You wack." She moved to the other side of the couch, glaring at me. I knew she was just feigning anger. Watching baseball is the only time I'm not pawing at her and she knew it. She might have been saving herself, but she was an expert cock tease. Another
