Their feud lasted till the eighth inning at Shea. With the game tied 3–3, Oriole pitcher Eddie Watt hung a curve, and Ron Swoboda lined the ball to left, knocking in Cleon Jones. By then, my father and uncle had swilled enough beer to be on a first-name basis with the guy selling it, and as if drawn by the same magnet, the brothers turned toward each other and began to laugh, their laughter drowned out by the roar of the fans as Swoboda scored on an error, making it 5–3 Mets. In the top of the ninth, the brothers cheered every pitch thrown by Jerry Koosman. He walked Frank Robinson, but got the cleanup hitter, Boog Powell, to ground into a force. Then Brooks Robinson flew out to right, and Davey Johnson flew out to left.

“They did it! They did it!” my father whooped, and he kissed Glenna on top of her head, then embraced me, and moved on to enfold his brother in a bear hug, the two of them jumping around as if they were amped up on speed and dancing the hora.

In retrospect, I don’t want to get sentimental about it, but my father’s witnessing the Mets winning the World Series before he died was a lot like God permitting Moses to enter the Promised Land instead of confining him to the bleachers on Mount Nebo.

Letting go of Uncle Jerr, Dad gazed at the fans kicking up a reddish-brown haze of dust as they swarmed over the infield. An immaculate contentment descended on my father’s furrowed, handsome face, and he closed his eyes, savoring the victory as a reaffirmation that discipline and commitment pay off, that the son of poor Jewish immigrants can marry his girl, earn the Silver Star fighting Nazis, own a house free and clear, see his children grow, and direct the PR operation of a publicly traded company.

I remember feeling such joy for my father, for the palpable innocence in his gaze as he opened his eyes and contemplated the scoreboard in right-center field, where the miraculous numbers were agleam for the universe to behold, proving that if chronic patsies like the Mets can be redeemed, then redemption for all was just around the bend.

I was calculating the odds on my own salvation when Glenna said, “Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“A million to one,” I replied, staring at the scoreboard and inhaling the fading ballpark fragrances of roasted peanuts and spilled beer.

Chapter 24

SNOW FELL ON Thanksgiving. The floodlights above the train-station platform shone dully through the trees, and I sat upstairs in the bay-window seat watching the silvery flakes spinning through the glow of the lights before settling on the tracks.

Biff was on call at Presbyterian, and Glenna had gone to her parents’ for dinner with Robin, who had chosen not to join Phillie and Esther for a cruise to the Caribbean. Having no desire to hear Glenna and her mom snipe at each other, or to get blitzed with Dr. Rising in his fallout shelter—a scene I’d endured twice since the Super Bowl—I begged off with the excuse that I had to be with my family at my aunt and uncle’s. I had driven out to Jersey, but I didn’t stay long, claiming that I had to finish some schoolwork.