Little League Banquet

By sixth grade I was becoming increasingly sensitive to the fact that Dad was gay. It is not that I did not enjoy being with my father. Quite to the contrary, I found him incredibly interesting. I felt that I could talk with him about taboo topics I would not consider asking anyone else. He always liked to play contrarian. He enjoyed turning conventional wisdom on its head, and this taught me to refuse to accept the party line. Even the topic of girls did not seem off limits with Dad, and this was becoming my obsession.

No, it was not Dad that fed my growing sense of societal anxiety. I was becoming increasingly paranoid at an age where assimilation is so valued for a pre-teenager that someone would realize that Bert was not just a friend or my father's brother like I so often suggested. They would know he was gay and that would be it, my life would go down in a spiral as my dream of sitting at the 'popular table' died a quick death. So whenever Dad came to see me in New Jersey, I breathed a sigh of relief when he got out of the car alone.

My social anxiety was magnified one night at our annual Little League Banquet. This was the occasion when all the teams in our town were treated to a dinner of an overcooked, tough steak and mashed potatoes. Perhaps 400 people filled the banquet hall with each team sitting at their own table, about 12 seats surrounding a white cloth covered oval table. Trophies were handed out to the teams that had won their divisions. My team, the Kiwanas, has won the championship for the Minor League that year. I felt that I was certainly on my way to the Show being that I had the third best batting average on the team that year.

Parents did not sit with their children at this event. Instead, the Little Leaguers sat as a team at their own table while the parents sat amongst themselves. I have to imagine that the parents' tables were a cesspool of bravado and idoltry based on their children's accomplishments and future in the Baseball Hall of Fame. The only person to have ever made it to the Big Leagues from my town played two years for the Minnesota Twins and was last reported as holding down a second shift job as assistant manager in a box store. This did not discourage the parents, though, I am sure. Their kids were different, and like most Americans, having a Major Leaguer in the family seemed like a good plan for retirement.

My father always insisted on taking me to these events despite having to come out to New Jersey from the city. Mom graciously allowed him to take me alone. She understood how important this was to him, and intruding would have ruined any hope he had of having the individual relationship with his sons. My father, though, was never good at group socialization. He could engage with people one on one just fine, in fact most people thought he was remarkably interesting and witty, but put him at a table with a bunch of straight parents who talk insistently about suburbian topics and he would quickly slip into silence. When his inability to interact with the company hit a critical mass and became too uncomfortable to let be, he'd seek the comfort of the bottle. This at least released him from his inhibitions and allowed him to walk away from the embarrasment of being the odd, silent man at the table with no wife.

Half way into the ceremonies, Dad came up behind me at my table and whispered that he was making a compliant with the Little League banquet moderator that my name was not mentioned when they announced my team. I felt a sense of impending dread, but Dad quickly walked away so like so many times before I told myself that nothing bad was about to happen. Shortly thereafter, Dad went to the bar.

He must have been denied a drink at some point, because the next thing I remember was being told by my coach that Dad had been thrown out of the banquet. It so happened that Dad took a swing at the bartender, probably missing by a long shot seeing that he was not so much of a fighter and too inebriated to connect. My coach took me home that evening, he himself a much worse alcoholic than my father ever was. The coach I so admired would beat his kids and then his wife on a frequent basis. His son was my best friend for years, but he and his brothers slipped into truancy in later years. My best friend would rob my house in high school, his brothers would get in a knife fight with one ending in the hospital with a stab wound. My coach would later have to resign his position as head coach for showing up at practice smashed drunk and hitting a line drive into the nose of our best pitcher. Nevertheless, on this night I was comforted to get out of this place without questions being asked.

The next day at school I was terrified of course that people would scorn me for the Little League Banquet incident. Ironically, only one kid asked if it was my Dad that punched out the bartender. I had my remarks well prepared, and after rebuffing him he quietly said "I was only wondering." Looking back, the poor kid may have just had a similar experience with his Dad and only wanted to relate with me. Nobody else said a word about it. Perhaps kids have more sympathy than we give them credit for.

This event would stick with me for quite some time, probably increasing my sense of apprehension at having Dad come to my school and sporting events. Still, I don't ever recall wanting to disown Dad or not wanting to see him again. Quite to the contrary, I don't remember this event hurting our relationship.

It has taken me a quarter of a century to write down this event and attempt to understand why it happened. I think I understand now. Being at public events like this, where he was immersed in uncomfortable social situations, this only accentuated his feeling of isolation. Humans instinctively learn to cope with such feelings, and his way was with the bottle. How can I be sure of this? I can reasonably be sure because I too suffer from this. Being at events like this, Christmas parties for example, bring out in me the same feeling of dread my father must have had. Only difference is that I can drag my wife along, whereas my father could not have brought Bert because, unfortunately, society did not allow it. So societal constraints caused an otherwise happy occasion to turn sour. Now there is a connection.