The only thing I remember watching over and over again with my father were New York Yankee games. There were no movies — just the familiar cadence of Phil Rizzuto’s color commentary over Bill White’s play-by-play. If the Yanks were home, I was directed to hoist a pinstripe flag up the pole in the front yard. There wasn’t a whole lot of talking either, which was a welcome relief for me — an angsty gay teenager sitting alone with his father for long periods of time. The silence was mostly broken up by the ingestion of overcooked cheeseburgers and shitty chardonnay. I found great comfort watching those games with Dad; I still do. — C. B. S.
