Unfaithful

This past weekend, I was unfaithful. The saddest part is that my children were not only aware of my infidelity, they participated in it. On Saturday we all attended a Met game.

As Alex, Evan, Richie and I made our way into the ballpark, I was hoping no one would recognize me. If spotted could I possibly have explained my aberrational behavior on the basis of reduced price tickets? Would Governor Spitzer have been excused if he stated he strayed only because the escort service was running a special promotion?

It is not even a week into the season. The undefeated Orioles took on the winless Bronx bummers last night. Meanwhile, the record of the Metropolitans remains unblemished. This is something much more than coincidence.

I sit in a room surrounded by images that stare at me in contempt. There are autographed photos of Mantle and Jeter shown in the midst of majestic performance. A pinstriped jersey with the intersecting NY is signed by Joe DiMaggio, #5. I turn out the lights but I still feel the burning, piercing eyes.

It is said that the Red Sox fate was sealed for the rest of the 20th century when their owner sold the Babe in 1918 for money to finance a Broadway show. It would be almost nine decades before the curse of the Bambino was lifted. Directly in front of me he is there, in dual photos as a member of both the Yankees and Red Sox, framing a copy of the agreement made "for transfer of a player". Is this a sign of the price I must pay for my wrongdoing?

The Yankees are offering their own steeply discounted tickets to several upcoming games. In the near future I will return to my real home and will try to keep my impropriety quiet. But ultimately there is no such thing as a discrete affair. The heart is forever tarnished and the mind can never be as pure. I apologize profusely to Joe D, Mickey, Derek, and the Babe but they appear uninterested in my empty words. Too little, too late they seem to be saying. I am disconsolate.