The gender gap widens

For Mother's Day this year, my father got the the three of us Red Sox tickets. I was a little worried about how this would go over. My mother is not a baseball fan. I have no idea what's going on down there on the field, myself, but I do enjoy going to baseball games. I like that the sport has remained essentially unchanged since its start -- unlike football, say -- and I like that you can drink beer while watching it. Also? Baseball players look like they're in worse shape than I am. They're kind of fat, for one thing, and definitely on the pasty side, regardless of race. They look boozy. I'm always waiting for them to reach into their baggy britches and haul out a flask of bourbon or a pack of smokes.



Strangely enough, though, Mom seemed pretty happy about it when she told me. Not being one to look familial harmony in the mouth (nor to let a metaphor go unmixed, apparently, but whatever), I just left it alone and agreed to meet them back at the homestead a few hours before the game.



When I showed up, I quickly realized how wrong that was. For one thing, I should have offered to drive. I am a terrible driver, really, and I don't particularly enjoy it, but I'm used to traffic in well-populated areas, which is something my mother has never gotten used to, having spent her whole life driving up and down the same street between her house and the hospital where she works. However, she doesn't particularly like it when anyone else drives, which means we're all in somewhat of a pickle whenever we have to go into (dum dum dum) the City.



Something you should know, if you're reading this, and you don't live in Boston, is that in no kind of a way is Fenway in "the City." According to my Mom, however, the City is everything on the train line, which is basically all of Boston and its major suburbs, from Newton and Arlington, plus some of the more densely populated sections of the North Shore. Basically, if there's a chance that she'll have to parallel park, my mother doesn't want to drive there.



So my Dad drove. He drives really, really fast, in a kind of careering headlong fashion that reminds me, oddly, of a woman running in high heels. He's in a hurry, he's not quite in control, but he gets there with a great deal of style. It had been awhile since I'd been in a car with both of them in a stressful situation, so I'd forgotten the routine.



"What?" My father asked, swerving around a terrified pedestrian standing in the middle of a crosswalk.



"What?" My Mom said back.



"You hissed. Between your teeth."



"I didn't hiss. JESUS, MARY AND JOSEPH. LOOK OUT FOR THAT TRUCK."



"I see it, I see it."



Mom sighed.



"What?"



"What?"



"You sighed."



And so on. During all of this, I did my best to distract everyone by telling amusing stories, or commenting on the weather, etc. This was somewhat difficult, as I'd had three hours of sleep and was fighting a raging hangover. Finally, I just closed my eyes, and let the swerving car lull me into a deep and restful sleep. We made it to Fenway in one piece, and enjoyed the game, despite the fact that the Sox lost.



On the way home, Mom told me that for Father's Day this year, she's getting Dad knitting lessons.