One of the many Mets games at Shea Stadium that Grandpa took my brother and I to was particularly memorable. It was slightly chilly, probably in the 50s with a slight breeze.
For some reason Grandpa was freezing. He left Shea and the guards were nice enough to relax the rules about re-entering the stadium. He came back with a couple of blankets that smelled like urine. He offered us one, and when we refused, he was astonished that we weren't cold enough to cover ourselves in the urine stench. As a result, Grandpa kept the blankets for himself.
The blankets weren't enough and Grandpa left for more protection. My brother and I watched the rest of the game- youngsters- alone, waiting for Grandpa to return. He never did.
After the game we walked to where we thought the car was, and sure enough, there was Grandpa's familiar '82 Benz. We opened the door. The heat was on full blast.
Me: Holy shit Grandpa, it's hot as hell in here.
Grandpa (awoken from sleeping in the driver's seat): Is it really hot?
Me: Are you kidding me? It's like a hundred degrees!
Grandpa: Really? Huh. I'm fine.
1 comment:
I was so positive that you were going to find grandpa dead... I was more than a little relieved when he woke up.
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