As I'm sure you're all well aware if you've ever watched a single Yankees game, my husband and I raised our grandson Nick after his parents went through a difficult divorce. Sometimes times were tough. But it was always worthwhile, seeing Nick grow into a young man and, eventually, into a halfway decent ballplayer. That being said, I've gotta admit I've just about had it up to here with the silly little rituals. Nicky, you're making the Dominicans look stoic and professional out there. And forget about the coverage. The YES Network is currently working on photoshopping me and Joba's dad into a picture together for their 2010 "All Sympathy for All Stars" Calender.
Anyway, this message is really for Nicky. Nicky, when I was suffering with the brain cancer, I thought it was the most painful experience I'd ever endure in my entire life. But then I saw you soldier through a 10 pitch at bat, looking up at the sky before every pitch for some absurd reason. (I'm down here, Nick!) You say when questioned that you look at me and your grandfather before each pitch. What the fuck are you thinking? The pitcher is on the mound, 67 feet away, and he's about to throw a 95 mph fastball at you. You're busy gazing at the clouds. Stop looking at me and hit the fucking ball, you pussy. Why the hell do you want to look at me anyway? If I was alive and in the stands behind home plate, would you turn around to make eye contact with me before each pitch? Didn't I raise you to be a man, to stand on your own, and not need your precious grandmother's consent to swing a bat? Quit looking at me and honor me with a base hit, you pussy.
And what's with this tattoo I keep hearing about? You got a tattoo of me? On your chest? With a halo? Jesus fucking Christ, Nicholas, I'm your GRANDMOTHER. I'm old. That's what old people do, they die. You don't go around getting tattoos of us when we do, because we get pretty ugly looking before we die. 90 years, or brain cancer, takes quite a toll on the human body. Don't go permanently defacing your body with images of old dead people. I thought that was a lesson I didn't have to explain explicitly to you, but apparently not. The next thing I'll be hearing about is that you have a pre-game ritual of putting your head in a vice and subjecting it to terrible pressure in order to honor me and the suffering I went through with brain cancer. Shit, I need to keep my mouth shut. Nicky, don't put your head in any vices, okay? Go out there, hit the ball, and make me proud. Jesus.