THE GIFT OF SHARING

In my opinion, the three most unpleasant expressions in the English language are, "There's smoke pouring out of your hood", "Somebody from the IRS called", and "Oh, that looks great.  Can I have a bite?"  And frankly, I'm far more tolerant of greedy auto mechanics and rapacious tax auditors than of dinner companions who want samples.  I'm eating here, folks, not selling carpet. 

The first time I took my wife to a restaurant, she innocently asked for a taste of my Beef Teriyaki.  It required every ounce of restraint I possessed to smile politely and offer her a bite instead of stabbing her hand with a fork.  My suppressed rage eventually subsided, but I made sure my steak knife was close by in case she came back for more.  Over the years, I've taken fewer pains to hide my hostility

What's ironic is that trading food with my wife is a bargain.  She always returns more than she gets and sometimes offers a taste without demanding compensation.  I, on the other hand, require a notarized affidavit before I'll ante up, a pre-victual agreement with a penalty clause assuring forfeiture of the entire entree if the return portion is too small or not immediately forthcoming.

Now I'm no Sigmund Freud (I'm no Fred Astaire either, but that's another story), yet even I realize this paranoia didn't arise in a vacuum.  It arose at 45 Yale St. in Holyoke, Massachusetts where I grew up surrounded by my parents and older brother, the villain of this saga.

Western Mass. in the '50s wasn't exactly a culinary hotbed.  It wasn't even a culinary sleeping bag except for Mel's.  Mel's is a small Italian restaurant in Holyoke whose specialties include spaghetti in a spicy red sauce, meatballs, roast chicken, and...French fries.  Now I know that by today's health-obsessed standards, a dinner that includes both spaghetti and French fries is as unthinkable as a meal of poached salmon and motor oil, but back then, the greasy starch was a basic food group, as important to growing young bodies as red meat, butter, and Twinkies.

We would take out from Mel's about once a week.  I can recall few more joyous moments of my childhood than contemplating those two enormous meatballs floating on a sea of glistening pasta, with a hefty portion of my beloved fries on the side, steaming under a squirt of ketchup.  Then it would happen.

"Hey, Jeff!  Look at that huge dog in the driveway!"

Alas, I was the perennial sucker. I'd automatically turn to stare out the window, and by the time I looked back, most of my stash had disappeared. My brother would be in convulsions - half with laughter, HALF FROM CHOKING ON MY FRIES!

But even the biggest sap catches on eventually.  One night when I was nine, I feigned distraction and bashed him solidly across the hand with a serving spoon as he went in for the kill.  I didn't inflict any real damage, but the dynamics of our dining relationship changed dramatically.  Mealtime evolved from a cordial family gathering into a tense battle of will, no quarter asked, none given.  It must have been a remarkable sight -  the two of us sitting there in stony silence, eyes locked in a steely glare, left arm curled protectively around the plate, right hand clutching the fork like a shiv, just a couple of lifers in Alcatraz.  This standoff continued until he went off to boarding school, and I could again eat in peace.

But once you're accustomed to dining in full combat readiness, you can never fully relax again.  This is why I still regard every request for my food, no matter how innocuous, with suspicion and fear.  I'd like to think, however, that I've mellowed over the years and become a more genial fellow to break bread with.  I've learned to curb my more violent tendencies and conceal my outrage, save for a telltale blink or two.  As for my brother, we've since become very close and can now enjoy a meal together provided nobody makes any sudden moves.

MISSPENT YOUTH

Like all true Bostonians, I'm a loyal Red Sox fan.  I take pride in their successes, suffer grievously over their failures, and detest anyone who wears pinstripes.  So virulent is my hatred of that pattern that it extends beyond Yankee players to anyone sporting parallel lines on their clothing including train engineers and candy stripers.  If Mother Teresa had worn a pinstripe sari, I'd have booed her too.

I love going to Fenway and rooting for the team.  I jump up and down and scream with the best of them, cheering on our boys and excoriating the opposition or any official who dares rule against us.  In begrudging deference to Yogi Berra, I never leave a game until it's over.

And yet, I possess a certain animus towards the sport that I just can't shake.  Through deep introspection and extensive analysis, I've uncovered two possible explanations.

Ken Burns and my childhood.

My gripe with Burns is professional.  I've spent most of my working life as a television editor, and in my many years of cutting and watching documentaries, I have never been subjected to anything as stupifyingly dull as Burns' twenty-three hour snorefest, Baseball.  Employing a reverential tone normally reserved for Papal investitures, he smeared his Civil War paintbrush over the national pastime, obliterating every last bit of genuine excitement and color from the sport.  I mean, really, how many different ways can you play "Take me out to the Ball Game" in a minor key?   A complete hack could have generated more fun out of a ten-part series on crescent wrenches.

But this is a minor insult compared to the trauma that baseball inflicted on my youth.

There were other sports and activities while I was growing up, but none held the exalted boyhood status of baseball.  In addition to playing the game, there was the endless discussion of players, teams, and stats, as well as the constant buying, selling and trading of cards.  It wasn't the high-stakes memorabilia racket it is today, but many a tooth became cavity-ridden in a vain search for a Stan Musial or Moose Skowron.  From April through October, baseball was all that mattered.  Proficiency made you popular, ineptitude branded you an outcast.

I couldn't hit the damn ball.  It didn't matter how slowly it was pitched or how many swings I was allowed, my time in the batter's box was spent in utter futility and embarrassment.

I really tried.  I would hold my breath, tense my body, and glare wide-eyed and unblinking at the pitcher - more Marty Feldman than Mighty Casey, but no less determined.  It didn't matter.  As soon as the ball was thrown, it would disappear into some multi-dimensional wormhole until it smacked against the catcher's mitt.  On the rare occasion that I did connect, it was courtesy of the same dumb luck that allows a roomful of monkeys to type a word or two of Macbeth.

My problem?  Congenital Nystagmus, which, for all you Ophthalmology buffs, is a neuromuscular condition that causes the eyes to jitter uncontrollably.  Objects don't appear out of focus; they just dance around the visual field like blood-crazed mosquitoes.  As a result, my depth perception is on a par with a medium-sized plum.  I was diagnosed shortly after birth and began wearing glasses at the age of two.  During the "50s, it was the misguided belief of opticians and frame manufacturers that children’s glasses should simply be scaled-down versions of hideously ugly adult models.  In an era that worshipped DiMaggio, Williams, and Mantle, I could have been mistaken for Bennett Cerf.

My fielding was worse than my batting.  When grammar school teams were forced to include me, I was stuck deep - and I mean WAY deep - in center field.  The second baseman or shortstop would run miles to grab any fly headed my way.  My field of dreams was more like the Sea of Tranquility.

Finally, I gave up, reluctantly accepting the fact that this avenue to fame, fortune, and popularity would forever be closed to me.  My father made a valiant effort to keep me competitive, but when a simple game of catch resembles a medieval stoning, it's unlikely that pro scouts will come knocking at your door.  I put away my glove and became the youngest embittered cynic in the history of Western Massachusetts.

Forging an identity apart from sports was daunting.  I wasn't a gifted student, and my miserable eyesight meant that I always sat in the front row of class, a sitting duck for teachers' questions and classmates' spitballs.  I didn't have the smarts to be teacher's pet, and was too shy to be class clown.  My age and social background ruled out delinquency and petty crime.  And while alienation and angst were hot topics in North Beach and Greenwich Village, they were seldom discussed by the ten-year-olds who hung around the Coke machine at Lincoln St. Texaco.  The only beatnik we knew was Maynard G. Krebs on Dobie Gillis, and he was no more a viable role model than Nikita Khrushchev.

Ironically, while desperately seeking an identity, I was growing one.  My lack of baseball skills along with the attendant derision led me to disdain physical activity of any kind.  Spurred on by a twenty-three hour-a-day TV habit and voracious sweet tooth, I began to gain in girth what I lacked in self-esteem.  In sixth grade, I claimed the heavyweight crown of my class. 

From then on, I was "The Fat Kid," a role I coveted about as much as "Pariah Outfielder."  But a certain prestige did come with the pounds.  How many other boys my age had the stature to play William Howard Taft in historical dramas?   And while I was still shunned during ball games, I was in great demand for "Johnny-on-a-pony."  I couldn't lick any man in the place as John L. Sullivan had boasted, but I could do some real damage if I sat on him.

Still, the perks were few, and the bullies many.  Because of my size, I stood out from the other losers on the playground like Joseph Stalin at a DAR picnic.  And with the first stirrings of adolescence, I discovered that sheer bulk is not highly prized in romance (at least not in the Western Hemisphere.)  Today, unable to earn millions by playing a game eight months a year, I spend my time sifting through the detritus of a misspent youth trying to explain my dietary fluctuations and adult eccentricities - all because of that son of a bitch, Abner Doubleday.