Here we are, the high seats of the haute bourgeois. A pinnacle of wealth. Seventeen rows of proletariat are above us; we look at them not. Let them eat garlic fries. Section 307, Row 8: We are high like the mountains, the Leaning Tower of Pisa, the Arc de Triomphe, the upper boughs of a cradling Giant Sequoia, the trembling cockpit of a rocket ship on countdown. “Next time,” I tell you, “we’ll get better seats.” You look at me as if I were a benevolent ogre, telling you Santa Claus did not exist, that the moon was made of cheese, that Big Foot was at home, freshly showered, on my couch and eating the blackberries we picked from my backyard. You answer: “There are better seats than this?” Ichiro Suzuki now is below us, jogging out to his position in right field, his glove tucked under his right arm. Both are made of gold. I yell: Eeeeecheeerowwww! He looks up, tips his cap to us.
You are six. Your brother is eight. Your cousin, she is five, I am thirty-four, and from our high throne, we command Ichiro.