A Part of It

After my parents divorced, my dad started his own advertising agency in Manhattan and determined that his efforts to woo clients would be immeasurably enhanced by having Knicks season tickets at his disposal. But since he only had so many clients to woo and was also eager to demonstrate just how little he was taking me for granted post-divorce, he ended up bringing me to lots of games in the late 1980s and early 1990s. “Bring” may be the wrong word, since one of the best parts of the whole arrangement was that he somehow persuaded my mom to put me on a commuter train to Grand Central and let me make my own way, a thirteen-year-old kid from the suburbs, to his office in midtown. My mom signaled her disapproval of this plan by giving me a can of mace to put in my pocket, which I avidly fingered as I strode alone and awestruck between skyscrapers up Park Avenue. Upon arriving at his office, I’d nestle into a corner of the forest-green carpet, read a Stephen King novel, snack on the endless supply of mini-Snickers in his fridge, take shots on the standup nerf hoop, or knock golf balls at the putting machine, all while waiting for my dad to finish work and take me to the game. (An office stocked with abundant signs that its chief executive is going through an acute midlife crisis, it turns out, is a great place for a teenager to kill time.)