Underwear, Baseball and Growing Up

When I put on my underwear this morning I gained new understanding of my allegiances to baseball teams. 

It was 5:30 on one of those persistently cold May mornings in Chicago and I pulled on a pair of briefs before going for a run. I stopped wearing briefs about 25 years ago (in favor first of boxer shorts and more recently of boxer briefs) but still wear them for exercise. In what I can only attribute to a moment of clarity brought on by the beauty of a crystal clear sky welcoming a spring sunrise, I realized why a child born a Mets fan had passed through years of dedication to the Yankees only to eventually settle on (or maybe settle for) the Cubs.

Let me take a step back. I was born in New York City in January of 1967 to a lifelong Yankees fan from Manhattan and former Dodger fan from Brooklyn. The first gift I received from my father was presented while I was still in the hospital. This was before the days that you were sent home hours after your birth. The gift was a child-size, heavy wool, Mets uniform. I guess the uniform of a still new team seemed like the perfect gift for a new baby. Given the Mets hopelessness in the summer of ’67, I also suspect that my father imagined that rooting for them would teach important lessons. 

Sometime late in September of ’69, I briefly toddled away from the TV to use the toilet for the first time. It must have been hard to tear myself away that day, what with the Cubs’ epic collapse being played out and Tom Terrific and his crew making history. When the Orioles were finally defeated, my parents bought me my first pair of briefs. This was before the days when the trip to buy that first pair of underwear becomes the culmination of potty training when the newly continent child gets to tour the aisles of Target looking for the perfect style of underwear. Having bestowed this gift, my parents added a style of underwear to their gifts of life, baseball, and the Mets.

Through my first 10 years, baseball and my beloved Mets remained a family affair. The first trips to Shea were with my parents.  We watched games together and I learned the intricacies of the game not only from Ralph Kiner but also from my father. This is not to say that there were not outside influences. Childhood friends and I still reminisce about Ms. Kritz, our first grade teacher, who, in 1973, included “Let’s Go Mets” at the top of our mimeographed assignments. But it was with my father that I watched Rusty Staub knock himself out running into the wall after robbing Dan Driessen of a certain double in the playoffs and it was to my mother that I explained that the Mets had lost game six to the A’s just to make things more exciting.

We can probably all identify the first inkling of adolescence. Before crushes, car magazines, and outright rebellion there are those first thoughts and actions that portend breaking the bonds with your family. As I reflected on it this morning, I think a change in my baseball allegiance was the first hint of what was to come. It was in 1977 that I started to go my own way. It began with the Seaver trade and ended with the pull of new friends, Yankee fans all of them, and a Yankee championship capped by the three Jackson blasts. By the fall of 1978, sitting at a friend’s house watching the single game playoff, I had not only become a rabid Yankees fan, but baseball had become the glue not of family but of friendships.

It was with friends that I went to countless games (I could finally ride the subway alone). It was with friends that I yelled at the Phillies fan at summer camp who told us that Thurman Munson had died, rubbing in the news in with “Long Live Bob Boone.” It was with friends that I poured over statistics and diagrams of Tommy John’s elbow. It was with friends that I shagged fly balls until it was so dark you could see neither the batter nor the ball. And it was with friends that we endlessly discussed “our” chances next year.

Sometime during my early my days a Yankees devotee I began wearing boxer shorts. As with the Yankees, it was not peer pressure, just the desire to share good things with friends. It was also the start of the period that one’s boxer shorts were frequently worn as visibly as one’s allegiance to a team. I am sure there is a picture somewhere of me wearing a Yankee cap and flowered shorts either hanging out below my shorts or rising above my jeans. As with most teens, I am probably standing with four other identically clad boys.

The Yankee period was a long and, by the standards of the Bombers, a barren one. There were great players – most notably Dave Winfield and Donnie Baseball - but also seasons of futility. This was probably for the best, the years of late adolescence and early adulthood are best focused on the future and it was good not to be too distracted. Thus the mediocre Yankees and scores of boxer shorts were just the background of college and medical school.

Interesting things happen as you begin to share your life with someone. What was mine or yours ideally becomes ours. Not only do books, pots, and furniture become mutual property but also friends, cities, and baseball teams. Some things that can never be shared get tossed. My wife and I have shed some truly odious furniture over the years and conveniently lost touch with some people who one, or both, of us could not tolerate. 

In 1997 we moved to Chicago because that is where my wife was offered a job.  In 2000 we decided to stay for a lot of reasons, one of which was that the city had become ours, and not one of ours that the other had adopted. We also began to root for the Cubs. Getting back to the National League reminded me of my childhood. Listening to the humor and pleasantly biased coverage of Pat Hughes and Ron Santo was enjoyable. Seeing the lights of Wrigley shining in our apartment window reminded me of my mother telling me about the lights of Ebbets Field shining in her bedroom window. And going to games at the Friendly Confines, built before the days of stadium sound systems, food courts, and diamond vision can’t be beat.

In 2003 I sat with my wife and 2-year-old son watching the Cubs play the Yankees at Wrigley field. I still claimed to be a Yankees fan, but as we sat and watched Mark Prior battle Roger Clemens, there was no question for which team I was rooting. I wore boxer briefs to this game. They are a nice compromise that fit my adult body better than the briefs that my parents bought me or the boxers that friends and I once shared like a uniform.

My son was wearing briefs and a Cubs’ shirt – both of which I had bought for him.

Adam Cifu 2021