We took the T to Fenway Park last night to watch the Yankees vs. the Red Sox. You can't get more "all-American" than that — an intense decades-old rivalry, hot dogs and peanuts, the Star-Spangled Banner ... it's baseball, America's game. So American that it was recently knocked out of the Olympics.
As the entire Red Sox Nation leapt to their feet and cheered, I tried, I really did. But there I was, on the border again. Not too many brown faces, I thought, taking stock like I always do. My grandfather didn't persevere through years of the Babe Ruth curse, like the guy sitting next to me. I didn't grow up hating the Yankees, like the nine-year-old kid behind me shouting, "A-ROD SUCKS!"
In Bengal, my father grew up a diehard cricket addict, and he didn't find anything here to replace it. Is this another loss for an immigrant kid: the inability to inherit a passion for a particular sport or a team? Or maybe it's me. Why can't I leap headfirst into some part of Americana without feeling like a poser or a wannabe? Do other immigrants out there manage it?