When I was a senior in high school, I became obsessed with the home movies Dad kept in his armoire, behind bottles of cologne. Every day I’d reach through a cloud of Brut and vanilla musk, remove a tape from the stack, and watch the footage alone in our basement, captivated by images of the kid I used to be.
There I was at the age of eight, playing baseball in the backyard. Dad was recording me through the kitchen window, so I thought I was alone. I wore a full Yankees uniform, complete with cleats, stirrups, wristbands, and eye black. First I imitated a half dozen Major League players’ batting stances — each very accurate, Bernie Williams and Jim Leyritz in particular. Then I played imaginary center field, catching invisible fly balls in slow-mo, extending my mitt at a snail’s pace, no doubt envisioning myself on a SportsCenter highlight reel. The camera jiggled when Dad laughed. Watching the video, I felt grateful that he’d decided to secretly record me. His loving presence behind the lens was what made the video special.
