“Doing sports” was always a big thing in the Baumer household. Mark had a WIFFLE® Ball Bat in his hands not long after he learned to walk. He’d later grow into an outstanding hockey and baseball player, doing the latter sport well enough to play in college, win accolades for his accomplishments, and have a hand in leading his college mates to a spot in the Division III College World Series in 2006.

On Mark’s final walk, we communicated less about sports than at any time in our relationship. I knew he still followed the NBA to some degree. While he’d never played basketball beyond elementary school in a structured fashion, he’d become enamored by “the Association,” even joining a Golden State Warriors fan board back in the mid-2000s during his undergraduate winters at Wheaton.

[Come on! Do Sports!!]

Mark brought me back to basketball. I’d played in high school for the woeful Lisbon High Greyhounds. As one of the team’s tallest players at 6’3”, I often found my nights on the hardwood matched up against the other teams biggest and usually best, offensive player. I couldn’t jump, wasn’t particularly fast, but I did have an aggression and a “mean streak” that lent itself well to pummeling opponents who possessed greater skills. Of course, this also meant I was usually in “foul trouble,” and regularly on the wrong side of the officials. I’ll simply add that my basketball career wasn’t as distinguished as my time on the baseball diamond. There, I could “throw that speedball by you, make you look like a fool boy” as Springsteen sang in “Glory Days.”

Once Mark moved back east from California and settled in Providence, we began an annual thing together: we’d pick a team we both wanted to see the “hometown” Celtics take on and we’d order tickets and plan a rendezvous in Beantown. I think we began this sometime around 2010 when Mark joined Brown’s Literary Arts program, in pursuit of his MFA in Creative Writing.

Like all our get-togethers over the years when I’d drive down, and then—at Mark’s urging—began utilizing public transportation options like the bus and also, the Amtrak Downeaster, they’ve left me with a myriad of memories. For instance, meeting at South Station (if coming down on Concord Trailways) or North Station (if riding the rails), I remember all the times I’d arrive at one of Boston’s transportation hubs and begin looking for Mark, either calling him or texting him. Once I got his coordinates, I’d most often spot his tall frame across the station, with his unforgettable grin and wave, and get to experience that special thing that fathers who love their sons unconditionally feel when reunited with an adult child you haven’t seen for weeks, or even months.

You likely know the story by now. Mark was killed in 2017, while walking across the country barefoot, on a quest to raise awareness about climate change, while also raising funds for an activist organization, The FANG Collective, that’d he’d joined and was involved with.

The last time Mark and I were at TD Garden Center to watch the Celtics was in 2015. It was actually December 11, 2015, a bit more than a week before Mark’s 31^st birthday. The Golden State Warriors were off to a magical start. This was the year when they announced to the rest of the basketball world that they’d taken it over. They had won every single game to start the season and Mark decided that if they came to Boston still undefeated that it would make for a “game of a lifetime” for us to attend together. He got tickets. He then called me.

“Hi dad. What are you doing on Friday?”

I’m sure I said something like, “oh, not much. Why?”

“I have tickets to see the Celts and Golden State—do you want to go?”

Did I want to go?

It was the game that I’m sure Mark would have scripted if he could have. We met, walked over to the Boston Public Market where we ordered two amazing salads and Mark probably got a fresh juice of some kind. This was prior to my plant-based vegan conversion. Mark had been a vegan for awhile.

We then walked the half mile the TD Garden, talking basketball, writing, life. We always did during these basketball-related meet-ups.

The Celts threw everything at the Warriors that night. They pushed them to double overtime before losing by five, 124-119. It was Golden State’s 24^th straight win to open a season. The next night, they fell to Milwaukee, a team they should have beaten. Mark and I were bummed that it wasn’t the Celtics who ended the streak. We laughed about it over email. I didn’t know this would be the last time I’d watch a Celtics’ game with my only son.

*******

A lot is different in my life these days. It’s that way for Mary, too. Our lives will never return to that place that existed before Mark was killed.

We went to Boston two weeks ago. We had a good time. Memories of Mark are scattered throughout the city.

Back in early December, I began watching a few games on NBA TV. I hadn’t watched more than a few minutes of a pro basketball game since Mark’s death. I’m not sure what prompted my interest in checking back in with “the Association.” I do know that a player named James Harden had landed on my sports radar, mainly due to reading a book by Sam Anderson, about Oklahoma City (also referred to as “OKC” by locals and others). Harden was a central figure in Anderson’s book, one that was excellent and way more than simply about basketball played by amazingly gifted athletes. Harden was (and is) as talented as any player who’s ever played the game.

In Anderson’s book, Harden played a key role for a team with two legitimate stars: Kevin Durant and Russell Westrook. He was their “sixth man,” a role where he supplied instant offense, coming off the bench. He left OKC, which caused a great deal of consternation in that city that sits “not quite” in the middle of Middle America, and has lost its mind about its basketball team.

Harden wanted to become and is now the marquee player and leading scorer for the Houston Rockets. If you know anything about the game of pro basketball and remember Michael Jordan, Harden is having a Jordan-esque type of season. As of this morning, he is averaging 36.7 points per game and has “gone off” for 50 six times this season, including a night where he had 61 back in January (that happened to be my birthday).

Watching him on television, I told Mary about “the Beard,” which is a nickname he’s acquired for no other reason than he sports a signature beard. I think it gives him almost a cartoon-character appearance, but it works, also. I kept saying, “I need to see ‘the Beard’ play.” So I asked her if she’d accompany me to Boston when Harden and the Rockets came to town in March. She said, “yes.” Keep in mind, this was back in December. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

December and Christmas were now in our rear-view mirror, as well as another set of anniversaries related to Mark’s death. I was beginning to wonder if my decision was a good one. I began having buyer’s remorse. But we had decent tickets and we’d enjoyed the train trip two weeks before.

Sunday morning, we hopped on the southbound Downeaster headed to Boston. The train was filled with many other basketball fans trekking to see the Celtics and Rockets. Sports seems to draw a different class of train-traveler, very different than the riders from a few weeks before.

We got to the game, had a pre-game snack and some drinks and took in the unique atmosphere of a professional sporting event. Lots of parents with children in attendance. Many others sporting a host of Celtics gear and jerseys. I spotted a few people wearing a red Rockets’ jersey with #13 on the back, Harden’s number. I was really there to see him and unlike the times I went with Mark, I wasn’t invested in a Celtics’ win. In fact, I hoped Harden would score 50, again.

He actually had a game that I would say wasn’t one of his best. But because he’s such an offensive force, he still ended the afternoon with 42. The Celts fell behind by as much as 28 early in the third, then rallied, and the final score of 115-104 was much closer than how the game felt. In fact, Mary and I didn’t bother to stay to the very end. Unlike Mark and I, who would have stayed to the final buzzer, having fun, even during a blow-out, like we did in 2014, when the Clippers and Doc Rivers (Boston’s coach during their championship season of 2007-2008) came to town and applied a similar “beat-down.” That afternoon (also in early March), we were “hooting” and “hollering” as the Celts went on a late-game run cutting a 30+ deficit and getting it under 10 due to a three-point barrage by two players who are long-gone in Boston, Kelly Olynyk and Gigi Datome.

Mary is a wonderful travel companion, but she’ll tell you that her love of basketball falls far short of Mark’s passion. I even wondered aloud with Mary if Mark were still alive, if we’d still be interested in “doing sports” together like we had in the past. I do know that Mark was trending in a direction where following the daily routine and results of pro basketball no longer occupied the same place it once had in his list of life’s priorities.

It’s not easy to find healthy food at a sports event, at least at TD Garden. Pretzels and “veggie” pizza and beer (wine for Mary) weren’t our usual lunchtime fare, and it wasn’t vegan. Note: We’ve learned that despite our best intentions, there are times when not eating at home when there are literally no options that don’t have some variation of milk, cheese, or worse. At TD Garden, Sal’s pizza would be considered the “healthy” option.

With two hours before our train would disembark for points north and Brunswick, we decided to head towards the Boston Public Market nearby. Once there, we ordered food at Mother Juice. I realized as I was sitting there sharing a Buffalo Chickpea Salad with Mary that Mark and I sat in just about the same space, doing something remarkably similar the last time we saw the Celtics together. This memory was bittersweet at best. I’m sure if I tried harder, I could find a better adjective.

Once on the train, there would be a gaggle of young men who’d been drinking at the game and like many of a certain ilk, can’t handle their liquor. One of them “puked” all over the rest room in our car. That became the source of jokes for the remainder of the ride to Dover where this group of idiots got off. They triggered emotions running to the angry side of my character. They reminded me of some of the worst situations I’ve been in lately, like tutoring some very difficult students five nights a week. Self-absorbed and lacking any impulse control, it really sucked having to endure these drunken louts as long as we did.

Just north of Dover, a freight train carrying slurry had broken-down on the track. This resulted in an hour’s delay waiting for an alternative locomotive to be hitched to the cars and move them to a parallel track. This resulted in the stress level being amped-up on the coach car we were on. Several “adults” acting like fidgety children, “bitching” and complaining about something that wasn’t anyone’s fault other than, “shit happens.” I know that as well as anyone.

Mary brought cards, so we engaged in a rousing game of spades while we waited. Then, once we got rolling, we both napped much of the way back to Brunswick.

Arriving at the station just prior to 1:00 a.m. (more than 90 minutes later than scheduled) was the capstone on an odd day. In hindsight, my question was, “what the hell was I thinking?” when I bought the tickets. Remembering prior train trips to sporting events, I now realize that while there are certainly sports aficionados who know how to comport themselves, there are plenty who don’t. For me (and Mary), they ruin what minimal enjoyment we derive from professional sports, which we both realize is next to none.

We don’t care to “do sports” like this any longer.