The bar top at the Pour House on Boylston is decorated with a collection of vintage matchbooks encased under a thick, yellowing layer of Plexiglas and polyurethane. They tell the stories of the people who used to sit on bar stools when smoking was still permitted in public spaces. My father and I each have a 22 ounce frosted mug of Blue Moon in front of us. Much to my pleasure and Dad’s amusement, the bartender has given us the equivalent of a quarter of an orange for our beer. The walls are decorated with a spattering of images of Boston sports teams.

I haven’t watched more than half a dozen Red Sox games this season but I know that the outfielders are knockouts and our supposed “ace” has been crap, and for today, that’s enough. Dad fills me in on the rest with a contagious enthusiasm. The game doesn’t start for nearly four hours, but Dad is keyed up with excitement. We finish our beers and decide to head to another bar closer to the ballpark for dinner and another couple of beers. I have only been 21 for four months and I have only been 21 and on the same continent as Dad for a few weeks. Having a beer together is still a welcome novelty for both of us.

As we continue down Boylston, heading towards the Fens, Dad continues his soliloquy dedicated to David Ortiz’s “historic” final season. Years ago, Dad and I went to a Sunday afternoon game and saw Big Papi hit a two-run walk off home run. The ballpark was electric that day. I selfishly hope for more of the same tonight.

Dad tells me to call my good friend who lives in the city and invite her to have dinner with us. “You won’t mind?” I ask. “Oh no, of course not! We haven’t seen her in ages,” he replies. He is in a great mood today. I think he missed me.

We talk about journalism, something he, with about 30 years of experience, knows a decent amount about. He asks questions about how I want to spend my senior year of undergrad. Eventually we reach the Cask’n Flagon. I swear they used to card everyone at the door. Today the place is littered with preteens out with their families. I have close to a decade on them, but I feel closer to them than our twenty-something waitress with whom I share an occupation and an age demographic.

Our waitress is nothing but apologetic when she says she cannot accept my temporary, paper driver’s license. I understand her struggle. She is probably worrying that we won’t tip her well because of this. We tip her close to 50% of the bill. Dad, it would appear, is also in a generous mood. He must have really missed me.

The tickets were a Father’s Day gift, sent as a .jpg—a screenshot—in an email coming from half way around the globe. Not my best presentation, but a good present none the less.

Sitting across the aisle from us in the Right Field Loge Box is a mother and son duo. I hear the son tell the Goose Island IPA vendor that he just turned 21. I feel like we might be thinking some of the same things.

When I was little, Dad and I would watch the Sox most nights if he didn’t have to work. We have a book called The Baseball Encyclopedia. Inevitably, at least once a week, we would pull out that tome when Dad couldn’t remember who had won the Triple Crown in that one year or every time the Yankees had made it to the World Series. I think about that book and the hours we spent poring over the crinkling pages.

There is a couple sitting next to us from Michigan, just like Dad. They talk hometowns, but I don’t pay attention; I am New England through and through. Dad admits to the couple that nowadays he pretty much is, too. He tells them that every person who comes to see the Red Sox this year is hoping to see one one thing: Everyone wants to see Ortiz hit one more home run. Everyone wants one more electric moment. Dad is beaming as he says this. He must think we will get lucky.

It happens in the bottom of the third with two runners on. Everyone in the ballpark goes nuts. It feels just the same as it did all those years ago, but also different. I can’t help but think about whether this is the end. Is this really the last time I will see a David Ortiz home run with my dad?