Mets fan Jonathan Lethem on Mets fan Philip Roth, March 19, 2013. I only ever made Philip Roth laugh twice, to my knowledge. That�s weak recompense for the thousand hilarities Roth�s bestowed on me � bitter snorts of recognition, giggles of astonishment at narrative derring-do, sheer earthy guffaws. Of course, I�ve only ever met him a couple of times. The first time I made Roth laugh was in recounting a conversation I overheard while in line for a hot dog between innings at Shea Stadium, between two boorish men confessing to one another their preference for a glimpse of tight spandex even over that of bare skin; I mention this if only for the pleasure of bragging that Roth and I suffer the same fannish encumbrance, for anyone who knows the inside of Shea Stadium has earned whatever joy can be salvaged on the hot dog line. The second time I made Roth laugh is more important to me: we stood together in the late stages of an Upper West Side brunch party, where I dandled my infant son while Roth looked quite reasonably impatient to be elsewhere. In a quiet panic, bobbing up and down to sooth the six-month-old, I found myself monologuing to Roth�s increasingly arched eyebrows. Finally, straining for a reference that would interest my hero, I turned the boy�s head slightly to the side, displaying the fat curve of his cheek, and said, �It resembles one of those disembodied unshaven cigar-smoking heads in a Philip Guston painting, don�t you think?� The juxaposition of my pink son and the grotesques of Guston, like the earlier juxtaposition of Shea and Spandex, did the trick. And this was another lesson from Roth: In putting across what wants putting across, in seeking a rise from the listener, do whatever it takes, grab any advantage, employ even the baby in your arms. I would have juggled the baby if it would have helped.