Chapter XIII: Only the Young

Chapter Thirteen: Only the Young

As I looked through the lonely darkness into which Toddy had driven off, I shivered. The lesser Wraiths remained to torment me.

Remember the foamy ocean? Remember the buzzing arcade? Remember running across the Abenaki golf course with boxes of stolen Vodka? Remember the sound of Skip's drunken laughter in the moonlight? Remember? Was it a Def Leppard or Bon Jovi tape in the stereo as you drove home that night with Skip and Erin laughing in your ear?

Vance was already in the car, ready to roll. We peeled out going the opposite direction from Langdonville.

“So, Mexico? I like that. Cheap whores and cheap whiskey. No rules.”

I tried to shake off my encounter with Bonigan. Mexico? Was that where I was going next? Maybe...

“I’m taking a bus to Texas with my bike. Then I’ll ride into Mexico and down to Guatemala. Pick Bananas. Raise a family. There might be a chance left for my three-part plan.”

I thought I'd save a detailed description of my three-part plan, it's inception and development and pollination until later, but I will tell you that it was a sharp, contemporary plan to save the world, and not crap, which is what Vance was about to call it.

“Didn't you give that crap up in Florida?”

Just the fact that you are reading this could be considered proof that my three-part plan was effective. Think about it.

“I just took a break from it for perspective. Maybe Mexicans have enough sense to see a flawless path to self-preservation. Right? A lot of revolutions have started in Mexico.”

Vance shrugged.

“I’ll drive you down.”

“When?”

“Just after Christmas. As soon as I can get First Class started it'll run itself. Maybe my grandmother will die and give me some money.”

“Fine with me. Pimping is a tough racket.”

“Lay off First Class. There are worse things to sell beside love.”

Sold Memories are worse, aren't they Oggy?

“Besides, I’ve got business cards made up.”

He handed a card to me. On hot pink paper a pair of woman’s legs spread in front of me and provided a view of her crotch. The print was blood red. I read it out loud.

“’First classy. Not just an escort service. Beautiful girls for at a reasonable price.’ This is just plain wrong, Vance. And there are two fahking typos. 'First Classy?' Did you even bother to proof read this?”

Vance contemptuously threw up one shoulder.

“Who has time? The number is right. That's all that matters, son.”

“But why the legs? This is already manipulative enough. Why tempt them with the legs?”

“The question is, ‘Why not?’ I’m not in the business to repel customers. You’ve got to set traps where the animals run. And bait them with their favorite food. I’ll be a millionaire before you can say 'Video killed the radio star.'“

I held the card out to him.

“I don't want your smut. I can't even beat off on it. At least let me draw you a good pcture, not something that looks like it came out of Hustler.”

Vance motioned for me to keep the card. “Tell your friends. Tell the world. But do something with it. I've only got three of them.”

He cackled, sipped his coffee and sucked some nicotine and tar. I pushed the card into crack between the windshield and the roof until the wind was about to suck it out, but then I decided to refrain from littering and I put it in my back pocket with the 1986 Red Sox Team photo.

We drove on, sped on, flew on through sleeping Bone Harbor down Islington Avenue near the giant green water tower and onto Aldrich where Erin's Wraith played football in the backyard with JoJo and Skipper, and then onto Middle Street passing the tree Bugsy Kindle had died under four summers earlier. Then Vance turned down Lincoln, the Long Avenue of my defeat and passed more memories than a hundred volumes could record Every leaf in the gutter and chipped window and bent chain link fence was nothing less than an afternoon in my life. Nothing about Lincoln Avenue had escaped my notice in 13 years. If your cat died, I know where it's buried. If there is a break in the curb that allows you to ride your bike on and off the sidewalk without shaking up the soda in your metal rack, I know about it. If you hid a nickel under a special rock, I've seen it.

We arrived at 134 Lincoln Ave. as the sun was beginning to rise over Break Island. Like a vampires rushing to his dark coffin before the first rays of light, I stumbled up the steps of my house as Vance drove off to his apartment, screeching his tires. My hands were cold and shaking. I had more memories to feed the fire but I felt older than George Burns because the memories were too dry to last.

Davey Johnson managed his way to the win, Sticky. Remember when he pinch hit Mazilli for Orosco in the 8^th inning? Mazilli scored the tying run. Well, Johnson didn't just put Aguilera's name under Orosco's. Instead, he put Aguilera in Daryl Strawberry's spot in the line up--#5--and had Lee Mazilli play right field. He did this because Strawberry made the last out of the 8^th inning. That way, the Mets would have to bat around again before he would have to take Aguilera out. It also meant he could leave Mazilli in the lineup. Think about how important that was when iIn the bottom of the ninth inning, Mazilli came to the plate with a chance to win the game with a hit. If Johnson had put Aguilera in the #9 spot then he would've had to pinch hit for him with two men on and bring in his fifth pitcher. But because he took out Strawberry, Mazilli was in a spot to win the game with a single. After Schiraldi got out of that inning the #5 spot came up in the order again in the bottom of the tenth inning and Johnson pinch hit Kevin Mitchell, who got a two out single to center. So if the Sox get out of that inning with a tie then they would be facing a pitcher like Sid Fernandez. Dewey was coming up in the bottom of the 11^th and he was gonna take Fernandez deep. Right?

Now consider this, Sticky. When Greenwell hit for Clemens in the 8^th inning, what McNamara should have done and what should haunt his sleep until he dies, is not just swap pitchers, but instead put Schiraldi in the #3 spot because Buckner made the last out. Replace Greenwell with Baylor or Stapleton. Right? Then the Sox have to bat around again to reach Schiraldi's spot in the line up. If he had done the sensible thing and replaced Buckner in the 8^th inning, then the batting order for the tenth inning would have been-Henderson, Owens, Baylor, Boggs, Barrett, Schiraldi. The only way they can reach Schiraldi's spot is by either scoring a run or having the bases loaded and two out. Then you can pinch hit Tony Armas and bring Stanley in to pitch the bottom of the inning, which is what should have happened anyway. See how it's all connected? Johnson managed the game smarter than McNamara and forced the win. Every move he made helped the Mets and every move McNamara made hurt the Sox. That is how championships are lost, Sticky. Cristo? Buddy?

My father emerged from the kitchen with dark bags under his eyes just as I was turning on the VCR. If I were a vampire, then he was some kind of Frankenstein monster sewn together and then revived from the dead with coffee.

“Are you just getting back?” he asked.

“I think the Sox will win tonight. I can feel it. Wanna watch? If Boggs stands behind the plate then Mitchell doesn't score. See? Put Boggs behind the plate!”

“What’ve you been doing all night?”

“Would it surprise you if I said absolutely nothing?”

He shook his head slowly and sadly.

“I'd rest easier knowing you were at least doing drugs and having unprotected sex.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. There were no drugs and no sex. Just wasted time. A blur of exhaust.”

“Do you really think you'll be twenty years old forever?”

“Twenty? I'm not a day older than fifteen.”

He scratched his face where he had cut himself shaving.

“God help your generation. How’s Vance? Still sober?”

“Technically speaking. He’ll be able to solve all your dating problems soon.”

“Really? He built a time machine?”

“Nope. He’s going to be a pimp.”

“Here in Bone Harbor?”

“Using my classmates as whores.”

My dad sighed with disappointment. When he was my age, so I've repeatedly heard, he was in his first year at Tufts University doing research and reading esoteric texts on his way to a Doctoral degree in psychology. To him and his generation, driving around aimlessly at night was an activity reserved for the worst kind of laggard or maybe the police.

“His parents must be proud.”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I just want you to be happy. If you want to be a pimp go ahead, if that is how you have fun, then great. Have fun.”

“Fun? I offered to service his more liberal customers. That's how I have fun. It's fun for me. Look at my face dad. Look how much fun I'm having.”

He didn't seem to recognize the tremendous burden I'd been carrying for the past five years.

“You’re going to be a homosexual escort?”

“Why not? It's a job, right? Good money, free entertainment. It's fun. With Vance as a boss I could be rich and powerful.”

“And HIV positive.”

“Well sacrifices must be made. You can’t get out of prison without breaking a few chains.”

I studied his face for the expected redness from parental rage, but it was too early in the morning for that. He just grit his teeth and checked his chin again for blood.

“When I was your age I was getting a degree. They can come in handy when you start looking for a job. If you start looking for a job.”

“You don't know me. I've got a job. I'm a professional gigolo.”

“No you aren't. You are a professional bum. You sleep all day. You...”

“Hey. You don't know what I'm capable of. You don't know Ray Knight.”

“Ray Knight was the first baseman for the Mets in 1986.”
“That shows your ignorance. He was the third baseman. He poked an 0-2 single to score Carter, but I know how to beat him. I know things.”

I hate to bore people with my chats with my father, but how else can I describe it? “Got home. Argued with my dad. Went to bed.” That wouldn't develop the story very much, now would it. I mean, the way I argue with my father might not be the same way you argue with your father. In fact, I'd bet good money that it isn't.

“Whatever,” my father moaned. “You going to bed?”

“ First, I'll watch the Sox win the series. I'm so close. Second, I thought I’d take a nap. The old gang should be back soon. Vance offered to drive me to Mexico. Things are taking off. It won't be long until we have some more fun. One more strike and my...”

“...Your prophecy will come true. Fine, Ogden. Good. Take the dishes out of the dishwasher. At least make my prophecy come true.”

“Awwww! But I’m so busy. Schiraldi is about to...”

“Sure. I’m going to work now.”

“Adios.”

My father descended the stairs to work. The Timewraiths called to me from the living room.

One more strike. Here comes the pitch from Stanley. It gets by Gedman. Mitchell will score from third. The score is tied!. The Mets have just scored miraculous two runs. What an incredible comeback! Come watch the game. Maybe Stanley will strike Mookie Wilson out this time. How will you know if you don't look?

They were right. How could I know for sure? My father was already out the door and on his way to work so I limped into the living room. The King sat on the couch.

Just concentrate this time. You have to really want the victory. If you don't want it then Gedman will miss the ball. You need...

“I know. I know what I need to do.”

I rewound the tape but got distracted by the Timewraiths in the room so I rewound it too far. Hendu was at the plate in the top of the tenth inning. Spike Owen was on deck. Don Baylor was on the steps of the dugout ready to bat for Schiraldi. Then Hendu poked a ball high into Left Field.

“Get out!” Get out!” I called.

Since no one was home I could shout as loud as I wanted, pushing the ball through sheer force of desire out of the park off the Newsday sign to put the Red Sox ahead 4-3. Owen met Henderson at the plate. They were going to win. They were really going to do it. Hendu had hit another miraculously clutch home run, this one no less dramatic than the one he hit in California during the top of the 9th inning of Game 5 with the Red Sox trailing the Angels by one run with two outs and a man on. But this home run was more important because it represented the winning run of the World Series. And there were still no outs. As Owen faced Aguilera while McNamara, in his worst decision as manager, brought Don Baylor, a disciplined batter who had thirty one home runs and was a notoriously tough out, back to the bench as part of a strategy that left Schiraldi, a pitcher who had just given up the tying run in the 8^th inning and nearly lost the game in the 9^th, on the mound for the 10^th. This strategy asked Schiraldi to get nine outs instead of his usual three and ignored an entire bullpen of rested pitchers, including Bob Stanley who already had a save in Game Two and five scoreless innings pitched in Games Two, Three and Four, and who was statistically the Red Sox closer with 16 saves in the regular season compared to Schiraldi's 9. Other than Schiraldi, only Roger Clemens had pitched in Game Six. McNamara was trying to win the game with two pitchers! He wasn't thinking like a National League manager, or at least Hendu's home run had made him stop.

Owen was overmatched in his at bat and went down swinging. Aguilera looked sharp and pissed. Sending Schiraldi up there right now was like giving up an out and I wondered if Don Baylor was thinking, “What am I doing on the bench right now? Don't we want to win?”

Schiraldi stepped to the plate looking every bit like a pitcher who only had 11 Major League at bats and had not had an at bat since he had played for the Mets in 1985. Schiraldi had definitely not had an at bat in the World Series, while Don Baylor had gone to the plate 11 times.

On the mound, Schiraldi had done his job by keeping the Red Sox in striking distance. He had done it sloppily, but he had done it. His night should have been over because the strategy called for a pinch hitter here. Presumably, Stanley was warming up when Baylor was asked to pinch hit. The strategy had been set. Why change your mind? Schiraldi had just pitched the two most grueling innings of his life and was about to pitch in the bottom of the inning with a one run lead in the most important game of his career. The decision to leave Schiraldi in after his performance in the 8^th and 9^th inning is baffling. Only a Met managing blunder in the bottom of the 9^th inning even allowed the Red Sox to get this far. The Red Sox were living on borrowed time and the knew it. Schiraldi knew it. We all knew it. But McNamara's folly persisted.

“What are you doing? Why are you being allowed to bat for the first time in over a year? You're going to strike out. Get Baylor in there. Please!”

That type of negativity is what plagues you. You need to believe.

The Wraith was right so I concentrated. I concentrated as Aguilera threw a perfect pipe fastball for strike one. This was a pitch that no pitcher in baseball gets away with unless he is pitching to a sissy like Calvin Schiraldi, who was in the process of falling backwards even as he watched the ball zip past his belt.

“Swing the bat!”

Schiraldi watched the second pitch fly by him for strike two.

“Come on! At least swing, you bum! Two perfect pitches to hit and you watch them with your dick in your hand? Get the bat out of your ass and swing.”

I could feel the Wraith smiling at me, judging me.

Having fun yet?

Cristo had plugged his phone back in.

“Sticky, this loser just watched two perfect pitches in a row.”

“Huh?”

“Aguilera just struck out that oaf Spike Owen for the first out. He wasn't screwing around. The guy has no control problems. Why does Schiraldi take the first two pitches when those are the only good pitches he is going to see?”

“Oggy, I'm done with this. No more.”

“He...JESUS! FUCK! SCHIRALDI JUST WAVED AT THE THIRD STRIKE ON THE OUTSIDE CORNER. He wasn't even close. He looked like Spaz Bunson. That was a joke! Schiraldi, YOU SISSY BITCH! TWO OUTS. WAY TO GO! Hey, Sticky? Did McNamara think he could win this game with only a one run lead? Was he that crazy? Schiraldi had no business going back out there. The Sox really lost this game when Mitchell scored. You know that? Boggs never should have scored. That was just a gift to show that God really had a sick sense of humor. God wanted to show that even a two run lead wasn't enough with Schiraldi on the mound. The Boggs run was just a gift to make me suffer.”

“I've got class. I'm still tired because of you. This has to stop. How long have you been...”

“I'll stop when you explain something to me. Explain why McNamara lets Schiraldi bat. You can't explain that? No? Really? Well, I can't either. There is no excuse. But there he is swinging the wood like Spaz or Squidly instead of Don Baylor. Now tell me something else. If you are going to allow him to hit then what instructions are you going to give him? Are you going to let him strike out like an unbelievable piece of shit or are you going to tell him to keep his front foot in and try to drive the ball to right field. Is that what a manager would tell him when it just happens to be a close game and that game just happens to be Game Six of the World Series. Do you?

“And what are you going to do if he gets on like Boggs just did with that sweet double Wilson misplayed in left field? Huh? Are you going to let Schiraldi run? What the hell? Of course you have to pinch run for him. Right? You have to pinch run Romero because Schiraldi is as slow as you are. So why the do you let him bat at all? Why? Never have I been more certain than this: Baylor needs to pinch hit for Schiraldi. If he gets on then Romero runs for him. Stanley pitches the next inning and Buckner is benched in favor of Stapleton at First. Then they win. It is so simple. I've finally figured it out. That is the answer! Sticky? Sticky?”

Barrett singled in Boggs. The score was 5-3. Buckner, 0-5 for the day, limped inexcusably to the plate. Don Baylor had to bat for Buckner. He had to. But no. Buckner took a pitch on the hip and went to first base. Jim Rice came to the plate though after going 0-4 in the game. There was just as much of a reason to pinch hit for him and send in a defensive replacement to left field. Rice lined to right field to end the inning and left two more men on base. Schiraldi grabbed his glove and went onto the mound to protect a two run lead. They couldn't lose. The Red Sox simply could not lose.

One more strike, Oggy. I really think you're going to see it happen. You've got it all figured out. Now you're having fun.

I turned the television off. Since my heart couldn't take watching the tape anymore, there was only one other way to get rid of the Wraiths. I trudged up the stairs to the bathroom, grabbed the jar of vaseline and brought it back to my room.

That won't work. Darcy is gone. She never knew your name. She never knew who Ray Knight was. She never loved you.

A trash truck rumbled along Elwyn Avenue in the direction of Langdonville and was soon followed by a convoy of solemn yellow school busses. Jim Rice watched over me, frozen in his batting stance on my wall, as I placed Big Bam Boom--a vintage Hall & Oates album--on the turntable before rummaging through my drawers for Darcy's treasured sock. I knew only too well the “Method of Modern Love.” I found my precious sock, saturated by tears and other tasty excreta, underneath a Red Sox “1986 World Champions” T-shirt that had been printed before the bottom of the tenth inning in Game Six.

The smell of vaseline made me slightly nauseous, though aroused, as the memories of my many secret nights with Darcy’s sexy sport sock returned on silk dream sheets, even as I lecherously eyed the black vinyl couch in Brooklyn's old room.

This sock ritual was no longer new. It was, instead, much like the flag now being raised at BHHS by a sleepy custodian, or like the batter’s box at Fenway being outlined by the grounds crew. We did it not because the kids at BHHS would slap palm to chest in respect to our nation’s flag, and not because the Sox were destined to win the World Series, and not because Darcy would materialize like a genie summoned by the rubbing of her own worn hosiery. We did it because we had always done it, couldn't sleep unless we did it, and because it was our sour destiny.

Wearily, as a grim duty, I greased Darcy's aged and joyless sock, and so vanquished the Wraiths at last with my impotent thrusts. Finally, I was alone long enough to swallow my bitter medicine, long enough to moan my rusty songs to the severed ears of the young.