Memorabilia: Chapter 2: Xanadu

Chapter Two: Xanadu

The first time the Boston Red Sox broke my shine box was on September 21, 1980. On that unforgettable Sunday, the Sox ended their bid for the American League East Championship and quietly headed for a six-month-long hot shower. Back then, the technical end of the Sox season was as big a deal as Christmas or my birthday or Little League tryouts. The Red Sox, my team, were losers and that stung like a nail in the soft part of the palm. The 14 remaining games would be played for pride alone because the season was officially impotent, and, in every sense that counted, the summer was as dead as disco. School, that State-imposed 12-year sentence, now spread its evil cloak over the town of Bone Harbor, New Hampshire like a late fall shadow, until dusk fell heavy upon Fenway Park itself.

Up until September 21^st, as early as my first failed spelling test, I had been able to pretend some divine jailor was imprisoning me for the best sleeping hours of the day in a place called Bone Harbor Elementary School. Not only did Mrs. Montgomery prohibit farting, burping, chatting with friends, frequent runs to the water fountain, trading baseball cards and other pastimes that made school bearable, but, despite all my protests, she insisted on teaching as though someone in the class cared about American History, adding fractions, how to spell “Republic”, and other 4^th grade miseries. It was a six-hour-a-day thirty-hour-a-week nightmare that I had prayed would end in late October when a Red Sox world championship would overshadow all my petty troubles. Then September 21^st arrived. When the Red Sox were eliminated, I lost all hope for a midnight call from Sox manager Don Zimmer granting me immunity from school. Suddenly, 4^th Grade was an unavoidable reality, and, for a nine-year old, it doesn't get much bigger that that. At that point in my life, I couldn’t explain my devotion. Someone had to listen to Air Supply. Someone had to pick the sick looking puppy. Someone had to buy the lemon off the lot. I was that someone. It wasn’t that I wanted to be a loser; I was simply a Red Sox fan. Without them, I was as incomplete as the Commodores without Lionel Richie.

Now, it wasn't like that September Sunday had been rowing along smoothly. I'd already been forced, under penalty of having my television privileges revoked, to accompany my father and brother to the Unitarian Church where a sermon entitled “Does it Matter if there is A God?” left no doubt of the existence of the devil. Mr. Fink caught me taking a dollar...alright, it was a five, out of the donation basket and had to talk to the minister about it. Then my dad bought me a cookie in the basement but Kurt scammed me out of it by saying he had a picture of Bo Derek's delicious nakedness. The picture turned out to be torn from a national geographic and was of a mountain gorilla's hairy back. So there went half my cookie. Then I cut my hand sliding down the church bell rope and Kurt caught hell for using rolling a mock joint.

“It isn't even real,” Kurt had yelled futilely while I pretended to injure my elbow.

He was dragged off to the clink along with our plans to play Whiffle Ball at the JFK Center. My dad then drove me home in our 1975 Volvo sedan. “Time in a Bottle” played on the radio. I gently opened a pack of baseball cards in the back seat. The back of a baseball card is covered by a munificence of abbreviations that mean nothing until you investigate them. Ex: Dwight Evans played in 148 games (G) in 1980, had 463 At Bats (AB), 37 doubles (2B), 18 Home Runs (HR) and earned a Batting Average (BA) of .266. Armed with these stats and a the imagination of an eight year old, you can nearly recreate Dewey’s entire season right down to the two hits he got off of Ron Guidry in the game the Sox lost to guarantee an early winter. Those numbers and abbreviations mean something. Some kids need Secret Squirrel Spy Ring Decoder Sets to feel elite. Some kids want the latest electric gear to master. Some kids want to play the Saxophone. And some kids honor sports history with the numbers and abbreviations printed on the back of a picture card.

I didn’t see just paper and numbers when I opened a pack of baseball cards. I didn’t linger on the new-nicity of the uniformed man on the glossy front. I saw three base smiles (3B), two out groans (DP), or endurance (G). I saw hugs and high-fives. I saw futures and careers. I saw the story of Baseball and, by association, ME. These players weren’t mysterious heroes. On the contrary, their performance was laid bare and in focus. Each Stolen Base (SB) or Run Batter In (RBI) was recorded and indisputably printed on a universal medium. You could argue team loyalty and clutch performance, but you could not argue Batting Average (BA) and On Base Percentage (OBP). Baseball Cards represented the Age Of Belonging (AOB) for any wandering, unclaimed soul. Like a holy script, baseball cards are limp until the hand of One Who Knows (OWK) picks it up and respects the information. My brother beat me up, stole things from me, ignored me, blamed things on me, and made all my days and nights miserable. But my brother was family. My mother was family. Tony Perez was family. Glenn Hoffman, despite his pathetic 89 Hits (H) in 1980, was family. When it came to family, I took the legends with the bums. Like a package of baseball cards, I couldn’t choose who I ended up with. I could just chew the piece of gum and try to keep everything in numerical order. At a time when my bed, friends, neighborhood, clothes, action toys and ninja skills were all trendy and uncertain, Baseball Cards provided an anchor of purity, a common language, and a tribe that welcomed me as family, even as my own family became irrevocably divided. That tribe was the Boston Red Sox.

My dad turned to my older brother and asked,

“What did you think of the sermon?”

“I fahkin’ hated it.”

I stopped chewing my gum and blurted out, “That’s a swear. Dad said no swears!”

Brooklyn turned around and shook his fist in my face.

“I’ll punch you until you’re dead!”

“Enough!” cried my father. “Enough!”

As we passed the mill pond I saw a seagull sitting on a used tire that was stuck in the mud. A wave of sickness poured over me as we turned onto Lincoln Ave. One day, I thought, these will be memories.

“Dude. Please don’t mention your prophecy again. I've told you that before. Your prophecy is bonko. I'm hanging up, Oggy. Call me in the morning. Or don’t.”

“Just let me tell you one thing that you don't know about my prophecy.”

“I'm hanging the phone up and pulling the plug. I’ve got a test tomorrow.”

“You want a test? Then answer this…Listen. If McNamara had decided it was more important to take a shot with Don Baylor at the plate rather than leave Schiraldi in, and that also meant probably replacing Buckner at first base, then why does the solo home run by Hendu, something that could easily have been matched by Keith Hernandez or Gary Carter, change Mac’s mind and make him pull Baylor back from the dugout steps and hand his bat to that bum Schiraldi? Why?”

“What?”

“Why didn't McNamara let Baylor bat? It was his first plan and he stopped to let Schiraldi strike out for the second out of the inning. Why?”

“You’ve asked me that question a hundred times. I told you before: Who cares?”

“Only me and about fifty million other true Sox fans care. That’s all, Sticky. Just one hundred million of us. We care because Baylor was already primed to bat and earn some of his nut. Schiraldi thinks his nightmare is over, which it should be. Stanley, out in the Bullpen, thinks his night is about to begin. Consider what would have happened if Baylor had gotten on base before the Boggs double and the Barrett single. The Sox could have scored three runs instead of Schiraldi just waving at three pitches for an easy 'K'. Think!”

“Well, if your aunt was a man then she'd be your uncle. Right?”

“Don't you mock me, Sticky. This is too important. Why make the decision to pull Schiraldi and then second guess yourself and pull Baylor back in so Schiraldi can bat? Explain that to me. Please, Sticky. The score was only 4-3 Sox at that point. Why give Schiraldi a chance to bat when the whole bullpen is just sitting there on its collective ass? Even Oil Can Boyd could have pitched. So why try to milk an at bat out of that sissy bitch Schiraldi?”

“I don't know, Oggy. I'll never know. McNamara doesn't even know. Let me go back to...”

“You aren't trying, Sticky. Think! This is your final exam: Why let Schiraldi bat?”

“He probably thought Schiraldi was going to settle down and strike the side out.”

“Be serious.”

“Seriously? You want to talk to me about being serious? Oggy, I seriously shouldn't even argue with you. I seriously can't believe the Mets scored three runs with two outs. I seriously don't know why Mac left Schiraldi in instead of pinch hitting Baylor. Who else was left to pitch? Your mom?

Later, as I crouched near the radio waiting for an opportunity to record addictive tune about a roller disco called “Xanadu”, the awful news about the Red Sox was first broadcast. WHEB 100.3 FM, my source to the world beyond Bone Harbor, dropped the bomb. The Red Sox had not won, as I had predicted; they had lost. The Red Sox were not going to win the World Series, as I'd hoped; they were eliminated from playoff contention; the season was over, it had ended in defeat. Before being hauled away to church I'd combined, per Kurt’s orders, multiple firecrackers into one big pipe bomb. The Sox were in fourth place behind Milwaukee and Baltimore, and were 14.5 games behind the Yanks with 15 games left to play. I had passionately believed that the Sox would win 15 straight games and the Yankees would lose 15 straight games giving the Red Sox an incredible American League East Division victory and allowing them to advance to the American League Championship Series. This dream had lasted about six hours longer than my X-Wing Fighter Star Wars toy that suffered the effects of my “Death Bomb”. Following the 3-0 loss to the Yankees, the Sox were 15.5 games out of first place with only 14 games remaining. What moron didn't comprehend these simple figures and their repercussions? WHEB's top-of-the-hour newsman announced that the Red Sox had been defeated, 3-0, by the New York Yankees.

Three to nothing? A shutout?

Oh, yes.

Pay attention to these morbid details of defeat: Wretched Sox starter John Tudor managed to retire only two Yankees batters in the first inning. He walked the first two batters, allowed two hits, surrendered all three runs, and was replaced before most of the 55,000 fans had even found their seats at Yankee Stadium and finished their first hot dog. For you statisticians, allowing three earned runs in the first inning add up to an Earned Run Average (ERA) of 27.00 for the game. Not bad…for nine holes of Golf! For baseball it is horrific. The game could have ended with two outs in the bottom of the first inning and little would have changed. The Sox only scraped together 4 hits (2 of them by Dwight “Dewey” Evans) and failed to score even one run against Yankee pitcher Ron Guidry's blistering deliveries. Goose Gossage earned his 30^th save for the Yankee Empire and dashed all my championship dreams. The news jockey’s commentary merely stated the obvious.

“So even if the Red Sox win every remaining game, folks, and the Yankees lose every remaining game then the Sox will still finish behind them. Ah well. Wasn't it a good season? Remember, Yaz can only bat for the pitcher. Ha, ha. Maybe next year. In world news, Soviet Troops have taken control of Kabul, the capital city of Afghanistan. Minor skirmishes were reported on the border of Iraq as Iranian land forces advanced on the desert front. President Carter announced further progress in hostage negotiations...”

Maybe? I thought. Maybe? Isn't that what you said last year? Fool! Next year is a sure thing! They can't lose. Dewey's that good. Dewey promised! I beseeched my Carl Yasterzemski poster, “Why, Yaz? Why?” Yaz maintained his customary media silence so I appealed to each of my paper heroes, Carlton Fisk, Fred Lynn, Dwight Evans, and Jim Rice, but they were all mute witnesses to my shock. 4^th Grade meant spelling tests and long division and fractions and lessons about “The Government”. Didn’t I have an assignment due about the Soviet Union? How could everyone ignore the pain caused by tardy slips and kickball jeers? I touched my Sox cap and remembered Dewey's championship promise. I only needed to be patient and loyal. Patience, Loyalty and Sacrifice, those were the bones of a true champion.

My senses, eyes and ears and nose, tingled. Sudden adjustment vertigo subsided into a unified buzz of acceptance. I sensed the subtle vibrations around me as though I were a Maple tree with roots deep in the rocky soil of New England. If this terrible event, this tragic end, could travel across the miles to affect me as it had, then could I embrace my changing world by simply sending out invisible extra-sensory probes? Through the tight mosquito screen over my bedroom window, between the browning star clone maple leaves and silent Elm trees, lay Bone Harbor, New Hampshire, muted by late summer exhaustion. I closed my eyes and imagined flying like the lone seagull, lifting off of the damp mill pond tire and gliding into the autumn air.

I soared North across my kingdom, over Leary Field where men now dragged soccer nets across the dirt infield. I soared over the worn Central Little League bleachers, over the iron Civil War cavalry statue and through the really old part of town, the Colonial, brick and mortar, 'This-house-once-belonged-to-General-So and So-of-the-First-Revolutionary-Army-of-New-Hampshire', historical side of Bone Harbor, to the rocky landfill, once Strawberry covered, banks of the Chickanoosuc River.

Children at Pierce Island pool's last day of business did not pause in mid-air front somersault flight to honor the completion of another baseball season. Swimmers at Pierce Island lived in a timeless dimension of fantasy and refracted light and were thus safe from time's cruel demands. This I knew was true because time and its companion fear, along with glass-bottles and gum, were prohibited from entering Pierce Island pool property, and only returned with the gnawing at one's belly for vanilla cupcakes from the bakery on High Street.

At the nearby Pierce Island Bridge, young heroes in cut-off jean shorts, frayed like an albino mermaid's hair, didn't take notice of this latest Red Sox defeat during their heart-pounding twenty-foot plunge. Instead, they whooped as Icarus whooped into the rippling inlet near the lobster boat dock and idle Boston Whalers.

Nor did the great Memorial Bridge pause in its hourly ascent above the throbbing Chickanoosuc River. Sail boats and tug-leashed, ocean bound salt freighters crept in and out of the Bone Harbor waterfront docks.

Pick-up games at the South Mill Pond Basketball court were not interrupted for a moment of thoughtful silence, as a reflective tribute to Yaz, Rice and Lynn. I knew this because I could hear the steady drilling echo of a basketball on the green asphalt court, probably whipped by Gordy “Clutch” Clutcher as he drove to the hoop in his worn Reebok sneakers and baggy Styx concert tour T-shirt cut at the belly, dribbling between the legs, fake pumping, intent and focused like Larry Bird, sweating through his wheat colored hair even as the Sox manager Don Zimmer made some calls to bring up the kids from the AAA Paw-Sox to finish the season and give Fisk, Yaz, Perez, and Torrez some rest.

Incidentally, Zimmer would give up the Sox helm at the end of the month, perhaps frustrated by going 3-10 against the Yankees in 1980. Johnny Pesky finished the season as Manager and watched as Sox youngsters Rich Gedman and Bobby Ojeda gained big league experience in the remaining pride-alone games. Gedman and Ojeda's appearance in 1980 signified the loading of firing squad rifles. These players, strong, young, on good knees, and in possession of cartilage-free rotator cuffs, were now conducting the train of terror that was gathering speed, building momentum, and hurtling as fast as a Dennis Eckersley fastball at my shine box.

A chill from the North settled on my neighborhood, like when the sun fell behind the Citgo sign after I had been enjoying it on my face for five innings in Fenway park’s right field bleachers. I recognized this chill as the harbinger of an unwelcome change, like when Dick Drago was brought in to relieve Dennis Eckersley--even my 3 hamsters, Teddy Ballgame, C. Fisk, and Yaz started acting strange--but still I looked desperately north, seeing what my eyes could not see, feeling what my skin could not touch.

“I happen to have in front of me an alternate pitching rotation for the bottom of the tenth inning. First, Bob Stanley could get Backman. Then get Joe Sambito or Bruce Hurst to pitch to the lefty Hernandez. See? Then…”

“No, I don’t see. Why bring Stanley and Sambito in from the pen where they’ve been sitting for three hours in fifty degree weather to get two outs against the top of the Mets line up? Why do that, Oggy? Stanley wasn't exactly Rollie Fingers, you know. His best pitch was a frigging floating palm ball that even Spaz could hit blindfolded.”

“Ah! Now you're trying. Yes. Tell me more. Go! Go, Stickster!”

“Oggy, can't you remember how many times Stanley blew a lead during the regular season? Remember the game in '84 when Stanley walked in Willie Randolph with the bases loaded to lose the game? And that chowderhead gave up the game winning hit in '78. Remember? Reggie Jackson hit a home run off of Stanley after Torrez gave up the homer to Bucky fahkin’ Dent. The Sox could've tied that game up in the bottom the eighth except Stanley gave up that shot to Jackson.”

“I forgot all about that. So fahk Stanley. Bring in Hurst or Oil Can Boyd.”

“And what if they get in a jam? Who does Mac turn to? Sammy Stewart? Steve Crawford? Joe Sambito? Seriously, Oggy. We’ve been over this. Schiraldi's head was in the game and Mac was going to stay with him even if it meant giving up an out in the top of the tenth.”

“But Schiraldi was making seventy-five grand. He was 24 years old. Stanley was a ten year veteran making one million a year. Why gamble? He shouldn't have had a bat in his hand.”

“Gamble? They were up by two runs with two out!. Jesus Christ couldn't have predicted what would happen in the bottom of the tenth. Now let me sleep.”

“Ah! But Jesus Christ would have just seen Schiraldi get murdered in the bottom of the eight and ninth inning. I'm looking at it right now, Sticky. I am a witness! Christ would have seen the Mets hit Schiraldi worse than that day I pitched for the Elks and you let that easy out roll to the right field fence for a two-run triple. Remember? The Mets spanked Schiraldi like he was Bob Ashley throwing batting practice at Leary Field. So why let him bat? Why give the Mets a free out just to give Schiraldi another chance to lose the game? Where was Tony Armas when we needed him? McNamara pinch hit Mike Greenwell for Roger Clemens! Roger, Fahkin’, Clemens.”

“But Clemens had...”

“Don't tell me about his pitch count. Do not even mention his pitch count. This was the last game of his life. He should’ve been able to throw fifteen more innings. Cy Young used to throw both ends of a double header. So don't tell me about his pitch count.”

“But he had...”

“I don't want to hear about his blister either. That pussy should've gone out there and thrown left-handed before letting Schiraldi have the ball.”

“I'm tired of this. I'm so tired, Oggy. What was the question again? Why not pinch run for Buckner?”

“Focus, Sticky. I want to know why McNamara left Schiraldi in when he was getting killed.”

“But…”

“Answer the question, Claire. Why?”

Gentle Gena, the five-year-old trapped in a teenager's body, was released onto Elwyn Avenue by her guardian. Gena wielded her plastic neon whips like a demented lion-tamer, repeatedly lashing her own meaty thighs. The whips snapped like Poppers, the tear shaped explosives my father allowed me to throw on the ground every July. Gena was, as always, only capable of concentrating on immediate events, a car, a squirrel, an airplane, and was blissfully ignorant of the position the Red Sox now held in the standings, a position of inescapable defeat.

The imposing silhouette of the Bone Harbor Hospital lay at the north end of Lincoln Avenue, on the hill past the house where Lorne the deaf kid lived on the edge of the mini-forest, past where I played Frisbee with Kurt and Cristo and launched model rockets with the devious Evan Squidly. The red brick hospital, where my father had taken me after I slammed the Volvo’s door closed on my left thumb, did not lower its flags, both the American and the Great Seal of New Hampshire, to memorialize the fifth straight Sox season without an American League championship, their insolence but one crack in my shine box's veneer. I sensed these pole-top flags hanging limply on a low hill overlooking the grim North Mill Pond and the small live lobster shack to the north. The public basketball/tennis courts where Gordy Clutcher spent most of his time were positioned next to the shore of the reeking South Mill Pond. My future Middle School stood prominently, like the Berlin Wall of adolescence, on the western banks. My present school, Bone Harbor Elementary School, a Ted Williams home run away to the east and bathed in the long shadow cast by the North Church steeple in downtown Bone Harbor, was banished from my freedom thoughts.

We could live free or we could die, these visions declared, but we could not wish, pray, hope, invent, or daydream a Red Sox American League Championship pennant into existence. That would require a sacrifice of far greater property.

“Who knows? Schiraldi only gave up three weak singles in the bottom of the tenth. Remember? You gave up something like twenty extra base hits in that game at Leary Field. And I never played right field. I played second base.”

“Now you’re getting off the topic, Stick. There’s no need to get nasty. I’m just trying to have a civilized conversation and you had to turn it into a personal attack. I…GET YOUR GLOVE DOWN, BUCKNER! GET YOUR GLOVE DOWN! NO!”

“Oggy, Schiraldi was only one strike away from making McNamara look like a genius while we lost the game you pitched by the Ten Run Rule after five innings. Mac made the decision and he’s gotten over it. He’s had five years to get over it. It's baseball--not warfare. Except for Donnie Moore, no one died. You know? Get over it. Oggy? Hey?”

“Keep smiling, Carter. Just keep smiling. Laugh it up! It’s fun for you. What a game! What a win! Sure, kiss Knight one more time. Don't forget your boyfriend Dykstra. Where's Mookie? There you go...You won't be smiling for long either, you....”

“Oggy? Are you watching the game right now? Oggy?”

“I'll get over it, alright. Fine. Sure thing, Sticky. I'll get over it just as soon as you answer this one simple question: Why not pinch run for Bill Buckner when he gets on first base in the tenth inning after getting hit by Aguilera? Answer that one, smart guy.”

“But, you…”

“Shut your lying mouth and listen!”

“No. You listen. It is just a game, Oggy.”

“Dear, God! Did I hear that right? Just a game? Just a game? Shame on you, Cristo. Bobby Doerr is turning over in his grave. This is my life. Is my life just a game to you? Jim Rice could have stroked a hit and you want people running from base to base and not limping, like you with your crippled leg.”

“Could we leave my leg out of this for once? I mean, seriously, Oggy. It has nothing…”

“Sure, Sticky, but if Barrett will score from second on a single then what about Buckner limping from first base? Why not pinch run for him? Mac already screwed up by allowing him to bat but why double the pain by letting him run? Joe Garagiola doesn't seem to be interested in asking that question.”

“So what?”

“So that proves there was more than one reason to pull Buckner. He was crippled; Baylor or Armas could have pinch hit for him; Romero or Tarver could have pinch run for him; Baylor or Stapleton could have played first and been able to...you know.”

“You still can’t even say it.”

“I can say it if I want to. Stapleton hit .321 in 1980, you know. He was no bum. He could have pinch hit for Buckner in the tenth.”

“If you can say it, then say it.”

“No. I don’t want to. I just watched it. I don't need to say it. It won't be long until...”

“You’re afraid?”

“No. I’m not afraid. I’m just waiting for the right time and…”

“And?”

“And that is why I have to watch the tape, Sticky. I watch it and I learn things. I get closer to the truth. I see what went wrong so I can correct it! So I can fix what is wrong.”

The preceding spring my brother Brooklyn had been given a more modern turntable/cassette player combo unit to celebrate his 13^th birthday. I received his dusty record player as yet another hand-me-down to go along with his old tri-colored acrylic sweaters, Joan Baez 8-track tapes and useless Mercury astronaut stamp sets. The audio equipment sported an AM/FM radio and a turntable attached to two speakers. With it in my room I felt like Captain Kirk of The Enterprise, in control of vast amounts of technology, master of the future. If I wanted to record “Xanadu”, as I eagerly did, then I had two options. The first was to go into my brother's room and use his equipment to record Xanadu directly to cassette tape. This was strictly forbidden by Brooklyn's own announcement and also by a sign on his door that read, “Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.” Brooklyn was an aficionado of Dungeons and Dragons and Wizard Quest and some other complicated games involving graph paper, so I forgave his strange language, but I respected the warning and only ventured into his room to peek at his mildly pornographic comic books when he was at trombone practice. The second and more popular option was to lie next to my radio with my father's rectangular, battery operated dictation machine and position the on-board microphone between the speakers (for the ultimate in Mono sound) and wait for the WHEB DJ to play a rockin’ Blondie, The Knack, or Queen song. Music piracy was an arduous process, and explained why my reading and writing assignments were naturally neglected.

At the moment, Brooklyn was lurking nearby so I had no choice but to sit and wait near the tape recorder until the DJ reached “Xanadu” on his play list. Usually this was no fewer than three times an hour, but the sudden news from the baseball front made me impatient. Only some Rock music would make bearable the long winter of stolen lunch tokens and snowball fights. My collection of recorded music was as barren as a dugout in December. I abandoned my vigil to examine my options: Air Supply's latest album, Lost in Love, was fine if I was going to sleep. The Village People's album, Can’t Stop The Music, only reminded me of playing bumper pool at a day camp in Ironbury, Massachusetts. All that remained in my album library was John Denver's Greatest Hits and the rebellious but accessible Glass Houses.

Feeling naughty, I picked out Billy Joel's Glass Houses album from the near-empty milk crate that served as my music library. It was now up to The Piano Man to boost my spirits. While side one of Glass Houses jammed on, I considered the fate of my beloved Sox. Maybe there was a mathematical loophole no one had foreseen that would allow the Red Sox to still win the division. I did some quick calculations on a pad of paper with the printed quote, “Smile, you're a Red Sox fan.”, but I failed to find the loophole. No matter what happened, no matter what combination of Yankee losses and Red Sox wins, the Red Sox would not play in the 1980 postseason. The Orioles might beat the Yankees, but not The Sox. This was as unavoidable as the dark green water once you jumped off the Pierce Island Bridge. Though they might make me forget, no Billy Joel song could alter these cold truths.

“Did you go in my room, nut bag?”

This could only be my brother addressing me with one of his many inventive titles. I wheeled around quickly in case he was already charging in to give me a beating. Thankfully, I hadn't decided to go into his room to record “Xanadu”. See how treacherous expanding your music library was in 1980?

“No,” I moaned, “You told me not to go in your room, so I didn't do it. I'm innocent. Please don’t hurt me.”

I instantly wished I had taken a different approach. My earnestness was too obvious. He would know I had read one of his Fantastic Four comics.

“So what did you take, Queer boy?” he asked as he smacked his fist into his palm. “Tell me now and I won't beat you up too bad.”

“I didn't. I didn't take anything. Dad!” I called to my father just to be safe, maybe get him moving in my direction before the bloodshed began. “I'm not lying. I don't want another beating. Please, Brooks.”

Again, this was too obvious. No one telling the truth would ever say, “I'm not lying.”

Brooklyn was apparently feeling benevolent because he paused and said, “If I find something is missing then I will beat you down. I told you before, Ogden. You will be beaten until you submit. I might even take your hat.”

At the threat of losing my hat my senses were placed on high alert. Nothing upset me more than being separated from my hat.

“Naw!” I said as I leaned away from Brooklyn. “I was just sitting in here trying to tape “Xanadu”. That's all.”

“Ha! That’s your first lie. You’re sitting here listening to that fag Billy Joel. And if you’re listening to a fag then that means you are a fag.”

“Billy Joel is a wicked awesome singah.”

“You act like you’ve never heard of Black Sabbath. That is just more proof that you are fag of monumental proportions.”

“B-B-Black Sabbath?” I whispered. “Dad told you not to listen to Black Sabbath.”

“Well, Dad told you to stop being an idiot, so that makes two of us who don’t do as we’re told.”

“But Black Sabbath is evil.”

“No. Billy Joel is evil. Ozzy Osbourne is the God of Rock. You would know that if you stopped listening to that junk. Glass Houses? Garbage. Now, KISS knows how to rock. Ace Freely…hey, is that an Air Supply record? I’m going to kick your ass if you have an Air Supply record.”

I tried to hide my Air Supply record. My mother had bought the record for me at a Harvard Square thrift store during one of my weekend visits, and I didn’t want Brooklyn destroying it. I didn’t even want to think about what would happen if he saw John Denver’s greatest hits.

“Wait! Please! I never went in your room, Brooks. Anyway, you're in my room.”

This seemed like a perfectly logical argument. If he could come in my room then why was I not allowed in his room? Why indeed?

Brooklyn paused and crossed his arms.

“Because I'm older and you're weak. Ha! What? Did you say something, Goober?”

Brooklyn lunged at me. I instinctively fell back to protect my hat and accidentally hit the turntable. The needle skipped to “It's Still Rock and Roll to Me” scratching the vinyl with an ugly synthetic tearing sound that was still about three years from becoming popular among Rap artists. I gasped.

“No! You butt dog. You scratched it. It's mine and you ruined it.”

Brooklyn raised his arms up in triumph.

“That'll teach you not to go in my room, you Troll. I guess Billy Joel isn’t so cool anymore. Too bad. What a shame. His record is permanently destroyed and I don’t care.”

I'd have a bruise where I hit the turntable. My Billy Joel record was precious to me and now it was ruined. All because of Brooklyn.

“I hate you. I hate you so much,” I said as my chin began to wobble. “You're...you're evil! You're an evil person. Get out!”

Brooklyn turned around and casually picked up a stack of loose baseball cards. He looked at them with feigned interest and then scattered them on the ground like they were trash. I was breathless from horror as the cards tumbled into a disorganized pile.

“That’ll teach you for being a snitch.”

“No! Dad! Brooklyn's being evil again; he threw my cards on the ground after I just put 'em in order. And he threatened to take my hat! He’s listening to Black Sabbath again too.”

My father was presumably in his room and didn't have a ready response to this crisis. Brooklyn pointed his finger at me and hissed, “You watch your mouth or you'll get one of these.”

He pounded his fist into his palm again. I was helpless and crying as I tried to gather the cards up without bending any corners. A bent corner was the difference between a “Mint” condition card and an “Excellent” condition card.

I picked up a card and cried, “When Julio Valdez is worth a million dollars I'm gonna make you pay for wrecking his card. You'll pay for being evil!”

Julio Valdez was a switch-hitting prospect for the Red Sox who had shown great talent at shortstop. His card was one of those now excluded from the Mint condition because of a bent corner.

“Look what you did!” I said as I held up the card as evidence of Brooklyn's evil. “I hate you! Get out! This is my room. Now get out!”

Brooklyn laughed and walked across the hall to his room. He turned around and deliberately gave me the finger before closing the door.

“Dad! Brooklyn gave me the finger. Punish him! Make him do the dishes.”

Again, my father either didn't hear me or decided to ignore me. I was alone and picked up the remaining cards in silent rage. I would show them all, I thought. Somehow, someway, I would bring everyone who had hurt and ignored me to justice. I would scratch all their records; I would steal all their comic books; I would break all their Star Wars toys; I would ignore all their cries for help.

“How can you correct it at two in the morning? How? Listen to yourself, Oggy. The game was played a hundred years ago. What truth are you talking about? What...”

“You're just like my father. You think you know it all, but you don't. You think you know what I can and can't do. Think again, Sticky. I can do things that you don't know about.”

“Sure you can. Of course you can.”

“That's right. I can do a lot of things that you can't do. I know things. I know who Ray Knight is. Do you, Sticky?

“Yes.”

“I don't think so. You were the reason the Sox lost; you jinxed them because you didn't believe in them. Only fans like me are keeping the flame alive.”

“What flame? I'm not having this conversation right now. You know, I have class in the morning. Some people didn't drop out of college after two weeks so they could sit on their father's living room couch and watch the Red Sox lose the '86 World Series over and over. I know you think that is normal, but it really isn’t. It is fahkin’ fahked. I feel sorry for you.”

“I played Whiffle ball with Gordy Clutcher. I kissed Rose McCorley on the lips. What did you do? Name one thing “

“I played Whiffle Ball with Clutch, too! And I wouldn't kiss Rose with Spaz's mouth.”

“Be careful, mister smarty ass. Be very careful.”

“Ha! I think I'm the only kid in the class of '89 that didn't kiss that fahkin’ whore. What a slut!”

“I love her.”

“What about that whore Darcy? Don’t you love her too?”

“Don’t ever bad mouth Darcy. Ever!”

“You know Buddy Huggington fahked her on a picnic table.”

“Don't make me come over there and yoke you, Sticky.”

“Whatever. I'm just sayin' that some people have lives and responsibilities. Some people aren't fahkin’ losers like you.

“Did my dad get on the extension? Because it sounds like my dad is talking to me now.

“Dewey was responsible.”

“You take Dewey's name in vain one more time... “

“What do you do all day? When was the last time you worked?”

“I watch Game Six.”

“You are such a fahkin’ loser, Oggy. You don’t do anything.”

“Is it irresponsible that I am on the verge of winning the series? Huh?”

“Win the series? You are totally crazy, man. You know that, don't you? Get some sleep. I’m done.”

“You think you're pretty smart, huh, smart guy? You talk shit about Rose and Darcy and you think you're pretty good? You think you know it all, but you're wrong. I know something that you don't know. I know things you've never dreamed of. In fact, I know things you can't even fathom. I know what went wrong in '86 and I know how to fix it.”

After I had rearranged the cards and stacked them in a protective shoe box, I quietly placed a baseball in my shiny leather outfield glove--so the webbing would keep its shape through the long winter--and stored it between the foot of my mattress and my box spring. The summer of 1980 was now over. Time was again in sync. The North Church bell in Market Square, a mile west and north from my bedroom, rang four times. The Memorial Bridge descended its tall green towers toward the cold Chickanoosuc swirls. The Pierce Island pool lifeguards herded the dripping wet swimmers to the locker rooms for the last shower of the summer. Gordy Clutcher remained at the Basketball courts, his paddle hands swatting down jump shots and stealing errant passes. Aluminum met leather at the Central Little League field where late season batting practice was wrapping up. The lines of the soccer field were being painted onto the outfield grass of Leary field. Gentle Gena wandered too far away from her house and was called back by her aged guardian. The Earth turned like a Billy Joel record. I stared over the rooftops and dying lawns of my neighborhood, recording the position of several bleached Star Wars toys in the driveway and absorbed the echo of basketballs on hot asphalt.

Carried on the Mill Pond wind, deep autumn crept south from Marshford, Maine and smelled like pumpkin pie and apple cider now, not fried dough and lemonade. I frowned seriously at these changes, hoping, praying, knowing that I was the only one who felt the way I felt, knew the secrets I knew and had the power to do anything.

To prove my invincibility, I fluidly practiced the nine Kuji Kiri hypnotic hand movements as outlined in my Ninja Warrior magazine. The first Kanji, or center of Ninja power, was known as the Chu and could, I read and believed, hypnotize an adversary into temporary paralysis. As “Don't Ask Me Why” lilted along in the background, I sat in a modified lotus position and attempted to execute the Chu to paralyze C. Fisk, one of my hyperactive hamsters. If it worked then I might be able to get more than an hour of sleep at night. For several minutes I was locked in a mental battle with C. Fisk until a neighborhood dog started to bark irregularly.

Unable to concentrate, I stood up and turned suddenly toward my reflection in a glass picture frame hanging on the west wall of my room. I pretended to pull two pistols from my imaginary hip holsters, and shot myself like Clint Eastwood. This didn’t look natural so I tried again. Once more it looked too staged so I grabbed my genitals and squeezed. The surprised look on my face was authentic coming back at me on the light from the west. I imitated my surprised self again before leaping into the air, as though hit by a light saber, and crashed onto my bed. I bounced across the Star Wars sheets and hit my skull against the plaster underneath a giant poster of Carl Yastrzemski.

“What is going on in there,” yelled my father from where he was napping in his bedroom. “Ogden?”

Of course, now he decides to take interest in my life. Brooklyn could be slitting my throat and he would yawn and go on reading his newspaper, but the moment I do something alone his antennae fly up.

I rubbed my head and hoped there would be a small bump, a scar to prove to Kurt or Cristo or Wynn that I was dangerous and unpredictable.

“I thought I saw a squirrel jump in my window,” I yelled back.

“A turtle?”

“A squirrel! A tree squirrel! It was big so I tried to catch it.”

“Well, be careful.”

I assured the old man that I was being careful and grinned at how convincingly I had lied, studied my grin in the mirror, changed it to a freakish, Joker-like mask from Batman, and almost scared myself. There was hardly a bruise on my head, let alone a giant swelling lump. I was disappointed. Maybe I hadn’t hit hard enough. I searched my room until I found my plastic Red Sox batters helmet and my wooden baseball bat with the handle taped white like Yaz's own bat in his poster. I put my helmet on and then tapped it with the barrel of the bat, Click, Click, wood on plastic. I stood so I could see my profile in the reflection of the glass frame. Such was my eyesight that I could focus perfectly on my reflection and not on the picture it covered. I had, in fact, no idea what the picture was behind my reflection and didn’t want to know, would sooner have covered it with a picture of Ted Williams at the plate, but my father insisted on culture and so hung a painting of something like art, flowers, boats, doors, or naked angels, all of which I ignored as I took a few practice swings with the bat, tapping lightly on the area over my forehead. The sound blossomed and echoed like the tapping of Gordy's basketball away at the court, or a Math teacher's chalk on the blackboard, or Yaz's spikes tapping on home plate after knocking the ball into the right field bullpen, or a ball crashing into the Green Monster off Dwight Evans's bat, Tap, Tap while watching my reflection in the frame. I looked so cool and professional, not to mention dangerous, almost like I was fifteen or sixteen years old.

Then, satisfied I had found my stroke, I let the bat drop closer to the ground and brought it back toward my head as fast as I could, aiming for the middle of my forehead beneath the old English B in the center of the plastic helmet. The look on my eyes, reflected in the dusty glass frame, was much like the look on Ronald Reagan’s eyes when, a year later, he was repeatedly shot in the chest on television replays. There was surprise and there was fear, but mostly there was shock. What? Why is this happening? No! I watched the bat speed toward my head and then I, the reflection and myself, involuntarily tried to duck out of the way. The helmet fell to the ground and caused me, myself and the reflection, to miss the helmet but, also, to strike my now unprotected forehead.

My father, Dante Bleacher, was suddenly standing over me, holding the bat and the helmet and an ice pack. Hall and Oates now harmonized on the radio. Or was it Air Supply? I wasn't sure. Where had Billy Joel gone? How long had I been unconscious? Unconscious? I couldn't wait to tell Kurt about it. I could say I'd been attacked by evil Ninjas. Maybe the news that the Red Sox had lost was a dream.

“What, in the name of all that is holy, happened here?” said my father.

“The Kuji Kiri,” I said without thinking.

“The what?”

“Sox shutout.”

Again, my mouth was working without my brain. Images were flashing before my eyes of a Ninja jumping out of the bushes to kick me. John Tudor threw a baseball at my head. Yaz walked over to me and said, “Nice swing, Oggy.”

“Huh?” My father asked.

Brooklyn, four years older than me, a hundred years older than me, keeper of secrets, was swinging like a spider monkey from the silver chin-up bar in my doorway, looking at me like I was a dog that had just been caught molesting a stuffed bunny.

“If you ask me, he should live with Mom. He’s retarded. Look at him. What a moron. Just look at him lying there in his own filth.”

“Brooklyn, is that being helpful? Remember our talk about being helpful?”

“Yeah, I remember.” Said Brooklyn, “But he is retarded so I’m telling him he’s retarded. That is helpful. Yeah.”

“The squirrel came back,” I yelled.

From the look my father and brother gave me I knew that excuse wasn’t going to cover the bill. A sudden throbbing in my head made me think that I had destroyed my chances to play for the Red Sox. What would Julio Valdez do without me? A large bump swelled deliciously on my forehead. I would go blind, possibly be paralyzed from this injury, but Kurt would definitely respect me enough to show me his collection of Mice skeletons. Everything below my waist had become numb. Was I dead? Wait. I just wanted a bump on my head. How had everything gone so horribly wrong? How? The thought that I had willfully ruined my opportunity to play baseball, combined with the fact that my brother dangled upside down, slashing a metallic grin, combined with the expression of confusion from my father, was too much to bear.

“The Red Sox got eliminated today,” I burst out. “They’re never gonna win the World Series. Never!” I instantly regretted this exaggeration and could think of nothing else to say except, “Leave me alone! I don’t wanna live here. I hate it here. I'm like...I'm like a hostage here. I don’t wanna go to school. I hate school. I won't go. You can’t make me go. Brooklyn sucks!”

“You’re going,” my brother said from the chin-up bar, “and you’ll like it. But don’t worry, Ogden. It’ll all be over in, oh, eight or nine more years. And when it's your turn to get braces, it'll be my turn to laugh.”

While he laughed, I wailed and rolled on the floor, pleased I could feel my legs again. I groped around the floor until I found my Sox hat. If only I could see my reflection in the mirror. Why wouldn't these people leave? What was the dog doing next door? Three to nothing? The hostages in Iran? Was “Xanadu” playing yet? I was missing everything!

“Stop it, Brooklyn,” said my father. “Remember? That isn’t helpful.”

“So? What has he done for me? Name one thing. One.”

My father waved Brooklyn away.

“Just go rake the lawn or something.”

“You always make me do it,” cried Brooklyn. “Always. He’s the little baby who doesn’t take the garbage out or clean the hamster cage or wash his clothes. He's been wearing that hat for three straight years, Dad.”

This was a blatant exaggeration. Brooklyn had been there a month earlier when I received the hat. Of course, I hadn't taken it off since then, but three years was over-stretching the facts. Despite my father's indifference, Brooklyn continued his indictment of yours truly.

“Don't you see, Dad? Ever since we came back from Ironbury it’s been, ‘Ogden this and Ogden that.’ He hasn’t lifted a finger to do chores. I hate him so much. Ooh! I hate him. He always gets his way! You don't make him do anything! And he ate all the Lucky Charms!”

“Just go!” Ordered my father.

“This is so unfair,” hollered Brooklyn with his fists in the air. “So unfair!”

“Yeah?” stammered my father, “well, life isn't fair, Brooklyn.”

It wasn't? Now wait just a second. Hold on. Back up. Time out. If life isn't fair then...

“Fahk it!” yelled my brother as he swung off the chin up bar. Then he stopped as his parental rage barometer shuddered. My father slapped his hands together like a thunderbolt from the all-powerful.

“Go to your room, right now!” bellowed my father. “I will not tolerate swearing in my house. There will be no goddamn swearing.”

Brooklyn mouthed the words “You're dead,” then made a face at me to suggest this matter wasn't closed. This incident, his look implied, would not be quickly forgotten, and his threats guaranteed that I would soon regret March 1, 1971, the day I was born. He marched across the hall to his room and when he slammed the door his “Abandon Hope...” poster fell onto the hallway carpet. I trembled as I could feel the future punches strike my arms.

My father searched my eyes for an answer.

“What happened? What were you doing?”

The hospital flags and the basketball games and the dogs outside had all been silent witnesses to my accident yet granted no reprieve, no judgment. How did I fit in this new town, this new unfair life where the Sox were 15 games back with 14 games left to play? Why was I striking myself in the head with a wooden bat? Would Luke Skywalker lead the rebels to victory?

“Dewey promised. He promised me they'd win,” I said as my father shook his head. “But they lost. The Sox always lose.”

Before he left, my father instructed me to put the ice pack on my forehead to keep the swelling down, but once alone I defiantly threw the ice pack under my bed with the used tissues and the unused barbells and the creeping, ever-watchful spiders. I wouldn’t put the ice pack on my forehead. I’d show them all. I wanted the bump on my forehead to grow and grow and grow and explode until the Bone Harbor drowned in pus. Then they would know who I was, would know my name: Ogden Bleacher.

“It must be nice to think so, Oggy. Let me know when your dream comes true, you fahkin’ loser. Goodnight.”

“Just pinch hit Baylor for Schiraldi in the top of the tenth and send Stapleton out to first in the bottom of the tenth. Then have Sambito and Stanley get those three goddamn outs. Do that and Buckner is wearing a ring right now, and I'm wearing a ring right now! What do you have to say about that, smart guy?”

“You’ve been saying that for five years, Oggy. It is just a game. I…”

“Maybe it is just a game to weak cripples like you. To me, it is everything. Don’t you understand that this is my life now? This is what I do. This is all I do. I…”

“Fine. Whatever. Go get Don Baylor to pinch hit for Schiraldi, and then get La Schelle Tarver to pinch run for Buckner. You do that, Coach.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Good. You go ahead and get on your crappy ten speed bike with your broken foot and you bike down to Shea Stadium in the snow to pinch hit for Calvin Schiraldi. Good fahkin’ plan.”

“I just might do that, Sticky. You watch me. You think I won’t? You just watch. I’m not afraid to do it.”

“Good. Then the Sox will win the 1986 World Series. Nice! Of course! Be sure to bring back a ring for me too, ok buddy? Good plan, Oggy. Top notch. Why didn't I think of it?”

“Why are you laughing? Am I amusing to you?”

“Yes. You are cracked.”

“Well you and your friend Ray Knight won’t be laughing when I solve the mystery. See, you've given up and I haven't. That is what separates the true fan from the worthless groupie. I will never give up. I still believe in the dream. I'll...hey, you hear that? Let me turn the volume up. Do you hear those bastards?”

“All I hear are the Mets fans cheering because the Mets just won. Big deal. Now I'm hanging up. It was just a stupid...”

“Listen close, Sticky. Listen because...wait...what?...I'll turn it down in a second, Dad...well I'm working too...can't you just let me do my work? Do I interrupt you when you are at work?...Oh, so is what you do more important than what I do? Is it?...Well, I know things too, Dad. I know a lot of things about work, but do you know who Ray Knight is? Cristo and I have important work to do too…This work also has to be done...This…Buckner...Just one more strike...Fine...there I turned it down...Happy?...No, I'll go to bed when McNamara pinch hits Baylor for Schiraldi like anyone who has ever watched a baseball game would have done. Then I'll go to bed.”

“Oggy? Now you pissed off your dad. What time is it? Oh, god I'm tired. Just go to sleep.”

“Listen to those cheers, Sticky. Soon I'll silence them. I know what it takes for the Sox to win this game. I know secrets that you don't know. I know a lot of secrets. If Baylor would just pinch hit for...”

“Listen: If 'ifs' were fifths then we'd both be piss-drunk right now. OK? Don't tell me about 'what ifs'. What if I got born with a calf muscle on my leg? What if Piper hit that three-pointer with fifteen seconds left in the semi-finals against White Falls. What if Huggy drops that pass against Concord? What if you started at catcher during the championship instead of Bunky? What if I gave a shit? What if you just let me go back to sleep? You really have lost your mind.”

“I'll show you who's insane.”

“Call me tomorrow, Oggy. JV hoop is playing Rochester. Some Clipper pride'll put your head back in reality. Get a grip on yourself, Man. Turn the VCR off, destroy that tape, and get some sleep. Beat off on that yearbook picture of Darcy. Dream about kissing Rose some more. Do whatever you gotta do to get a grip. It's December, 1991, and you gotta accept that. Alright, kid?”

“It must be easy to just give up on the Sox, to piss in their faces after years of service. Do you like to watch me suffer? Is it fun for you? Is giving up on the Sox fun? Giving up on the Sox would be the easy road because lazy people take the easy road, but I'm not lazy, Sticky. I'm a Sox fan for better or for worse. Now is the time for us to suck it up and fix what is broken. I say that Baylor needs to pinch hit for Schiraldi in the top of the tenth. That is what I say and that is what needs to happen. Tarver needs to pinch run for Buckner. That is what I say and that is what needs to happen. Stanley needs to pitch to Backman and Hernandez and that sissy Carter. He needs to strike out the side. Dave Stapleton needs to play first base in the bottom of the inning. Then the prophecy I made in '86 will come true. Then Dewey and I can sleep. Until that happens, I will stay up and study this game. I don’t need to go to college. Shea Stadium is my classroom now. Mark my words, Sticky: I will make things right. Are you listening? The ’86 Sox will be victorious. I...Sticky? Cristo? Are you there, buddy? Stickster? Hey...”

The official 1980 score book remained open for two more weeks as the maple leaves reached their emerald ripeness and then began to wither. It was then, as classroom were decorated for Halloween, and as dusty footballs were inflated once again, that I was able to assess the seasonal damage: The team's record was 83-77 good for a 4^th place finish, tied with the Detroit Tigers, 19 games behind the accursed New York Yankees. Baltimore wasted 100 wins and placed 2^nd, 3 games back, the Brewers placed a distant 3^rd, 17 games back. The only two Sox players who had a batting average over .300 (the cutoff point for a respectable hitting season), were Dave Stapleton (.321) and Fred Lynn (.301). Tony Perez led the team in Home Runs with a mediocre 25. Little else went right for the Sox: Dwight 'Dewey' Evans, Carl 'Yaz' Yastrzemski, and Jim Rice had posted average numbers. Dewey led the team with 98 strikeouts, which meant he didn't even hit the ball in play one out of every four times he went to bat. Yaz was older than my father, a hoary 40, and could only be expected to play just over 100 out of 160 games. Jim Rice was second on the team in Home Runs with 24, but developed a habit of hitting into double plays (the only thing worse than a strikeout) to end important rallies. Third baseman Glenn Hoffman couldn't buy a home run (he hit only 4) with all the money in the Prudential Center. Still, there were some things I could count on: at least the hero of 1975, Carlton 'Pudge' Fisk, had a consistent year at the plate and would be the Red Sox catcher for the next decade. And like Thanksgiving turkey follows Halloween treats, I was certain of, and directed all my ninja powers toward, one simple goal: The Boston Red Sox would win the World Series in 1981.

The 1980 season had started when I was still in third grade at Carr School in Ironbury, Massachusetts, a suburb on Boston’s western fringe. I’d followed the progress of Fisk and Dewey and Mike Torrez as though they were generals in a war fought daily in different cities. Since President Carter had banned the Summer Olympics in Moscow all we had was Baseball. My conversations before reading class or waiting for the lunch monitors to bring us our ravioli were in the time-honored tradition of trashy ball talk.

“Hey, Chuckie. I tol' yah Pudge was gonna hit one ovah the monstah last night. Tol' yah.”

Chuckie's dark eyes glared back at me. He was eating a half Spam and deviled ham sandwich with his mouth open so crumbs and partly masticated glop tumbled onto his lap as he spoke. The native tongue of Ironbury is a combination of English and Walrus, so what follows is a rough translation.

“Tha' ain' nothin'. My dad sez the Sahx shoulda traded Fisk last yeah. He's a bum, I tell ya. His knees ain’t no good.”

Growing up in Maine and then New Hampshire allowed me a little more flexibility with my speech. Still, I tried my best to duplicate Chuckie's gloriously uncouth tongue.

“Take that back. This is they yeah. Ya watch. Pudge is a wicked awesome battah. Don't fahget '75. He won Game six, ya know. He's wicked awsome 'n the Sox ah gonna win.”

“Nah,” gargled Chuckie through a cheekful of chips.”The Sahx ain' no good. My dad sez the Yanks got the pitchin'. Guidry's smokin'.”

Praising the Yankees over the Red Sox on school property was up there with complimenting the teacher or liking girls among unforgivable offenses. I choked on a double brownie sandwich that I had taken from a second grader.

“Wha? The Yanks? Chuckie, the Yanks bite the bag. Torrez coulda pitched a perfect game in Detroit last week 'cept Hoffman made that erra'. N' Eck is gonna win twenty-five games this yeah. Just watch, doogie-head. The Sox are gonna win the A.L. East by ten games.”

I blew a bubble with my forbidden Bazooka Joe gum and snapped it to emphasize my point. Chuckie squinted back at me as he picked his nose with a milk straw.

“Wanna bet?” he asked.

These words exploded louder than my gum. Even the slobbering Tony D’Amato looked up from his aluminum wrapped meatloaf sub to watch my reaction. I chewed my bubble gum and corn chip sandwich to buy some time. I didn't have much to bet with, but I couldn't say no; it might jinx the Sox and destroy my developing image as a reckless rebel. Either way, I had to take the bait.

“Yeah. Shu. I ain't no weenie. What you wanna lose?”

Chuckie was sweating a little. Both of our reputations were at stake here and in third grade you were cooked without a good reputation. The winner of this bet would be crowned king and the loser would forever associate school with “Atomic Wedgies” and “White Washes”.

“I'll bet you a pack of Stah Wahs cahds,” said Chuckie, “for yah Mustang matchbox cah.”

Star Wars: The Empire Strikes Back cards were among the most prized possessions among the third grade elite. Star Wars cards, super balls, candy and matchbox cars, were traded as often at recess as foreign currency was at the NYSE. Thanks to the recent sequel, Star Wars memorabilia was currently trading up allowing Chuckie to put his Star Wars cards up against my coveted 1967 miniature Mustang sports car with doors that opened and wheels that spun. I couldn't weenie out. The prospect of acquiring a coveted Han Solo action card or an exciting X-Wing Fighter card made my nose run.

“My cah for yowah cahds?” I asked to make him repeat himself, and here the Walrus side of our language dominated.

“Yowah cah for my cahds. Yeah. Ya man enuff?”

“Aight,” I said and watched the looks of wonder in my classmate's eyes. They were now witnesses and were bound to certain responsibilities, such as making fun of the loser for the rest of his life. “Shake.”

Chuckie and I then executed a multi-layered, semi-secret handshake involving backward slaps and finger wiggling and cracking knuckles, and that even required us to stand up and knock heads. Thus, like the engraved monuments near Bunker Hill, the deal was set in stone.

“Hey,” I asked when we were finished finalizing the bet. “You gonna eat that puddin'?”

The whole class lost fifteen minutes of recess for the outburst of laughter following Chuckie's loud reply, “Naw. It looks like dahg shit.”

The school year soon ended, along with a failed attempt to rescue American hostages in Iran, discharging the students into endless Lemonade afternoons, Kick The Can evenings and, for the lucky few, nights catching elusive fireflies in the country. My father laid claim to Brooklyn and I for June and July, but no sooner had I returned to old-fashioned New Hampshire then I was shipped off to Camp Gundalow where I was instructed on how to dog paddle, masturbate, shoplift and other survival essentials. Daily reports at the Camp lunch table described the Red Sox west coast slump and pitching troubles. Injuries kept key players on the bench and the Yankees and Orioles appeared to be walking away with the division. The Red Sox could only watch and I dreaded my return to Ironbury where my debt would have to be paid off.

I finished the so-fast summer by attending family counseling sessions during which Brooklyn kept yelling, “I don't hate anyone. Why do you keep saying that?” while my mother and father eyed each other over a barren coffee table. The counselor was so measured and “understanding” that I couldn't tell if she was even listening. My family was being torn apart and all she had to say was, “How does that make you feel?”

“Grand,” my brother would answer. “Just grand. Jeez, I'm missing Battlestar Gallactica for this?”

When asked how the divorce made me feel I said, “I don't know.” which was easier than saying, “I don't know what I did wrong.”

On the weekends I journeyed an hour south on a smoky bus from my father's new house in Bone Harbor to Boston's South Station to visit my exiled mother in Ironbury. Brooklyn read X-Men comics while I ran on imaginary legs beside the bus through the woods, leaping over buildings and flipping over acres of parked cars. In the foggy morning, I played Cartoon Tag in the streets with Charlie and the old gang while in the humid evenings my mother, brother, and I rode the crowded Red Line subway to Kenmore Square followed by a short walk to Fenway, during which I would beg for a pair of sunglasses, a slice of pizza, a hot fudge sundae and a bag of pistachios, all of which were promised to me if I “Behaved”. We then entered Fenway Park to watch from the center field bleachers as Jim Rice hit into a double play, Dewey struck out, and Tom Burgmeier blew a late inning lead. Politics and baseball have one thing in common: you get what you deserve.

“Jeezum Crow,” I absentmindedly yelled in true Camp Gundalow spirit. “Can't this jerk off get the ball over the fahkin’ plate?”

My mother stared in horror at me and started to pack her bag. She did not even have to say that my afternoon was finished and that I had lost the privilege to a hot fudge sundae. All this was implied by her disappointed frown and bereaved sigh. I knew where I had learned these words, but my camp counselor had failed to convince me of their power. Sinister Brooklyn smiled over his Wizard Quest magazine.

“Way to go, Ogden. Nice mouth.” He squinted the quarter mile to home plate. “I don't see why you care anyway. They'll never win. The Sox suck ass. Always have. Always will.”

I was overcome by emotion at this slander and to my surprise, and the surprise of those around me in Section 37, I said, “Yeah, why don't you just go beat off on yourself?”

My mother's eyes widened as she cried out, “Where did your father send you two to camp? The Spahn Ranch?”

The Sox did not win the A.L. East by ten games as I had wagered. Instead, they finished nearly 20 games behind the Yankees. Dennis 'Eck' Eckersley went 12-14 in '80, a mere 13 wins away from fulfilling my prediction. Mike Torrez finished the season with a dreadful 9-16 record and an ERA of 5.16. Because the Sox averaged only 4.73 runs per game on offense, they statistically could not win when Torrez was on the mound and indeed, they seldom did. The toothless janitor shuffling around the Carr School basement could have pitched better than aging reliever Jack Billingham, whose 11+ ERA in 23 innings must have set some record of fuck-awful pitching. Sox veteran 'Ace' Steve Renko boasted an ERA over 4.00 and a record of 9-9. But it was the bullpen that single-handedly destroyed the season and narrowly missed executing my social status at Carr School. 'Relief' pitchers Dick Drago, Tom Burgmeier and Bob Stanley conspired with the enemy for 19 losses. Nineteen!? 19 games is a whole Little League season and the exact number of games the Red Sox finished behind the Yankees! The bullpen was more like the bullshit pen. It is a miracle Renko ever won a game considering he was forced to hand the ball over to Stanley or Drago one of the many other losers waiting in the pen. Thankfully, the 35-year old Renko, along with Drago, did not return for the 1981 season. Stanley, however, fermented in the right field bullpen, like a stink bomb waiting to explode in the Carr School halls. Even newcomer Bobby Ojeda felt the bite of the season as he started seven games but only came away with a total of one win, one loss and an ERA of almost 7.00. Ron Guidry's record was, for comparison, 17-10. Chuckie's dad was right; the Yanks did have the pitching.

Although I would officially lose the wager on September 21^st, I never had to give up my toy 'cah'. Brooklyn and I moved permanently back to Bone Harbor, New Hampshire to rejoin my father before the dreaded Labor day deadline, while my mornings were still my own, and the Sox still stood a chance for a late season rally.

The details of the Bleacher Boys exchange were not clear to me then, but I assumed it was much like a baseball acquisition. Like Drago and Renko, we were no longer needed in Boston and after a couple of papers were signed or shredded we were shipped off on the bus with a box full of Star Wars toys, matchbox cars, and unfulfilled trombone lessons. I entered fourth grade at Bone Harbor Elementary School two weeks before the Red Sox were eliminated. My wager was nullified by distance. I never saw Chuckie or his coveted Star Wars cards again and he never got my Mustang matchbox car, but I had acquired something even more important: The Hat.

The high point of the 1980 season, and an incident you'd be wise to remember, came when my brother and mother ventured off to browse in a comic book store leaving me at Fenway Park's player's entrance parking lot within safe distance of a security guard. I sat with an empty Red Sox notebook, hopeful for an autograph, an invitation to Spring Training, or even a friendly wave, but the players’ cars filed out without any luck. Even Yaz seemed hurried and distracted. Fisk, we were told, usually spent a few hours lifting weights after a game, so he wasn't expected to leave soon. Fred Lynn and Jim Rice tore out of the parking lot like they'd robbed the place. Where were Dewey and Glenn Hoffman? The other children were taken away by their parents until only I leaned against the fence. The parking lot was nearly empty. I was inconsolable. The season was ending, school supplies were on sale again (so soon!), and Halloween decorations dangled in store fronts. Time was running out for everyone. Only a miracle would save the Red Sox now.

“They need a fahkin’ closah,” said the security guard to a street sweeper in reference to the traitorous bullpen. “Burgmiah’s shit-awhful against lefties. He couldn't hit the fahkin' watah if he fell out of a fahkin' boat. The kid is killin' us in the late innings.”

Closah? Burgmeier is shit-awhful. I sat repeating these important descriptions to myself. Burgmeier is shit-awhful. Geezus. The kid is killin' us. The kid is...

“Hey, kid! Kid!”

I looked up. A man driving a freshly waxed sedan was calling to me through the car window as he paused half-way out of the player's parking lot. I recognized his face from the yearbook and from Right Field. Could it be?

“Dewey? Dewey? Hey!”

“Want a hat, kid?”

Dwight Evans leaned out the window with a Sox hat in his mighty hand. His hair was shiny brown like a horse mane. His teeth were so white. His eyes were wide and alive. 1980 was his 8^th season with the sox. He had been playing right field at Fenway Park for almost as long as I had been alive.

“Dewey?” Was all I could choke out.

“Here you go.”

Dewey was from California and didn't speak like the Mass. natives. He handed me the cap, a Sox cap, a treasure, a gift from a veteran of the ’75 World Series.

“But what'ah ya gonna wear?”

At Little League, we were given one hat with our uniform and we got to keep it along with the stirrup socks. Were the Major Leagues different?

“It's just a practice hat,” he said. “Keep it.”

Then I burst out, “Dewey? Ah ya gonna win the Series? Ah ya gonna do it?”

The Sox were 12 games back and fading behind the seditious Burgmeier's late inning walks. Dewey smiled, a friendly, warm smile full of confidence and professional grace.

“Stick around. Maybe next year.”

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He started to drive off after I had taken the cap with trembling hands. He had signed the bill in eloquent, timeless cursive: Dwight Evans.

“Promise? Dewey? Hey,” I insisted, “Ya promise. Ya'll win thah series. Ya'll win it all?”

“Just for you,” Dewey drawled. “If you believe in us, then I promise. Bye, now.”

I stood trembling in the middle of the road holding the hat. It must have been a dream, I thought. The Sox were gonna win it all. Dewey had promised. My knees quivered.

“Hey kid. Get outta the street.”

The security guard was waving me out of the way for another car. Dennis Eckersley passed me.

“Eck. Hey, Eck. Ya gonna win it next yeah.” It was no longer a question. “You're gonna win! I believe!”

Eckersley treated me like a homeless person, but I didn't care. I had a hat. I had Dewey's hat! I lay on the sidewalk clutching the hat, not daring to put it on my head until my mother returned. When she did arrive, she and my brother were skeptical. The guard had to confirm my story.

“Dewey's a good Joe, not like that S.O.B Burgmeier. Dewey treats the kids real good. Gave you a spiffy cap, didn't he, son?”

I hardly tasted the ice cream sundae later that evening at Brighams of Boston. I had Dewey's hat and he had promised me that the Red Sox would win. He promised. His hat was adjustable but still covered my ears when I wore it. I vowed not to take it off until Dewey fulfilled his promise, and my

mother smiled supportively. To take it off, I explained, would be to disrespect the seriousness of Dewey's promise. The Sox were going to win the Series and I would be there with Dewey's hat. Then I could take it off.

“You know,” said my brother, “You can't be more of a bone head.”

But I had my hat and it protected me from his remark. With Dewey's promise, the prospect of a new school was almost bearable.

Meanwhile, adapting to a new school proved to be a challenge. In the vacuum of time between elimination from the playoffs and spring training, I struggled to find ways to entertain myself with the innocuous locals and learn their strange customs and rituals. I soon learned that, “Fahkin’ shit, man. Who knows?” was not the correct response to the question, “When did the Pilgrims land at Plymouth Rock.” This would have been breaking news to 20 or 30 of my Carr School classmates who thought, for example, that the Revolutionary War had been fought against Canada. I was then instructed that, while it might have been admired in Ironbury, breaking glass soda bottles against the nearest available brick wall was unappreciated in Bone Harbor, even discouraged. What the hell? I thought. Have I joined a cult? Lastly, shooting bottle rockets through PVC pipe at passing cars was an activity far out of favor with the majority of my peers. Cristo’s parents were becoming concerned by my urban recklessness and persuaded my father to 'Have a talk’ with me after I suggested, in near embarrassment, that we detonate a bottle of spray paint in their trash can. This was a pass-time that had almost been part of the Official Carr School Third Grade Curriculum, and I thought mentioning it was girlishly timid of me.

“So do you agree to think about the consequences of your actions before you ride your bike through the hospital again?” the old man asked me in the tone of voice of a father taking a measured response to his son's recklessness.

I was sitting on the scratchy blue couch in our new living room, anxiously picking a scab on my elbow. My cap, Dewey's cap, was pressed down snugly over my ears. I wanted nothing more than to leave the room and go back upstairs to my radio. I'd been waiting four weeks now to record my favorite song, “Xanadu”, off the radio. Every second I stayed away from my stereo meant I was more likely to miss the opportunity. Why was this so hard for people to understand?

“No! I hate this place,” I shouted. “I hate you and I hate Bone Harbor and I hate the Yankees. I want to go live with mom in Ironbury. My friends are lame here. Cristo’s lame. There are too many girls and they make fun of me cuz I like the Sox. This place bites the big wiener.”

Already, the Walrus was fading from my speech, replaced with a strange mixture of Fisherman and Syndicated Disk Jockey.

My dad looked at me sadly, his graying mustache drooping over the corners of his mouth as he reflected on the Camp Gundalow brochure that promised “Close, responsible guidance through your child's most formative years.” He then sighed and said, “Alright, Ogden. When do you want to go back? There is still time to enroll you in fourth grade in your old school. Wait...didn’t Carr School close when you left?”

It had closed for something silly like low test scores or in-school violence, stuff I considered the high points of public education. My brother was the last to graduate sixth grade from the venerable Ironbury institution and mine was the last third grade class. So even if I returned to Ironbury, I would start fourth grade in a new school. This new temporary prison, I recalled from a memorable field trip, was an industrial-sized building called John F. Kennedy Elementary School . The school had thin metal bars on the windows and Hispanics threw dice on the. A 5th grader who was as black as a hole in the ground and as big as a Patriots linebacker had promised me that I would “Def'nitely” have my ass kicked every day of the week for the rest of my life if I went there. And, since Chuckie was now attending 4^th grade at JFK, I'd probably have to give that bug stain his stupid matchbox car--all because Bob Stanley couldn't save a game for all the Bazooka Joe bubble gum in the world. Ugh! No matter what, I was buggered. I crossed my arms and kicked the door jam.

My father lamely suggested I go play Blip with Brooklyn.

“I don't want to. I hate Blip.”

This wasn't remotely true. I actually loved to play Blip nearly as much as I enjoyed breaking abandoned warehouse windows, I could play against the “machine” for at least three minutes before one of the three numbered buttons would stick and allow the crafty ball to sneak through my defenses. My lie made me even angrier because I didn't know why I had said it.

“Well, Mork & Mindy is on in half an hour. You like that program don't you?”

Aside from the theme song, I had no use for Mork & Mindy.

“What about The A-Team?” I asked.

“I'm sorry,” said my father. “You have to learn that your bicycle is a privilege. You are not allowed to watch The A-Team tonight.”

You bike down one hospital hallway and everything that is good and pure in the world is taken away from you.

“Fine!” I spat, “I don’t want to watch The A-Team. I don’t even care about The A-Team. I hate The A-Team.”

I made as much noise as possible on my march the wooden steps to my bedroom. There was nothing more in the world I would rather do than watch The A-Team. Brooklyn was quietly reading Conan comics in his room while Thor, his brown and white guinea pig, foraged in a pile of wood shavings and shit.

“You bite,” I said for no reason. “You bite the big one. Why didn't you make mom keep us in Ironbury. Huh? This place eats it. No one here does anything fun. Chuckie said he was gonna raise pit bulls to fight in South Bahston. He said we coulda made a thousand dollahs.”

Brooklyn looked up from Conan. His posture was like a hook-necked vulture hunched over a carcass. He didn't straighten his back as he shouted, “You want to get beaten about the head and neck? Huh? Do you want one of these?”

He held up a pale fist. Something about how he tucked his thumb into his other fingers made it look more menacing than anything I could imagine. Behind Brooklyn on the wall was a giant poster of a bloody Orc in full battle regalia. Brooklyn continued as I backed away.

“Is this what you want? Huh, Doofus? I don't control what you do. If you want to go back to Ironbury then go. I'm not stopping you. Just get out of my room, moron. Go hit yourself on the head with a bat again. Jeez.”

“Your room smells like poop,” I said quickly. Brooklyn hardly reacted so I spit out, “And Dungeons and Dragons is for loosahs.”

“See my finger, see my thumb, see my fist…you better run,” chimed Brooklyn as he dropped his comic book and lunged at me.

I sprinted into my room to brace the door with my feet. Predictably, Brooklyn stomped from his room and pounded on my door.

“Open up and take your beating.”

I gripped the door knob with both hands to keep him from opening it.

“No! Dad! Brooklyn is being a wiener. Make him stop!”

“Open the door and take your beating,” said my brother. “Be a man. Take it now and I won't beat you up tomorrow.”

I didn’t want to get beaten up today or tomorrow.

“No! Dad! Brooklyn is being evil again. I didn't mean what I said about D & D. I love D & D.”

“Too late now, brother. You should have thought of that before you incurred my wrath.”

This was classic comic book language, and it eloquently described my brother's mood.

“Incurred your wrath? Oh No! Dad! He's killing me again!”

Brooklyn pounded on the door and then gave me the dreaded countdown.

“The longer you put it off the worse it will be. I'm going to count to ten. Every number I get to will mean a worse beating. Ten is the ultimate beating. One is just a mild beating. Open now and you will only get a mild beating. Do yourself a favor, Oggy.”

I had never been real good at math, but this equation, something I later learned could be charted on graph paper as Y=X, was deeply suspect. I knew I would get the ultimate beating regardless what number Brooklyn reached.

“Dad! Help!”

“One!” pronounced my brother like an Orc.

“Dad! I didn't do anything. I want to go back to Ironbury. The Sox are gonna win next yeah. I've gotta be there. Help! Dewey gave me his hat!”

“Two. The beating just got worse, Ogden. It is all your fault that you will now have to be beaten a little worse than before. Three!”

“Dad!”

Then I heard the words of rescue. “Brooklyn! Go back to your room. If I have to come up there you will both be in big trouble. We go to counseling in a few days, you know. I want to tell Dr. Fink that you're adjusting.”

Finally my father had saved me. I heard Brooklyn whisper through the door, “I won't forget. You have to sleep sometime, Booger. That's when I'll get ya.” Footsteps fell away across the hall and into his room.

I crawled exhausted to my hamster cage and turned on my radio with my foot. Who would help me? Carlton Fisk? Dewey? Eck? WHEB 100.3 FM?

“Help me, Yaz. Help me get back to Bahston. Help the Red Sox win the World Series. Help me play for the Sox. Help me. Please, Yaz.”

I needed a sign, something to give me hope. Then, as I looked to my poster of Dwight Evans poised watching the ball he had just crushed, the opening chords of “Xanadu” tinkled out of the speakers with ELO's signature New Wave drum beat and synthesized string arrangement. This was my sign! This was it! Someone was really watching over me and picking me up when I was down. There was hope. I wasn't alone after all.

I rolled over, grateful I always kept a blank tape in the dictation recorder, and reached frantically for the play and record buttons. But before I could hit the buttons, Brooklyn burst through the door with a crash, both fists clenched thumb in. He hadn't gone back to his room at all; he had only waited for me to let my guard down. I'd been deceived!

“No! Wait! Help Yaz! Dewey! Pudge! Dad!”

Brooklyn stood over me blocking my escape and deliberately, deliciously, announced my doom with his trademark phrase.

“Let the beatings begin.”

Then he fell on me with hard knuckles and merciless elbows while I screamed my objections and desperately tried to press the record button. The recorder was just out of reach. If I stretched I could reach the button, but Brooklyn had grabbed my hat as I clawed at the rug. I could sacrifice my Sox hat to record “Xanadu” but I couldn't have both.

“But 'Xanadu',” I cried as I wrestled my hat out of Brooklyn's hands. “I need to record 'Xanadu'. I'm missing it right now! Can't you hear it, Brooks? It's playing right now and I’m missing it! Please! You’re killing me!”

Brooklyn cackled, “That, dear brother, is my full intention.”

“Xanadu” drifted unrecorded into my Bone Harbor fortress as the punches fell onto my numb shoulders. I protected my cap even as I could see the record button almost within reach. The price, I decided, was too great. My pained expression reflected dimly in the dirty plastic hamster cage while C. Fisk, Yaz, and Teddy Ballgame fled to their shaved wood nests. My Red Sox Gods, my healthy heroes, my giant kings, stood frozen and mute, forever sealed in their paper paradise.

“History will remember my struggle, Sticky. History will bear witness.”

“Sure it will. It must be nice to think that. Look, can we do this later? I got stuff to..”

“Schiraldi never ever should have been allowed to bat in the tenth. His night was over when he gave up the tying run on the Gary Carter sacrifice fly in the eighth. And he never should have made it out of the bottom of the ninth.”

“But he did, and that is why he pitched in the bottom of the tenth. He didn’t do too bad.”

“Sticky, he lost the biggest game in Red Sox history, and he wasn’t even on the team in 1985. He never knew Yaz. He didn’t earn the right to break my shine box. I can’t forgive him.”

“He had some help, kid. Stanley, Gedman, Buckner. The Mets didn’t do so bad either.”

“So now you’re taking their side? Traitor! Turncoat!”

“It was a seven game series, Oggy. Game Six only counted for one game.”

“One game? Really. Now I need you to do my math? I went to college too.”

“I’m just sayin’...”

“I know what you're saying, Sticky, and I’m calling you out. Game Six counted for everything. It counted for 1946 and it counted for 1967 and it counted for 1975. It counted for Teddy Ballgame and Yaz and Bobby Dooer and Julio Valdez. It counted for everything and Schiraldi didn’t deserve the right to destroy all that I had worked for.”

“You didn’t work for shit.”

“History will remember my struggle. You, on the other hand, will be forgotten like the smell of rat shit underneath the Leary Field bleachers. You don't know anything. You don't know me and you don't know Ray Knight. Can you tell me what Dwight Evans batted in 1980? Can you tell me what it sounded like when Yaz ran around the field on Yaz Day? Do you even know what it smells like in the Center Field Bleachers at Fenway? Do you know anything at all of value? Do you? No. I'm the one who kissed Rose McCorley. I'm the one who played against Gordy Clutcher at the Whiffle ball courts. I know who Ray Knight is. Do you? Sticky? Sticky?”