Memorabilia: Chapter 3 Always Something There to Remind Me

Chapter Three: Always Something There to Remind Me

I placed my Sox cap back on my bed's cat-scratched headboard post. Dewey's cap had aided me in recapturing the details of my decade-old Xanadu pursuit, but the Youthsong left me dizzy and drained as always. The Timewraiths were satisfied for the moment, but like reruns of Scooby Doo, they'd be back. Only the final page of my 1990 Red Sox calendar remained to be turned over. Only then would my decade of failure be complete.

Tiny thumbtack holes, like constellations of trends outlined a long-gone poster of Samantha Fox, once affixed strategically above my bed so I could imagine her sultry eyes looking at me and her pendulous breasts drooping toward my hands. Her poster was history; her breasts probably drooped now more than ever; her music was at the very bottom of the discount bin at the Greenfields Mall, but she would never be forgotten. After all, naughty girls need love too.

The same decade old Red Sox stickers stared back at me from the window, and the record player, Brooklyn's old record player, still sat in the corner near the dusty radiator. Heat warped Kurtis Blow and Naked Eyes records now lay on the floor near my dented Red Sox waste basket filled with three-year-old incomplete Spanish homework.

Eleven Septembers had passed like so many cleats on the cement dugout at Leary Field. Still, no Red Sox World Championship pennant was hanging in my room. No yellowed newspaper clippings describing the triumph of Dewey and Rice and Yaz were tacked to my walls. No tacky T-shirts bought outside of Fenway Park with anthropomorphic socks wearing baseball gloves and big grins standing on the inscription, “World Champions Boston Red Sox” It was as though my bedroom had been encased in ice as Brooklyn thwarted my attempt to record “Xanadu” from the radio. The ice had thawed eleven years later and aside from the addition and subtraction of some posters, the new piles of C- English papers and incomplete lab reports on Photosynthesis, and an enlarged collection of baseball cards, little else had changed.

My house was still pale green; the thorn hedges still spilled onto the uneven sidewalk; the garage still needed to be painted; the cellar door still stuck midway through opening; the hot water still went off when you flushed the toilet. A few notable changes (listed chronologically) were details like the hallway wall which preserved the dent my father's shoe had made in the wall when he learned Brooklyn had not been going to school for a week in 1982, but instead was watching a bootleg Raiders of the Lost Ark video at his friend's house. My dismantled go-cart lay in the dusty basement, under the mended plumbing pipes. My brother had chased me into the basement after he lost a game of Colecovision baseball sometime in 1984. In the terror of the moment I had grabbed a wood chopping axe to protect myself and when Brooklyn called my bluff, yelling, “You thought it would be funny, but you aren't laughing now,” and came charging at me I swung wildly over my head and caught the hot water line with the blade. The line exploded in a burst of scalding, 150-degree water, stopping my brother's advance and allowing me to escape through a window. That little disaster had cost me ten hours in the South Street Cemetery where I went to hide, but by that time I had business with the dead and so belonged among them.

That same year, 1984, I broke the blue living room couch when I tried to stick a triple back flip a’ la Mary Lou Retton. JoJo and I had broken the sliding living room door during a WWF steel cage match in 1985. Nearby was the banister Brooklyn broke when the New England Patriots got crushed by the Chicago Bears in the 1986 Superbowl. Of course, there was the faint carpet stain marking where I vomited my heart out on October 25^th 1986 as a baseball rolled through Bill Buckner's legs. Kurt chipped the window in my bedroom with a rock as he prepared to run away from home in 1987. Most recently, in the downstairs bathroom cracked plaster evidenced where Buddy Huggington had torn the sink off the wall in the summer of 1988. The accompanying party had been planned and executed to get Darcy Devins to give me a hand job or some comparable sign of affection. When the police finally sent everyone home, causing a near riot and the theft of three irreplaceable chandelier globes, Darcy did not even know it was my house and I was too drunk to pleasure myself.

Although I should have cursed Buddy for vandalizing my home, disrespecting my father's antique chess set, eating all the pizza I had purchased to get me through my father's absence, I missed him. I wanted to have half an hour of Buddy's attention so I could explain myself and hear him say, “Oggy, you're the best. I'm your friend. We're friends. I believe in you, brother.” Then Buddy would point a cigarette at a girl we knew from high school and whisper, “Her pussy stinks so bad. She doesn't wipe her asshole.” The ignorant girl would turn and smile broadly and Huggy would grin his shy John Travolta grin. He would then hug her so she couldn't see him point to her ass and then pinch his nose for my entertainment all while saying, “It's so good to see you, Becky. You look sooo sexy tonight.” I hated him, and I missed him.

Somehow this scenario would make me feel better about myself. Somehow I'd be able to look at my Debbie Gibson Electric Youth poster and think, “My shine box has a chance.” But Buddy was at some technical college about one hundred miles inland along with everyone else who couldn't get into the state academic school, but still wanted to drink for five months on their parents' nickel.

The baseball glove that I had so carefully stashed beneath my mattress in 1980 had made the annual trip to The Central Little League Field and weekend visits to Fenway Park to field foul balls, and then to Leary Field and even went with me to the Baseball State Championships until High School ended. It had just returned with me from Alaska via California via Florida via Connecticut and now lay on my sandy backpack near my stereo.

In a cardboard box near my stereo was the mix tape that I'd managed to complete before my Game Six obsession and desperate promises devoured me completely. Though “Xanadu” was conspicuously absent, the static filled sides revealed my changing musical tastes. Side one included “The Best of Times” by Styx, “Abracadabra” by Steve Miller, “Beat it” by Michael Jackson, and “Karma Chameleon” by The Culture Club all complete with DJ commentary over the first ten seconds of each song and an unintentional, aborted segue into a song by Kenny Rogers or Barbara Streisand at the end. Side two offered “Material Girl” by Madonna, “Life in a Northern Town” by The Dream Academy, “Faith” by George Michael, “Brand New Lover” by Dead or Alive, and “Midnight Blue” by Lou Gramm. After 1987 I didn't have the patience to wait by the radio and preferred to take a bus to the Greenfields Mall where I could easily shoplift the entire album.

Naturally, my hamsters were long dead and the cage, the Habitrail tubes, and the squeaky exercise wheel were sold at a yard sale for fifty cents. Sometime during the winter of 1980 Teddy Ballgame collapsed in his cage, buried beneath wood shavings. C. Fisk died mysteriously after Kurt and I played catch with him, but I believe the Red Sox had killed him by allowing Carlton Fisk to go to Chicago before the start of the 1981 season. Yaz was the only original hamster to see 1982, but that was the year a cat entered my life. Yaz was Dewey's first, but not his last, live kill.

I changed my cat's name from Dewey to Twain so I wouldn't be reminded of the disastrous 1986 World Series. I promised to change it back as soon as I could figure out a way to win Game Six of the World Series, but until then Twain had to accept his name. My cat didn't seem to mind, but neither did the name change help my shine box out; The Wraiths had made sure there was always something or someone there to remind me of the win that wasn't.

A paper jury of Boston Red Sox players like Dave Stapleton. Marty Barrett and Oil Can Boyd still surrounded me. A poster signed by Bob Stanley and one of Dwight “Dewey” Evans, my hero held their place of fame on my west wall. Carl Yastrzemski was frozen in a twisted posture after swinging the bat, the sailing ball in his gaze. Carlton Fisk stood in a catcher's battle gear looking serious, pointing his directions like a general. Such a look, a look of command and confidence, I had tried to emulate in my many games behind the plate. Stanley, Dewey, Yaz, Fisk: the roster of my life from Fourth Grade on. Where had they gone? Many of them did not play any longer and not one of them still played for the Red Sox. My posters had become headstones. A poster of Tony Armas hung from three corners near my closet door. Tony Armas? Armas had managed to injure himself every year he played for the Red Sox even though he was either jogging around the bases after hitting a home run or else walking back to the dugout after striking out. He didn't even hustle in the outfield, yet was on the disabled list more than in the lineup. I might as well have taped a poster of King Ozymandias to my ceiling or else beneath Armas's name written “1983-1986 RIP.”

The fate of the outfield of my youth: Rice, Lynn, Evans? All gone, dust replaced by dust. Barrett, Stapleton, Henderson, Owen? All gone. Buckner? Gone. Gedman? Gone. Calvin Schiraldi? Gone. Stanley? Gone. Only Wade Boggs remained with a single date under his name, a relic from an age when I could run like an elk through the forest.

A little piece of paper tacked to my bulletin board preserved my predictions for Batting Average and Earned Run Average for the primary players for the 1983 Red Sox team. Armas, according to my expert statistical analysis, was supposed to bat .354 that year. Instead he struck out a despicable 131 times on his way to a .218 average. Everyone in Fenway Park groaned when he came to the plate. Either Armas would hit one of his 36 towering, but meaningless, homeruns over the Green Monster, or he would whiff like my buddy Spaz Bunson in a night game at Leary Field. His strikeout to home run ratio was 4:1, and he hit a lot of home runs. According to my predictions Yaz was supposed to hit forty home runs in 1983. He hit 10 in what would be his last year. This paper banner was a memento but it was more real to me than earlier that evening when my father had questioned and then slighted my sleeping habits.

My sports predictions were tacked next to a small square paper banner that was tacked on the board. On it was written “1990” in classic Student Council, Pep rally red marker. Though I had graduated from Bone Harbor High School in 1989 this wrinkled piece of memorabilia signified how out of touch I remained. My father claimed that I was holding onto my adolescence, but I was more inclined to believe it was holding onto me. The Timewraiths made sure to remind me of this when the winter winds rattled Bone Harbor's wooden joints.

One more strike, Oggy. This time you'll get it. What was Bob Stanley's uniform number? We forget.

“Forty-six. It was forty-six,” I answered the Wraiths, as I always did, in a tired voice.

Did he always throw inside on batters?

“No. Mookie Wilson was looking for a ball over the plate so they were going to work the inside corner. The count was 2-2. He just put too much on it and Gedman couldn't close the glove in time.”

Why don't you go watch the tape again? This time could make the difference. Maybe Darcy will be there and you can skate to “Xanadu” with her. Isn't that what you want?

Did I want to skate rollerskate with Darcy Devins? Did Cyndi Lauper wear funny clothes? Of course I did.

So, I was in the same bed, in the same room, in the same house, in the same town as in 1980. I even wore the same Red Sox cap, Dewey's cap, that I had worn as the Sox had closed out their '80 season, though I'd had to mend the bill and the plastic adjustable size tab after Napper Monahan had torn it from my head during a fifth grade rumble. I was heavier, yes, taller, with more hair on my face than my 1980 self had on his entire body, but not much else was different. I had been allergic to Twain for the past ten years, which explained the hundreds of used tissues on the floor and under my bed. WHEB still played the odd Billy Joel song, but now their play list mostly consisted of the latest from Color me Badd, Salt-N-Pepa and Nirvana. Come as you are? Eleven years earlier Roger Daltrey and Pete Townsend had wanted to know who I was. Now Kurt Cobain didn't care. “Come as you are. As you were. As you wanted to be.” In other words, we don't care who you are.

But who am I, I mused? Who was I? Who had I wanted to be? Cobain's tune didn't give me any clues so I continued to look into the void left by the thumbtacks that once held Samantha Fox right where I wanted her.

The phone usually rang at half past midnight just as I was about to kiss Darcy's threadbare sport sock or, if luck was with me, just after I had. My father sleeps close to a phone. I do not. This night my father answered the phone on the second ring expecting the police and tragic news, but I knew how the conversation would go.

“Hey, Mr. Bleacher. Is The Kid there?”

Silence.

“Ogden?!”

I heard my father’s call to me through a haze of sex fantasies. Darcy was just about to press her cleavage into my face.

“Just a little closer. Please. Just come a little closer. I'll show you what pleasure is, Double D. More pleasure than this world allows...”

“Ogden? Phone.”

Darcy was torn from me and as I rolled to my feel my lower back ached as though Ray Knight had been hitting 0-2 bloop singles into my kidneys all night.

“Ogden?!”

I tested my swollen foot on the floor. The familiar pain was still there so I limped into the other room and picked the phone up.

“Kirk here.”

“Hey, Ogden, it's Vance. You ready to rock?”

Vance Larsen was the only one who would have the balls to call my house after midnight on a work night (for my father) and not hang up if my father answered. Friends like Huggy or Kodiak or Evan, drunk or weird, would have had the decency to hang up. Not Vance. For the past three years Vance had told me that I was the first person he called, but we both knew that was a lie. Ever since I had returned from Florida I was the only one awake at 12:30 A.M. on a Wednesday morning.

“Ogden? Hey, Kid! Ogden?”

Vance was one of the very few people outside of my family who called me by my real first name. Most of my friends called me Oggy, but it was comforting to hear Vance say, “Ogden? You there?”

“Yeah. What?”

“Up for a ride?”

I hesitated, but could find no reason to say no. The hour I dreaded was approaching. The Wraiths of Time were stirring on the frozen streets. Even though I had just treated them to my September 1980 song they wanted more.

The war is no more. Tell the story about the Veteran, Oggy. Tell the story, Oggy. Mets 6. Red Sox 5. Remember Jim Rice ending the tenth inning? Remember Bill Buckner going 0-5 in the game? 2-2 to Mookie Wilson? One more strike. One more out. Remember?

“Yes.”

“Good. I’ll be over if five minutes. Bring some gas money.”

I hung the phone up and intercepted my naked father shuffling down the hall to the bathroom. He looked gray and infirm. His chest sagged like a gorilla’s. His belly looked like a deflated inner tube. He held his lower back as though he would snap in half and collapse in two pieces on the carpet if he didn't. He was an old man, at least fifty-years old, but he had never looked older than right then. The Wraiths of Time had clearly had their way with him. It was like he had aged fifteen years in five hours. His thinning hair was so white it glowed like snow falling near the parking lot lights at the Greenfield Mall. It would not have surprised me if I had looked in his bed and found his body lying cold under the blankets while his ghost stood naked and confused in the hallway. But no, he still lived.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Vance. Just Vance.”

“Does he have to call this late?”

“I don't know. I'll ask him to stop.”

“Are you going out?”

Remember? Remember? Remember? Go watch the game. One more strike. One more out. Remember Calvin Schiraldi? Remember the swelling joy when you thought they were going to win after Hernandez flew out to centerfield? Tell the story from the time you thought they were going to win to when the ball rolled into right field and they lost. Tell that story Oggy. One more out. Remember?

“Yes. One more out.”

We exchanged solemn stares for a moment: Me looking into my doomed future. Him seeing a far-gone, squandered past being squandered again. We said nothing more. He shuffled off toward the crapper on sore knees. I watched his flabby ass drift into the darkness. Then I went to get dressed, which in my case meant putting my shoes on.

Soon I was standing once more in front of the living room television, my shrine to the win that wasn't. The VHS tape was already in the VCR. It called to me. Maybe this time I would learn what went wrong in '86 and solve the mystery of Game Six. The Timewraiths seemed to think I would.

Remember how cold it was on October 25, 1986? Grass frost mornings bled into Candy Corn evenings and then into Mookie Wilson nights. Remember?

How could I forget when the Wraiths reminded me every day? How could I forget when Dewey's poster watched over me in the night and the space over my bed was not filled by a World Championship banner?

Watch the Game, Oggy. Either Stanley gets one out or the Mets win. One more strike on Knight. Remember? One more out from The Steamer! Just one more out and you are the hero. They are so close to winning. Can you feel the win? Can you feel your father's arms around you when they win? Can you hear Sticky's excited voice? Can you taste the champagne on Wade Boggs' lips? Can you see Dwight Evans jump into the arms of Bill Buckner? Can you see Jim Rice jump on the pile of bodies at the pitcher's mound? Watch the game and you will see your dreams come true. One more strike. Maybe you can help them get that last out. Watch the game, Oggy. Watch them win. Remember?

I turned the television on and pressed play. The tape was already into the painful Post Game show, interviewing the victims, replaying my pain, so I pressed rewind and turned away for a few moments. After so many viewings I had the timing down perfectly and stopped the tape just as the bottom of the tenth inning of Game Six began. It was October 25, 1986. The Boston Red Sox were winning 5-3 and the New York Mets were down to their final three outs. This was the moment I'd been waiting for since Chuckie had challenged me to a bet, the moment I'd been promised in exchange for my loyalty.

“Come on, Calvin! Get the first out. Come on!”

I heard my father close his bedroom door and mumble some bourgeois complaint about noise and work. More importantly, Calvin Schiraldi got the first out, a routine Wally Backman fly ball to Jim Rice in left field.

“Yes!” I shouted. “Two more outs! Get the second out, you bum! Get him out!”

My father yelled to me that I needed to turn the volume down.

“After the third out!” I responded. “I'll turn it down after the next two outs! The Sox are up 5-3. They can't lose.”

I stroked Dewey's hat, feeling the raised 'B' under my fingers. The nylon mesh was so smooth and memory rich. The second out came quickly as Keith Hernandez smacked a deep fly ball to Dave Henderson in Center Field. Hendu hauled it in near the warning track. I jumped up and down. My foot didn't hurt quite so much as before. I stared the Timewraiths into the corner.

“See? I told you. The Sox are gonna win. Dewey predicted it. They are finally gonna win. I knew it.”

If everything went perfectly Dwight Evans would catch the final out and be able to mount the winning baseball at Fenway Park. He deserved it. The Red Sox deserved it. New England deserved it. One more out! One more out and the Red Sox would win the 1986 World Championship.

“Come on, Schiraldi. Strike Carter out. Just throw the ball to Geddy. Pitch and catch. Pitch and catch, you bums.”

I was referring to Calvin Schiraldi, the pitcher since the eighth inning, Gary Carter, the Met's batter, and Rich Gedman, the stocky Sox catcher. I moved with Schiraldi's fluid windup but winced when the tenacious Carter stroked a solid base hit to Left field on a count of 2 balls and 1 strike.

“You fahkin’ bastard!”

Schiraldi then surrendered an 0-1 line-drive single to pinch hitter Kevin Mitchell who became the tying run on first base. Carter advanced carefully to second base, obeying the old base-running rule to never end an inning, let alone Game Six of the World Series, by getting thrown out at third base.

“Filthy!” I hissed.

The replay showed Dave Henderson fielding Mitchell's hit on one short hop. I'd always wondered why he was playing so deep when the batters were guaranteed to take defensive swings. With two outs the Mets had absolutely no room for error. Why respect them? Why? I paused the tape as Schiraldi prepared to pitch to Ray Knight and placed a call to the Red Sox Hotline.

“You wanna know what the worst part is, Sticky?”

“Wha? Who?”

“What was McNamara thinking here? He must have already been drunk on victory champagne. You know what the worst part is?”

“Oggy? The worst part is that you call me at one in the morning. My family is sleeping. My mom's been sick. I can hear her coughing right now.”

“The worst part is Mitchell's hit. There is just no excuse. I can grant Carter a hit. Hell, he's a solid slugger. I even kept his rookie baseball card after Wynn gave it to me. But Mitchell's hit to center field should have been caught.”

“Can't you call Piper for once. Please.”

“I swear that if Mitchell had just worked a 2-2 count I could have taken it. Right? Schiraldi can't allow a 3-2 count since Carter will get the extra step with two outs. So he gives Mitchell something to hit. But you want to know something? Sticky! Wake up!”

“I had the worst day today.”

“Listen, I swear on Wynn's grave that if Mitchell dings one, if he unleashes on an inside fastball and hits an unbelievable two run home run to tie the game that leaves the Sox stunned, then I could get over it. I could. Really. Couldn't you?”

“Oggy, Oggy, Oggy. I'm already over it. The whole world is over it. Now I'm just tired. You wouldn’t believe the assignment I have for Journalism. I have to…”“

“I would just write it off to a tough break. A one pitch screw up. Right? One pitch and the Sox lose. Fine. I mean, I've watched so many games where they lose by one pitch I can't even count them all.”

“Get over it, Oggy.”

“But Mitchell got a hit, a simple single that should have been caught. Why wasn't the outfield playing in on an 0-1 pitch? No one is asking that question. Did Henderson think Mitchell was going to stroke a double to the gap on a 0-1 breaking ball? Seriously, Sticky?”

“Hendu was at normal depth. Shit, now I'm awake. I hate this, Oggy. I hate it!”

“Normal depth my ass! Ha! Once again you are wrong. McNamara had just adjusted the outfield to go deeper. Why? What was he thinking? You don't have to protect the lines with two outs. Go for the out. Forget the double. This wasn't a normal game and they needed to take a chance. If you are going to get burned why not make Mitchell actually get a good hit instead of a cheap single to center field. Right? Why not bring the outfield in ten steps and force the batter to really stroke one? Henderson needed to do something special. It is like in Game Seven when they should have brought the outfield onto the infield dirt when they were pitching to Orosco. Remember? He never could have slapped that hit through on the fake bunt if there were eight infielders. Remember?”

“Orosco? Seven infielders?”

“They just needed to do something special and at the same time calculated.”

“Like hit a home run in the top of the tenth inning? Hendu did everything he could do.”

“No, he didn't. He didn't adjust. He didn't take three steps in on a 0-1 pitch to Mitchell and he didn't take three steps in on an 0-2 pitch to Knight. Hendu didn't do everything he could do. That is where you are wrong. Hendu didn't adjust so he could catch a bloop single and win the World Series. Sticky, the Sox lost because Hendu didn't take three steps in. I'm watching the game right now and this is as clear as day.”

“So what? So they lost. That was a hundred years ago. Get a life.”

“I've got a life, Sticky. I've got a life and I will happily get over it just as soon as you can answer this one question: What do you risk by bringing the outfield in three steps on a 0-1 pitch to Mitchell. That bitch is just a pinch hitter, for Yaz's sake. He has been sitting on the bench for ten hours. He's stiff. He can't swing. Move in on him just like we used to move in on you in Kick Ball at Bone Harbor. Remember? 'Cause of your crippled calf?”

“There you go again cutting on my calf. Why?”

“Well, we knew you were going to kick an easy pop up with your wooden calf so we brought in the outfielders. It was just good strategy and we did it in fourth fahking grade! When you know Mitchell and Knight are going to come up with defensive, sissy swings then you risk nothing by moving in.”

“I was good at kickball. Remember I had like a hundred RBIs in third grade?”

“I was in Ironbury for third grade.”

“You were a fahkin' asshole in third grade! Now let me sleep.”

“No. That is exactly what McNamara did. He fell asleep, Sticky! Hendu fell asleep. Schiraldi fell asleep. I could've accepted a three-run home run, Cristo, but I can't accept an 0-1 bloop single to center field that is fielded on one hop. That I can't accept. See? That is why you can't sleep. Too many people are falling asleep. We need to be awake. The world needs to wake up to the truth. Then my prophecy will be realized. Sticky? Hey, Cristo? Sticky Kid?”

Mitchell was on first and Carter was on second but the Mets were still a long way away from scoring them both to tie the game. Pitching coach Bill Fisher made a visit to the mound but foolishly decided Schiraldi was still the best man to give the ball.

“Take him out, “ I yelled. “Take Schiraldi out and shoot him!”

Then I imagined Knight hitting a double to the right field gap and Dewey throwing out Mitchell at the plate, dramatically cutting down the tying run and winning the Series for the Sox with a three hundred foot bullet thrown from the warning track. It would be a play that would be remembered and replayed forever. The throw that won Boston the World Series. I touched Dewey’s ragged hat atop my head and then hunted for Darcy’s sock in my pocket.

“Please! Please get him out. One more out. One more! Please.”

Schiraldi got two quick strikes against Ray Knight causing my heart to thump wildly in my chest. There was no chance for the Mets now. Even the scoreboard at Shea Stadium congratulated the “World Champion Boston Red Sox” and the announcers named Red Sox player Marty Barrett MVP of the game and Bruce Hurst the MVP of the series for their incredible consistency. Barrett and Hurst. Most Valuable Players in the biggest New England victory in nearly 70 years. Celebration champagne was wheeled into the Red Sox locker room. Sox fans everywhere gripped themselves in anticipation. 68 consecutive years without a World Championship was about to come to an end. No team in the history of baseball had been this close to the ultimate victory without winning. The Sox had to win. The 68 year curse was about to end. My foot felt great! One more strike!

Schiraldi threw the next pitch, normally a pitch to waste, too far over the plate and Knight pushed a sneaky, blooping base hit over Marty Barrett's glove and into center field.

“No!” I yelled. “Fahkin' no!”

The hit scored Carter from second and sent the speedy Mitchell to third.

“An 0-2 RBI single with two outs in the tenth inning of the sixth game of the World Series?” I asked the silent room. “Come on! Even Wade Boggs couldn't have pulled that off.”

It was suddenly a one-run game, but the Sox still had a chance to shut the Mets down with one more out. They could still win! Worthless McNamara called Bob Stanley in to pitch to Mookie Wilson with the tying run at third base. As Stanley warmed up I fast forwarded through the inane commercials for a Ford Bronco II and the new Commodore computer. I paced the living room floor. I didn't care which new whore Sonny Crockett was going to screw on the next episode of Miami Vice. I didn't want a Tandy 3000 computer and I definitely wasn't going to fly Delta. Didn't the network know how important this game was? Why else had I recorded it?

I picked up the phone to ask Cristo why Bill Fisher had decided to allow Schiraldi to pitch to Knight when he planned to replace him if he gave up a hit? Why? It makes no sense. Why not give Stanley the chance to pitch while it was still a two-run game? Why bring him in with the tying run ninety feet away instead of with the tying run just standing on first base? Or why not let Schiraldi sleep in the pile of shit he had just dumped on the mound instead of now giving the ball to Stanley? These were important questions but I could find no answer since Cristo had unplugged his phone.

Crouched again in front of the screen with my Sox hat off, I started rubbing the worn bill for luck. Stanley and Wilson battled as though their lives depended on the outcome.

“Come on. Strike him out! Please! They have to win! I predicted it! Dewey promised!”

Wilson fouled the first pitch off. Strike one. Stanley missed with the next pitch. 1-1. Stanley also missed high with the third pitch. 2-1.

“Fahk!”

Wilson fouled the next pitch off his right foot. The count was 2-2. One more strike! Wilson fouled the next pitch off his foot again. The count remained 2-2.

“Strike out, you filthy, crack smoking, bastard!”

Wilson fouled the sixth pitch of the at bat out of play. The count remained 2-2. One more strike. I could breathe only in bursts because my heart was pounding my lungs like a 90 mile-an-hour Roger Clemens pitch. One more strike! This was it! Stanley went into his windup once more. Anxiety sweat beaded on my forehead and was moped up by my Sox hat. I paused the tape to give myself time to prepare.

“Please give me this one out. Please God! I'll do anything. You can crucify me on the Citgo sign if you want. Just give me one more strike. Come on!”

I pressed play and held out my hands hoping my prayers and my loyalty were strong enough to change history. Mookie Wilson would swing while Gedman would catch the ball and the Red Sox would be Champions.

“One. More. Strike.”

I said these words as the ball hung on Stanley's fingers a fraction of a second too long and screamed toward Mookie Wilson's legs...again. Wilson left his feet to avoid the pitch and Gedman lunged to his right to glove it...again. This was the moment of truth and I held my breath...again. I let it out in a sigh when my prayers went unanswered...again. Gedman touched the ball with his mitt but failed to grab it...again. The ball squeezed through his glove as though sucked by destiny and then deflected off the umpire’s leg on its way to the backstop...again. The tying run, Mitchell, on base due to Hendu's cowardly defense, scored from third base sending the Mets fans at Shea Stadium into a frenzy...again. The winning run, Ray “0-2 RBI single” Knight now stood on second base...again. The count was now 3-2. The infield, including the gimpy Bill Buckner, was pushed back to prevent a hit...again. The game would at least go to the eleventh inning...again. The glorious message on the scoreboard, “Congratulations 1986 World Champion Boston Red Sox” vanished...again. My worst nightmare had come true as it had for the past five years. Once again my will had failed to be strong enough to change history. The Timewraiths had won...again. I paused the tape...again and picked up the phone, dialing the numbers with a trembling hand.

“Piper? Listen, I know it's late but you have to listen.”

“Oggy? Are you sick?”

“Listen: Why not bring in Marty Barrett and put him behind the catcher? Seriously.”

“What?”

“Just put Marty Barrett or maybe Wade Boggs, since they figured Wilson was going to pull the ball, behind the ump. Right? Then reposition the infield so they fill the gaps. See? That way they are protected from a wild pitch.”

“Are you talking about the Sox?”

“I think that is the strategy. Just put a back-up catcher, maybe Spike Owen, so in the case of a wild pitch there is someone there to field it and keep Mitchell on third. Right? It's never been done but I don't think there is a rule against positioning a player in foul territory before the pitch. It'll work. Then they'll win.”

“I'm hanging up now. I'll see you in a few weeks, Oggy. I've got Finals. Call Sticky.”

“I did. He's being a big bitch.”

“Then call Lacy. She'd like to hear from you. Bye.”

“But you didn't answer my question. If you put Barrett behind Gedman would that sacrifice too much of the infield? I mean, is it too much of a risk? I don't think it is. I think that in the sixth game of the World Series with two outs, a man on third base and a pitcher who has been known to throw wild pitches that it is a good strategy to put Boggs behind Gedman to stop any wild pitches or passed balls. See? They are still playing for the ground ball out. Right? Pipe? Piper?”

My old aches returned to my throwing arm. My foot throbbed. The Game Six syndrome wasn't as bad as it had been in the past but it still kept me awake at night sweating in regret and clawing at Dewey’s poster. I knew the game wasn't over yet. It was only tied. But I also knew what now awaited me if I pressed play. My power was too drained to confront what was next.

I picked up the phone and reluctantly dialed Lacy's number. Her answering machine picked up after four rings. I kissed the receiver as Lacy's out-going message played.

“This is Lacy and Jen. If you know what's good for you then leave a message. If this is Ed I want my CDs back. Bye.”

Who was Ed? I'll kill him!

“Lacy? This is Ogden Bleacher. Remember me from this past November? I know it's late but I really wanted to talk to you. I just wanted to ask you for your opinion about putting an infielder behind Gedman. I think that...”

“Hello? Lacy isn't...”

I hung up quickly. Who was that? I unplugged the phone and hoped the girl who had answered wouldn't call back.

“Try again, Oggy. What do you have to lose?”

The Timewraiths were right. I could always watch the three singles and the wild pitch again. I could maintain my strength until the wild pitch and if I just concentrated hard enough then maybe Gedman would glove the ball and the count would just be full. I had nothing to lose except the pain so I glared at the frozen picture of the Mets fans and players holding their arms up, looking so smug and confident. They didn't know me. They didn't know Ray Knight..

“You don't know what I can do.” I said to the frozen picture of Wally Backman clapping his hands. “I have power over you and time and God. I am in control. I know things you don't.”

I rewound the tape again, stopped it and got on my knees with my Red Sox hat held to my face. I could smell that fall evening over five years earlier, the tension in this very living room as I watched the game with my father. I needed to be stronger. The wild pitch was my fault. I tried to smell the victory that would be guaranteed when Gedman caught the third strike to Ray Knight. It was hard and took immense concentration but I had studied Ninjitsu for three years so I was up to the task. For a moment I could smell the victory. It smelled like Leary Field popcorn, like Darcy Devins’ shampoo. The ball entered Gedman's glove. Knight struck out. The Sox win. The scoreboard's prophecy had been fulfilled instead of denied! Yes! I plugged the phone back in to answer Cristo's celebration call. The Red Sox were about to win!

I lunged for the remote control to capture my vision on the screen, but just then Vance’s ugly gray car pulled in front of my house. The squealing of its brake pads frightened the Timewraiths from my presence and as they fled they cried,

Remember.