Chapter LII: Too late for Goodbyes
Chapter Fifty-Two: Too Late For Goodbyes
The technicalities of my plan were simple: Simply find nine people to play the Boston Red Sox and certain New York Mets players. Set them in position at Leary Field and reenact the bottom of the tenth inning of Game Six of the 1986 World Series. The power of my conviction would transform the moment into the actual event thus allowing the Red Sox to win the World Series and my fifteen year-old self to enjoy the celebration and the life of luxury and privilege that I'd been unjustly denied. The closest I'd come to doing something like this in the past was when Erin and I went downtown with three hundred dollars to hire five kids to sleep out overnight at a ticket office to buy Debbie Gibson concert tickets. Since that had been an success, I figured I would have no trouble pulling this latest plan off. The first step was to find a baseball.
Fortunately, my father was off to Queensland by the time I returned to the old homestead. I ignored a written message that read, “Call Rachel ASAP. Prob. W/ car??” and started to rummage at my leisure through the dusty cupboards and boxes marked “Ogden's junk” in the basement. I found quite a few things I'd been looking for: My split toes Tabi boots that matched my Ninja suit, a pair of white elastic suspenders. I looked forward to returning to 1986 and being able to wear them without being pelted with fruit. I also found an ancient harmonica, maybe the first one I owned, and was able to produce a rattling squeak from the rusting reeds. But no baseball. As I dug through my closet, I no longer minded the absence of my baseball predictions and my Nina Magazines. Because I was confident I could strike Ray Knight out, I felt I'd already purchased a ticket for 1986. For some reason, I trusted Bonigan. What did he have to gain by cheating me. He would not only lose all the memories I'd been providing, but he would lose any future ones I planned to give him. Still, I did feel a stab of grief when I noticed the shadow where my box of Star Wars toys had sat for a mere 14 years, a blink of an eye, until my father had grown impatient. Why? What was he going to use that space for? The disposal of my E.T. trading cards had been pure unjustifiable evil.
I finally found a baseball, the perfect baseball, stashed behind my Mousetrap and Battleship board games. It was a baseball signed by Marc Sullivan, a catcher for two games in 1982. Because I wanted to be a catcher, I thought having an autograph by a catcher would increase my chances. I remembered how thrilled Sullivan had looked when I begged for his autograph. Other signature seekers didn't even look twice at Sullivan. They'd thought he was the batboy, but I knew better. I'd been saving the signed baseball because of this one scribbled name and now I decided I could put it into use to liberate all of New England from the chains of failure.
I found a suitable bat in the garage near my grandfather's unused fishing poles. The chipped wooden bat had the simulated signature of Ozzie Smith, the St. Louis Cardinal shortstop who did back flips on the Astroturf when he ran onto the field. Since the bat, in this case, was not meant to actually hit anything, I decided it would be perfect. So I had the bat and the ball.
To reenact the inning properly I would need the actual players and the use of Shea Stadium. Even I had to admit that this was asking too much. It might take months to hunt down the players, organize a time they could all come to Shea Stadium and then force Ray Knight to swing at an outside and low pitch from Calvin Schiraldi. What if the bastard took a swing and clocked it out of the park? It would be just like a Met to stab me in the back after stabbing me in the front, so I crossed that off as a possibility. Next on the list was a reenactment with people impersonating the whole teams. I could have managers and batboys and umpires and even bring in fans to moan and cry when the Mets lost. But the scale of that event was so overwhelming that just thinking about it made me run my wrists under cold water.
All I really needed was eight or nine people willing to go down to Leary Field and reenact the bottom of the tenth inning. How hard could that be to find now that I was left with a minimal cast of three Mets players, Carter, Mitchell and Knight and five Red Sox players, Dewey, Gedman, Schiraldi, Buckner and Barrett. These last two were needed to cover first and second base so Carter and Mitchell wouldn't just take off with the pitch. Lastly, I would need an umpire to yell those magical words, “Strike three!” when Knight flailed at the pitch. This would be the signal to Bonigan and Zeus and Abu Nidal and anyone else who cared to listen that the Red Sox really won the world series and that I was on my way back to live the life I was meant to live as a winner and not as a bootblack. So I made my calls to arms.
Skip was busy. Mullray Border was still at College. Erin would be happy to play Marty Barrett since he had played second base in High School. One down. Cristo begrudgingly agreed to act as Rich Gedman since he would not have to do anything. Bonigan wasn't home. Vance told me he would call me back and then never did. Kurt said he would not fly back from California to take part in my stupid reenactment, but if I waited until Summer he might come back for a week and could fit it in then.
It seemed everyone else thought my idea was crazy. Desperate, I met Erin and Cristo at the Monahan house and managed to convince Moony and Roddy to come along.
“Only if you can get this done in half and hour, Oggy. We got bets to take and other shit.”
I promised it would only take one pitch and then everything would be done. They agreed to play Carter and Mitchell, the two Mets runners. So I had a catcher (Cristo), a pitcher (me) a second baseman (Erin) two base runners (Roddy and Moony) but I didn't have a right fielder, a first baseman, and umpire, or the most important person of all, Ray Knight. Who could play such an critical role? Not someone who was an easy out like Cristo or someone I just found on the street who had never played baseball. I needed a legend worth of Ray Knight's status. I needed someone who got the clutch hits, who didn't wilt under pressure, who came to play. I needed a giant. Only two people fit that description: Dwight Evans and Gordy Clutcher.
Splain, Roddy's sources told me, was living in Marshford with his girlfriend and worked at an assembly plant as a supervisor. Roddy let me drive his car to Marshford on the condition that I not touch anything. Gordy opened the door as soon as I knocked.
“Gordy. I need your help.”
He was amazed by my appearance and I only wished he could have seen my glorious pirate beard.
“Oggy? I haven't seen you in ten years. Oggy? You look thin. What happened to you?”
“No time to explain, Clutch. I need you to come with me to Leary Field. You have to be Ray Knight.”
Gordy rubbed his head. He was losing his hair.
“You're still hung up on that game. It's been six years and you still won't let go. Why?”
“Because I can win this time. I've got the plan. I'll tell you on the way.”
“But look. I can't bat.”
Gordy used his right arm to picked up what had once been his left arm. His left arm was a shriveled thing.
“Had an ATV accident two years ago. You didn't hear? No? Fahked up. Paralyzed from my shoulder down. Trying to get the money to have surgery.”
My jaw was flapping. Gordy was a cripple.
“So I can't bat, Oggy. Find someone else. How about Stretch?”
“He lives in New York. Clutch, I don't have time to explain. You were the best athlete in Bone Harbor. You have to be the man I strike out. You don't need two arms to strike out. Let's go.”
Gordy paused for a moment and without closing the door he walked into the living room and told someone that he would be out for a while. Then he used his one good arm to grab a hat and a coat and close the door. I explained the plan to him on the way over the Memorial Bridge. He agreed that if anything would work, this would be it. He wished me good luck back in 1986 if it did work and he looked forward to playing whiffle ball with me. He was a king, exactly the Gordy I remembered. He did not for an instant treat me like a bootblack. On the way back to Roddy's place, I stopped at Justin's apartment.
“Wheels,” I told him when he opened up the door. “You are coming with me and you are going to be a part of the greatest Red Sox win in history.”
“But it's January,” he said with a roll of his head. His apartment was no less messy than it had been last month. Ants charged around the kitchen and were branching out into the living room. “And the number on that business card you gave me was disconnected.”
“Don't worry, buddy. I'll give you a hand job if you can help the Sox beat the Mets.”
“Just because I was molested doesn't mean I'm gay,” explained Justin.
“I'm not gonna split hairs with you, Justin. Get your coat. Are your wheelchair batteries all charged up?”
Getting Justin and his wheelchair into Roddy's truck nearly finished me. Gordy only had one good arm to help with and my lower back cried for mercy. I literally threw Justin into the back seat and had to use a Bunjy cord to secure his legs. Lifting the wheelchair into the back seat called on reserves of strength and will I long thought were empty. But I was determined to make this work because I knew that once everything was in place, all my injuries would vanish and I would return to my 15 year-old body.
So now I had a batter worth of being struck out and an umpire. It was only a block to Leary Field from the Monahan's place so we walked down. As we passed Kurt's old house, the current home for mental retards, I saw two kids playing in the front yard. They appeared to be unsupervised and since I still needed a first and second baseman, I walked up to the tall one.
“I will give you ten dollars,” I said as I reached into my pocket and pulled out a one dollar bill. “I will give you one dollar if you come with me and my friends over to Leary Field and do as I tell you.”
“My friends call me Gena,” said the tall one. The shorter one fell down.
“Did you live on Elwyn Avenue?” I said as I pointed to my street. I already recognized Gena's broad face and screwy eyes. She'd lost her whip or else they wouldn't let her keep it, but it was unmistakably her.
“My friends call me Gentle G, “ she said. “I listen to the radio.”
I looked at Justin and asked, “Can you understand what she's saying?”
“Just because I'm in a wheelchair doesn't mean I speak retard. I've got a physical disability, not a mental one. You asshole.”
Cristo told me to forget them and just get it over with. Roddy looked at his watch. Gordy was trying to button his coat up with one arm. But, like my gym teacher used to say, “Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
“Can your friend walk? Hey, is your friend able to walk?”
“The radio plays my favorite songs,” said Gena as she took my dollar bill and ate it.
“Take your friend and come with me,” I said firmly. The trick with subpeople is to talk directly, like you would to a horse. “We are going across the street. You'll be safe with us. Do not worry. Hey! You! Hey fella.”
I was about to give up, since it appeared getting two mentally challenged folks out of their front lawn was harder than it sounded, when the other kid got to his feet and came over to the crew. I backed up a pace and prepared to give him a karate chop if he lunged suddenly.
“My name is Tom and I pick my nose,” he said.
We all waited for him to pick his nose, but he didn't.
“Well, Tom, Gena wants you to come with us and win the world series for the Red Sox. Do you want to do that?”
“I pick my nose and eat it,” he announced.
Again, this was a bait and switch as he neither picked his nose nor ate it.
“Great. Let's go. Gena, take Tom's hand and do as I say. You are going to be Dwight Evans. OK? Tom is going to be Bill Buckner.”
I took out my Red Sox team photo and explained the history of the 1986 Boston Red Sox as we walked in a herd across Richards Avenue and down Parrot Ave. to the Leary Field entrance. Fortunately, the gate was open because pushing Justin and his wheelchair, not to mention getting the two wonder twins over the fence, would have been too much.
“This is Bill Buckner. See? He's the first baseman. He made an error that we are going to correct right now. And this is Dwight Evans. He plays right field and made a promise to me that the Sox would win and he gave me this hat. Erin there is going to play Marty Barrett, the second baseman. He is going to be named the Player of the Game because he got on base five times and had three hits and two RBIs and was a big reason the Sox won the game. See?”
Gena reached for the photo but I held it away and swatted her big paw. I was scared what she would do if she got angry and I could already sense she was ready to take out some of the frustrations from being locked in Kurt's old house for seven years. I remembered her as a violent person, specifically recalling the time she broke into my house and attacked me with her plastic whip. If she could just give me ten minutes of her time then I could go back in time. I made a promise I would go over and play harmonica as musical therapy if everything went right..
Once at the field, I tried to position everyone as I had remembered in the tape. Barrett was there, Buckner playing back to prevent a hit. Gedman was there. The umpire was ready to call the third strike. Carter and Mitchell were both dancing in anticipation of the next hit. Knight was there with his bat. Dewey was out in Right Field waiting for the third strike. Schiraldi was on the mound ready to throw a nasty curveball away in the dirt that would start out with so much promise in Knight's eyes but then curl away out of reach and with it the Met's chance at victory.
I announced, “When Wheels yells 'Strike three' that's when the Red Sox win. Then I'll go back in time.”
“Strike three!” cried Gena.
“Right. Good! Ray Knight of the New York Mets is about to strike out. And when he does the Red Sox win.”
“Mets win!”
“No. The Red Sox win. You are Dwight Evans. You want the Red Sox to win.”
“Mets win! Mets!”
“Listen, I don't have time to explain it. The Red Sox will win when I strike out Ray Knight of the Mets. See? I'm Calvin Schiraldi. You are these guys.”
I showed Gena and Tom the team photo again but neither were very interested. I had to walk Gena into right field and direct her to not move from the spot until the Red Sox won. Then I walked Tom over to first base and told him to stand behind Mitchell.
“Will you be my friend?” asked Tom.
“Yes. You are Bill Buckner. Just stay here and make sure Mitchell doesn't get too big a lead.”
Cristo and Gordy were the only two who didn't need tending. They understood their roles perfectly. Splain, even with one arm, looked menacing with the bat and Cristo stood a few feet behind him and smoked a cigarette. Justin sat in his wheelchair, unable to move even with his snow tires. Kevin Mitchell, in this case, was being played by Roddy Monahan, who was standing casually near the area I had designated first base. Moony was milling around near what I had called second base. Erin was making a show of it by kicking snow toward Moony to simulate his presence. Every inch of Leary field, I should mention, was covered with four inches of snow, so moving Justin onto the field took a superhuman effort on everyone's part, and simply walking took some concentration. Finally, we could only speculate like Ore hunters where first base and home plate belonged. Still, we managed, and after everything appeared to be in place I took my place on what I assumed was the pitcher's mound.
“I'd like to thank everyone for coming,” I began.
“Just fahking do this, Oggy. No speeches,” said Cristo from home plate.
“You are a Greek traitor who would sell your brother for a moment of glory. Thus, you have no say in what I do. You are very lucky I am about to travel back in time because I would otherwise be forced to thrash you.”
“Just go, you tool.”
“Anyway, I have to make a speech. When I strike out Ray Knight, as I plan to do, I expect to be transported back to 1986 where I will relive my life from the age of fifteen. So you will not see me again.”
“Mets Win!” I heard come from way out in right field where Gena was eating snow.
I stuck to the program and said, “When the Red Sox triumph, I will vanish. I just want to thank you all for making this possible. You are true warriors.”
“Good luck, Oggy,” said Erin encouragingly, “Look me up when you get back to '86. Tell me ask that girl out in Chemistry, the one with the short brown hair.”
“Becky?”
“I found out the other day that she liked me. She was a babe.”
This seemed like a reasonable request.
“Fine. Anything else? Any other requests”
Roddy raised his hand and said, “Bet the house on the Redskins to cover in Superbowl XXII.”
“Tell me not to ride that ATV,” said Gordy.
I took out my notebook and wrote down the wish list, “E-ask becky out, R-$$on Skins, GC-no ATV”
“How about you, traitor?” I asked Cristo. “Anything you want to tell yourself in 1986?”
“Yeah. Why don't you tell yourself to fahk off.”
“Will do. Wheels? Any requests?”
“Just pitch the ball. Strike this bum out.”
I liked that attitude. Take things as they come. I toed the rubber and stared at Roddy on second base. Hey, Punk, that was no hit. Moony was only on first base because McNamara had pushed Hendu a few steps back. With two outs they couldn't get caught cheating a step or two so I wasn't worried about the runners. I knew what I had to do. This was it. Knight would swing and the chain would be broken. Bonigan could have everything, he'd earned it. I only wanted the win. I was a winner, not just for me but for every bootblack out there digging in the dumpster of time for a scrap of happiness. This was our time.
Bonigan was standing in the Visitor's dugout waving Darcy's sock in the air like a Red Sox banner and wearing a sinister grin. I was a little reluctant to lose what memories I had of the past six years, but I would make new ones, better ones. I would be a winner again so I leaned back and hurled a leather lightning bolt.
The pitch was supposed to be low and outside, but I let it go too soon. It flew inside, inside, inside. I thought Gordy might still swing at it and strike out, but he reacted by instinct and tried to dodge it. The pitch hit Gordy in the arm as he tried to turn away and then it deflected, to my satisfaction, into Cristo's exposed throat. I tumbled off the slick pitcher's mound and fell on my side in the snow. Gordy struggled to his feet using his one good arm. Cristo clutched his throat and gargled.
“Mets win!” cried Gena jubilantly, her chant echoed by Tom. “Mets Win! We win!”
“No, Gena. Tom! We're the Red Sox. Remember? Bill Buckner? We didn't win yet. Go back to your position. Tom! Go Back. Good. Give me the ball, Sticky.”
Cristo slowly bent over and picked the ball up with the hand not holding his neck.
“Let's try that once more...Gena, I told you...”
I was unable to finish the sentence because when I turned to Cristo to ask for the ball I didn't see him throw it. So when I turned to direct Gena back to right field after she had wandered into foul territory, I caught the ball with my skull and collapsed again on the pitcher's mound. So they tell me.
All I remember is telling Gena to stop yelling that the Mets had won and to go back to her position. I felt a thud and opened my eyes in a neon-lighted roller rink, watching skaters glide in quiet circles around the starry wooden floor. Then Darcy Devins appeared in a ghostly mini-skirt and blue spandex pants, her Wham! “Choose Life” sweatshirt torn fashionably to reveal her milk-white shoulder. Stunning, the hottest girl in there. She was spinning near the perimeter of the rink where there was a snack bar and a video arcade. We weren't alone but it felt like we were. I didn't rush to her as I once thought I would; instead, I waited for her to notice me. When she did, after executing a flawless double pirouette, she glided in my direction.
“Oggy,” she said, her lips finally around my name. “Oggy. I've been waiting. You took so long.”
“Darcy? Is it you? Can I touch you? I've waited my whole life for this. I've tried to do the right thing. I've tried to keep your sock safe, but I lost it. I lose everything.”
Darcy blinked bashfully. My love.
“I'll give you the other one. I've still got it. I dropped it on purpose that time at Kodiak's house. I thought you would talk to me.”
“You mean you knew how I felt?”
Darcy looked away, almost embarrassed to speak the truth. She was nearly as pretty as Lacy when she blushed.
“I thought you would stop me and give it back to me. Then I could tell you how much I wanted to go see Top Gun with you or go to a Bruce Springsteen concert at the Boston Garden. I didn't know how else to do it. But you took my sock instead and never talked to me.”
“Of course I took it, D. It was you, it was a part of your body and I got to touch it every night and imagine it was you.”
I no longer had to hide anything. I could be myself and she still understood. It was like that scene in Dirty Dancing when “Baby” leaps into Johnny's arms, trusting him to accept her en total.
“I know,” said the Blonde One. “And that's why I kept the other sock. I kept it because I knew you had the other one.”
We were skating now as we spoke, effortlessly rolling around the disco ball dabbled rink, teens in glitter shorts passed us with a wink, an occasional hustler in tight corduroy pants would hot shot past with a backward butt wiggle. But we, Darcy and I, looked only into each other's eyes and danced on our skates almost hovering above the dusty wooden floor. Old couples pointed to us and nodded. We touched all who saw us, because it was clear we were in love and would never part. We were like Kira and Sonny in Xanadu, together on the roof of the world, speaking without words, singing harmony.
“This is my dream, Darcy. We've finally met and you understand that I love you and you share my love. This is right.”
And Darcy spoke tenderly, “All those years in High School, do you know how hard it was for me to watch you lick my locker combination, to see you hiding in the forest or under the wooden bleachers, to hear you under my window at night, but not be able to reach out, to tell you that I felt the same way.”
“I know. It was torture, was it not?”
“Yes. Torture. I thought we would never talk, never touch. But I could sleep knowing you had my sock and that you treasured it. I would wear the other one as a sign to you, as a message that I knew you still had my sock. It saw me through the dark times.”
It was all coming out, the truth of her secret desire. She had tried to communicate, poor girl, but she wasn't able to reach me. I'd been too busy looking at her spandex wrapped legs to notice that she was wearing the matching sock. How many missed opportunities? How much pain and anguish we'd caused each other because of our childishness. Why? If only I could go back and try to reach out to her, to admit I'd taken her sock for my own pleasure. Why had I been so cowardly, so blind? It was like Flashdance except I was the stripper/welder who was blind to her bosses love. I reached out to her and touched her warm skin.
“It's all over now, my sweetness. We've found each other, at last. We have no more secrets to hide. Yes, I hid beneath your window, yes I watched you from the bushes and the forest and beneath the bleachers at the track. I wanted only to be near you, near the foot that belonged in my sock, my precious sock. Sadly, your sock is gone now. My father threw it away. I tried to find it but failed. It has returned to the earth.”
We paused near the disk jockey's booth. He was playing the usual favorites, Reo Speedwagon, ABBA, Journey, the Bee Gees. Darcy looked into my eyes. Here was the moment I'd waited for even longer than the third strike against Knight. Darcy loved me and she wanted to kiss me, to feel my lips on hers, to share my flesh, to occupy me. The moment was perfect and timeless. An animated Fairy flew by and showered us with glitter stardust. Darcy's hair smelled like lilacs and her skin was the unblemished skin of a 17 year-old, and her button nose, slightly upturned and covered with Fairy dust, glistened in the disco ball glow. I was a winner. Finally, I was a winner.
As I learned to kiss her, to take that which I deserved, to regain possession of the matching sock, to finally raise my shine box out of the mud, I was struck by a wave of water and awoke on the snowy Leary Field.
“Should I get more? Kodiak? Should I give him another shot? He looks pretty bad.”
Erin was looking directly into my wet face. Gentle Gena and the other retard were kicking the ball along the base path. The Monahan brothers were nearby talking to each other. Justin was watching with Gordy. Cristo held a water bottle that he had just emptied on my face.
“No,” said Erin. “I think he's up. Oggy? Oggy? Mork calling Orson. Come in Orson.”
“Did I strike him out?” I asked hopefully. “Did Knight go down swinging? Is it 1986 yet?”
“Mets Win!” cried Gentle Gena to my teeth's despair.
Erin shook his head and helped me sit up in the snow. My hands were cold but the rest of me was surprisingly warm. Erin had covered me with his coat.
“You hit Gordy in the back.” He explained. “Does that load the bases? We decided to wait for you to get up.”
Leary field appeared to be revolving in a clockwise motion around me like Darcy at the Roller Rink.
“Are we spinning. Kodiak. Is the world spinning?”
“Yeah, at about twenty-thousand miles an hour.”
“No, is Leary Field spinning by itself.”
Erin called Cristo over to give me some more water. A faucet connected to the snack bar had a little water left in it and Cristo was able to fill the plastic bottle up again. I sucked some water and tried to stand up. Erin caught me and allowed me to use his shoulder as support.
“Just like that time Pedaris hit you in the head, huh, Oggy? Remember when you were throwing batting practice and he hit that line drive right back and it hit you in the head?”
I did remember. I'd been struck in the forehead by a smoking line drive. It knocked me out for a few moments. In fact, it had taken place just a few feet away from where I was now standing in the snow. That was the last summer I had played baseball.
“I had a vision I was roller skating with Darcy in Greenfields.”
“The new Conference Center?” asked Cristo.
“Yeah, and they were playing Journey and we were skating an my back didn't hurt. It was the best!”
The sight of Erin and Cristo and Gordy's shriveled arm dulled my enthusiasm. I still had work to do.
“Take your places,” I announced. “We've got one more strike to get. Where's the ball? Hey, Gena. Give me the ball.”
I watched Gena bend over with some effort and pick the ball up with both her hands, but she threw three balls at me and I dodged them all. Erin picked my up again.
“Maybe we'd better call this off, Oggy. Get you home. Sticky whipped that ball pretty good and it caught you just under the temple. We can come back in the spring. Do it right.”
“No. We're going to do this right now!” I bellowed as I searched for the ball in the snow. The fact the ball was white and the snow was white aggravated my sudden vertigo. I fell again as I tried to pick up one of the three balls I saw.
“Mets Win!” Gena said for no reason.
“Shut her up. I never should have brought her.”
Erin helped me back to my feet and put the ball in my hand, but I knew I couldn't pitch. I'd need ten or twenty minutes before my vision straightened out. The Brothers had to leave before then and Cristo wouldn't stay and the Syndrome kids would never wait. It was over. My mission had failed.
“Give me the ball.”
I heard the words before anyone else. This voice had the slow Clint Eastwood urgency of one who understands. There would be no spring reenactment. Ray Knight had to strike out right now.
“Give me the ball. I'll pitch. I'll be Schiraldi.”
We all turned slowly to the first base line near home plate. Justin was still in his wheel chair, no miracle had happened in that department, but his eyes were fierce and his hand, normally trembling like a fish in a bucket, was as steady as the Fenway flag pole. The Brothers didn't even have to be told to return to their positions at their bases. Silently, Cristo walked back to play Gedman.
Before returning to the batter's box, Gordy asked, “But who's going to be the ump?”
This was a good question. I asked, “Who can say 'You're out'?”
“You're out!” echoed Gena.
Yes. This made sense. Justin would be Schiraldi and Gentle Gena, a syndrome kid from my own street would be Dale Ford, the home plate ump. Who better to set all things right than a girl who had once lashed me with a set of plastic whips?
Gena bellowed again, “You're out! Out! Out!”
“You're hired, Gena. Go behind Sticky. When Ray Knight swings and misses then you say...”
“Mets Win!”
“No. The Red Sox will win when Ray Knight strikes out. You say 'You're out!' Say it.”
“You're out! Out! You are out!”
“Good. Let's take our places. Everyone. Hurry up before Gena forgets.”
As Erin and I pushed Justin onto the pitcher's mound, Erin asked me where I was going now that Justin was pitching.
“Where I belong, in right field. I'll make the late inning defensive move that McNamara never made. Gena will be the ump and I'll play right field and Wheels will pitch.”
“Dewey would be proud.”
“He's going to win, Kodiak. He deserves to celebrate.”
Erin was silent as I handed Justin the ball. Justin wiped some spit off his chin. His ears were turning red so I pulled his cap a little lower on his head.
“You don't need to tell me. Curveball in the dirt. I know.”
I surveyed the field. Cristo was trying to keep Gena from touching him. Gordy was in the batter's box, practicing his one armed swing. Justin was established on the mound and was looking the ball over for the best grip. I prayed he had improved his pitching form by taking my coaching to heart since I last saw him. Moony and Roddy were on their respective bases like Carter and Mitchell. The other Syndrome Superstar was standing on first base like Buckner. Erin was bouncing around second base like Barrett. I nodded at them all and jogged out to right field.
As I passed Moony he said, “I give 100 to 1 odds this kid doesn't get the ball to the plate.”
I stopped next to Erin and asked him if I could borrow ten dollars.
“All I've got is a five spot, but, Oggy, the kid isn't going to reach the plate. He can't move his arm.”
I didn't say anything, but just put my hand out. Erin dug a five dollar bill out of his pocket with a bus ticket from Vermont. He handed me the dough and I walked over to Moony.
“Put me down for a fiver. Justin puts that ball over the plate and you owe me five hundred dollars.”
“Happy to take your money, Oggy. I'll be surprised if that kid gets the ball in front of him.”
It had been three or four years since I took the field, but my feet still knew the way. I played shallow right because that was where all the outfielders should have played in that inning to prevent cheap base hits such as Knight's. When I was in place I gave a thumbs up to Erin who passed it along to Justin. Before me were eight people dedicated to my goal. They all focused their attention on Justin.
“Come on Schiraldi,” called Erin. “Blow it by him. One more strike!”
I threw my encouragement in, “Get nasty, Calvin. Smoke that son of a bitch. Sit his ass down.”
“Put it in there, kid,” said Cristo with what approached enthusiasm.
Dale Ford was bouncing behind Gedman, bobbing and weaving to some secret beat. Schiraldi paused under the gray sky, looked both Mitchell and Carter back to their bags. Barrett faked toward second and Carter scooted back. Buckner was holding Mitchell on at first. I was pounding my glove in anticipation because I promised this win to a boy outside of Fenway Park one year. I promised him a victory and this was the moment it would happen, with the winning run at the plate, two outs, two strikes. The magic would be unequaled.
Schiraldi went into his wind up. Gedman slid to his right and laid his glove flat on the dirt to indicate low and away. Schiraldi's pitch left his had and streaked past Enos Slaughter, past Bucky Dent, past Joe Morgan, and past Ray Knight, who reached out for hooking pitch with a mighty swing, but was so fooled that his bat slipped out of his hand and flew into the air, flew into the air like Dale Ford's mighty fist of destiny. Ford turned and, with a motion similar to starting a chainsaw, punched Knight out and yelled “Strike Three! YOU'RE OUT!”
I floated in as Barrett and Buckner both leaped in the air. Carter and Mitchell hung their heads and started to walk toward the dugout. The Red Sox had won. Gedman converged with Boggs and Spike Owen on the Pitcher's mound. Jim Rice ran in from Left. Dave Henderson, a hero, ran in from Center. The Sox bench emptied. New England charged onto the field. 68 years had passed without this celebration, and as many winters of unanswered questions and bitterness. But Ray Knight had struck out and it was my turn to celebrate. I'd played since 1972, 14 years with only one World Series appearance in 1975 and a seventh game loss. I knew when I started playing for the Red Sox that this day would come, that I would be part of the celebration pile on the pitcher's mound. It was destiny. That was why I could make that promise to that little kid outside the player's parking lot. I knew this was my time, that I was a winner. I hit a home run in my first at bat of the 1986 Season. My name is Dwight Evans and I'm a winner.
The technicalities of my plan were simple: Simply find nine people to play the Boston Red Sox and certain New York Mets players. Set them in position at Leary Field and reenact the bottom of the tenth inning of Game Six of the 1986 World Series. The power of my conviction would transform the moment into the actual event thus allowing the Red Sox to win the World Series and my fifteen year-old self to enjoy the celebration and the life of luxury and privilege that I'd been unjustly denied. The closest I'd come to doing something like this in the past was when Erin and I went downtown with three hundred dollars to hire five kids to sleep out overnight at a ticket office to buy Debbie Gibson concert tickets. Since that had been an success, I figured I would have no trouble pulling this latest plan off. The first step was to find a baseball.
Fortunately, my father was off to Queensland by the time I returned to the old homestead. I ignored a written message that read, “Call Rachel ASAP. Prob. W/ car??” and started to rummage at my leisure through the dusty cupboards and boxes marked “Ogden's junk” in the basement. I found quite a few things I'd been looking for: My split toes Tabi boots that matched my Ninja suit, a pair of white elastic suspenders. I looked forward to returning to 1986 and being able to wear them without being pelted with fruit. I also found an ancient harmonica, maybe the first one I owned, and was able to produce a rattling squeak from the rusting reeds. But no baseball. As I dug through my closet, I no longer minded the absence of my baseball predictions and my Nina Magazines. Because I was confident I could strike Ray Knight out, I felt I'd already purchased a ticket for 1986. For some reason, I trusted Bonigan. What did he have to gain by cheating me. He would not only lose all the memories I'd been providing, but he would lose any future ones I planned to give him. Still, I did feel a stab of grief when I noticed the shadow where my box of Star Wars toys had sat for a mere 14 years, a blink of an eye, until my father had grown impatient. Why? What was he going to use that space for? The disposal of my E.T. trading cards had been pure unjustifiable evil.
I finally found a baseball, the perfect baseball, stashed behind my Mousetrap and Battleship board games. It was a baseball signed by Marc Sullivan, a catcher for two games in 1982. Because I wanted to be a catcher, I thought having an autograph by a catcher would increase my chances. I remembered how thrilled Sullivan had looked when I begged for his autograph. Other signature seekers didn't even look twice at Sullivan. They'd thought he was the batboy, but I knew better. I'd been saving the signed baseball because of this one scribbled name and now I decided I could put it into use to liberate all of New England from the chains of failure.
I found a suitable bat in the garage near my grandfather's unused fishing poles. The chipped wooden bat had the simulated signature of Ozzie Smith, the St. Louis Cardinal shortstop who did back flips on the Astroturf when he ran onto the field. Since the bat, in this case, was not meant to actually hit anything, I decided it would be perfect. So I had the bat and the ball.
To reenact the inning properly I would need the actual players and the use of Shea Stadium. Even I had to admit that this was asking too much. It might take months to hunt down the players, organize a time they could all come to Shea Stadium and then force Ray Knight to swing at an outside and low pitch from Calvin Schiraldi. What if the bastard took a swing and clocked it out of the park? It would be just like a Met to stab me in the back after stabbing me in the front, so I crossed that off as a possibility. Next on the list was a reenactment with people impersonating the whole teams. I could have managers and batboys and umpires and even bring in fans to moan and cry when the Mets lost. But the scale of that event was so overwhelming that just thinking about it made me run my wrists under cold water.
All I really needed was eight or nine people willing to go down to Leary Field and reenact the bottom of the tenth inning. How hard could that be to find now that I was left with a minimal cast of three Mets players, Carter, Mitchell and Knight and five Red Sox players, Dewey, Gedman, Schiraldi, Buckner and Barrett. These last two were needed to cover first and second base so Carter and Mitchell wouldn't just take off with the pitch. Lastly, I would need an umpire to yell those magical words, “Strike three!” when Knight flailed at the pitch. This would be the signal to Bonigan and Zeus and Abu Nidal and anyone else who cared to listen that the Red Sox really won the world series and that I was on my way back to live the life I was meant to live as a winner and not as a bootblack. So I made my calls to arms.
Skip was busy. Mullray Border was still at College. Erin would be happy to play Marty Barrett since he had played second base in High School. One down. Cristo begrudgingly agreed to act as Rich Gedman since he would not have to do anything. Bonigan wasn't home. Vance told me he would call me back and then never did. Kurt said he would not fly back from California to take part in my stupid reenactment, but if I waited until Summer he might come back for a week and could fit it in then.
It seemed everyone else thought my idea was crazy. Desperate, I met Erin and Cristo at the Monahan house and managed to convince Moony and Roddy to come along.
“Only if you can get this done in half and hour, Oggy. We got bets to take and other shit.”
I promised it would only take one pitch and then everything would be done. They agreed to play Carter and Mitchell, the two Mets runners. So I had a catcher (Cristo), a pitcher (me) a second baseman (Erin) two base runners (Roddy and Moony) but I didn't have a right fielder, a first baseman, and umpire, or the most important person of all, Ray Knight. Who could play such an critical role? Not someone who was an easy out like Cristo or someone I just found on the street who had never played baseball. I needed a legend worth of Ray Knight's status. I needed someone who got the clutch hits, who didn't wilt under pressure, who came to play. I needed a giant. Only two people fit that description: Dwight Evans and Gordy Clutcher.
Splain, Roddy's sources told me, was living in Marshford with his girlfriend and worked at an assembly plant as a supervisor. Roddy let me drive his car to Marshford on the condition that I not touch anything. Gordy opened the door as soon as I knocked.
“Gordy. I need your help.”
He was amazed by my appearance and I only wished he could have seen my glorious pirate beard.
“Oggy? I haven't seen you in ten years. Oggy? You look thin. What happened to you?”
“No time to explain, Clutch. I need you to come with me to Leary Field. You have to be Ray Knight.”
Gordy rubbed his head. He was losing his hair.
“You're still hung up on that game. It's been six years and you still won't let go. Why?”
“Because I can win this time. I've got the plan. I'll tell you on the way.”
“But look. I can't bat.”
Gordy used his right arm to picked up what had once been his left arm. His left arm was a shriveled thing.
“Had an ATV accident two years ago. You didn't hear? No? Fahked up. Paralyzed from my shoulder down. Trying to get the money to have surgery.”
My jaw was flapping. Gordy was a cripple.
“So I can't bat, Oggy. Find someone else. How about Stretch?”
“He lives in New York. Clutch, I don't have time to explain. You were the best athlete in Bone Harbor. You have to be the man I strike out. You don't need two arms to strike out. Let's go.”
Gordy paused for a moment and without closing the door he walked into the living room and told someone that he would be out for a while. Then he used his one good arm to grab a hat and a coat and close the door. I explained the plan to him on the way over the Memorial Bridge. He agreed that if anything would work, this would be it. He wished me good luck back in 1986 if it did work and he looked forward to playing whiffle ball with me. He was a king, exactly the Gordy I remembered. He did not for an instant treat me like a bootblack. On the way back to Roddy's place, I stopped at Justin's apartment.
“Wheels,” I told him when he opened up the door. “You are coming with me and you are going to be a part of the greatest Red Sox win in history.”
“But it's January,” he said with a roll of his head. His apartment was no less messy than it had been last month. Ants charged around the kitchen and were branching out into the living room. “And the number on that business card you gave me was disconnected.”
“Don't worry, buddy. I'll give you a hand job if you can help the Sox beat the Mets.”
“Just because I was molested doesn't mean I'm gay,” explained Justin.
“I'm not gonna split hairs with you, Justin. Get your coat. Are your wheelchair batteries all charged up?”
Getting Justin and his wheelchair into Roddy's truck nearly finished me. Gordy only had one good arm to help with and my lower back cried for mercy. I literally threw Justin into the back seat and had to use a Bunjy cord to secure his legs. Lifting the wheelchair into the back seat called on reserves of strength and will I long thought were empty. But I was determined to make this work because I knew that once everything was in place, all my injuries would vanish and I would return to my 15 year-old body.
So now I had a batter worth of being struck out and an umpire. It was only a block to Leary Field from the Monahan's place so we walked down. As we passed Kurt's old house, the current home for mental retards, I saw two kids playing in the front yard. They appeared to be unsupervised and since I still needed a first and second baseman, I walked up to the tall one.
“I will give you ten dollars,” I said as I reached into my pocket and pulled out a one dollar bill. “I will give you one dollar if you come with me and my friends over to Leary Field and do as I tell you.”
“My friends call me Gena,” said the tall one. The shorter one fell down.
“Did you live on Elwyn Avenue?” I said as I pointed to my street. I already recognized Gena's broad face and screwy eyes. She'd lost her whip or else they wouldn't let her keep it, but it was unmistakably her.
“My friends call me Gentle G, “ she said. “I listen to the radio.”
I looked at Justin and asked, “Can you understand what she's saying?”
“Just because I'm in a wheelchair doesn't mean I speak retard. I've got a physical disability, not a mental one. You asshole.”
Cristo told me to forget them and just get it over with. Roddy looked at his watch. Gordy was trying to button his coat up with one arm. But, like my gym teacher used to say, “Quitters never win and winners never quit.”
“Can your friend walk? Hey, is your friend able to walk?”
“The radio plays my favorite songs,” said Gena as she took my dollar bill and ate it.
“Take your friend and come with me,” I said firmly. The trick with subpeople is to talk directly, like you would to a horse. “We are going across the street. You'll be safe with us. Do not worry. Hey! You! Hey fella.”
I was about to give up, since it appeared getting two mentally challenged folks out of their front lawn was harder than it sounded, when the other kid got to his feet and came over to the crew. I backed up a pace and prepared to give him a karate chop if he lunged suddenly.
“My name is Tom and I pick my nose,” he said.
We all waited for him to pick his nose, but he didn't.
“Well, Tom, Gena wants you to come with us and win the world series for the Red Sox. Do you want to do that?”
“I pick my nose and eat it,” he announced.
Again, this was a bait and switch as he neither picked his nose nor ate it.
“Great. Let's go. Gena, take Tom's hand and do as I say. You are going to be Dwight Evans. OK? Tom is going to be Bill Buckner.”
I took out my Red Sox team photo and explained the history of the 1986 Boston Red Sox as we walked in a herd across Richards Avenue and down Parrot Ave. to the Leary Field entrance. Fortunately, the gate was open because pushing Justin and his wheelchair, not to mention getting the two wonder twins over the fence, would have been too much.
“This is Bill Buckner. See? He's the first baseman. He made an error that we are going to correct right now. And this is Dwight Evans. He plays right field and made a promise to me that the Sox would win and he gave me this hat. Erin there is going to play Marty Barrett, the second baseman. He is going to be named the Player of the Game because he got on base five times and had three hits and two RBIs and was a big reason the Sox won the game. See?”
Gena reached for the photo but I held it away and swatted her big paw. I was scared what she would do if she got angry and I could already sense she was ready to take out some of the frustrations from being locked in Kurt's old house for seven years. I remembered her as a violent person, specifically recalling the time she broke into my house and attacked me with her plastic whip. If she could just give me ten minutes of her time then I could go back in time. I made a promise I would go over and play harmonica as musical therapy if everything went right..
Once at the field, I tried to position everyone as I had remembered in the tape. Barrett was there, Buckner playing back to prevent a hit. Gedman was there. The umpire was ready to call the third strike. Carter and Mitchell were both dancing in anticipation of the next hit. Knight was there with his bat. Dewey was out in Right Field waiting for the third strike. Schiraldi was on the mound ready to throw a nasty curveball away in the dirt that would start out with so much promise in Knight's eyes but then curl away out of reach and with it the Met's chance at victory.
I announced, “When Wheels yells 'Strike three' that's when the Red Sox win. Then I'll go back in time.”
“Strike three!” cried Gena.
“Right. Good! Ray Knight of the New York Mets is about to strike out. And when he does the Red Sox win.”
“Mets win!”
“No. The Red Sox win. You are Dwight Evans. You want the Red Sox to win.”
“Mets win! Mets!”
“Listen, I don't have time to explain it. The Red Sox will win when I strike out Ray Knight of the Mets. See? I'm Calvin Schiraldi. You are these guys.”
I showed Gena and Tom the team photo again but neither were very interested. I had to walk Gena into right field and direct her to not move from the spot until the Red Sox won. Then I walked Tom over to first base and told him to stand behind Mitchell.
“Will you be my friend?” asked Tom.
“Yes. You are Bill Buckner. Just stay here and make sure Mitchell doesn't get too big a lead.”
Cristo and Gordy were the only two who didn't need tending. They understood their roles perfectly. Splain, even with one arm, looked menacing with the bat and Cristo stood a few feet behind him and smoked a cigarette. Justin sat in his wheelchair, unable to move even with his snow tires. Kevin Mitchell, in this case, was being played by Roddy Monahan, who was standing casually near the area I had designated first base. Moony was milling around near what I had called second base. Erin was making a show of it by kicking snow toward Moony to simulate his presence. Every inch of Leary field, I should mention, was covered with four inches of snow, so moving Justin onto the field took a superhuman effort on everyone's part, and simply walking took some concentration. Finally, we could only speculate like Ore hunters where first base and home plate belonged. Still, we managed, and after everything appeared to be in place I took my place on what I assumed was the pitcher's mound.
“I'd like to thank everyone for coming,” I began.
“Just fahking do this, Oggy. No speeches,” said Cristo from home plate.
“You are a Greek traitor who would sell your brother for a moment of glory. Thus, you have no say in what I do. You are very lucky I am about to travel back in time because I would otherwise be forced to thrash you.”
“Just go, you tool.”
“Anyway, I have to make a speech. When I strike out Ray Knight, as I plan to do, I expect to be transported back to 1986 where I will relive my life from the age of fifteen. So you will not see me again.”
“Mets Win!” I heard come from way out in right field where Gena was eating snow.
I stuck to the program and said, “When the Red Sox triumph, I will vanish. I just want to thank you all for making this possible. You are true warriors.”
“Good luck, Oggy,” said Erin encouragingly, “Look me up when you get back to '86. Tell me ask that girl out in Chemistry, the one with the short brown hair.”
“Becky?”
“I found out the other day that she liked me. She was a babe.”
This seemed like a reasonable request.
“Fine. Anything else? Any other requests”
Roddy raised his hand and said, “Bet the house on the Redskins to cover in Superbowl XXII.”
“Tell me not to ride that ATV,” said Gordy.
I took out my notebook and wrote down the wish list, “E-ask becky out, R-$$on Skins, GC-no ATV”
“How about you, traitor?” I asked Cristo. “Anything you want to tell yourself in 1986?”
“Yeah. Why don't you tell yourself to fahk off.”
“Will do. Wheels? Any requests?”
“Just pitch the ball. Strike this bum out.”
I liked that attitude. Take things as they come. I toed the rubber and stared at Roddy on second base. Hey, Punk, that was no hit. Moony was only on first base because McNamara had pushed Hendu a few steps back. With two outs they couldn't get caught cheating a step or two so I wasn't worried about the runners. I knew what I had to do. This was it. Knight would swing and the chain would be broken. Bonigan could have everything, he'd earned it. I only wanted the win. I was a winner, not just for me but for every bootblack out there digging in the dumpster of time for a scrap of happiness. This was our time.
Bonigan was standing in the Visitor's dugout waving Darcy's sock in the air like a Red Sox banner and wearing a sinister grin. I was a little reluctant to lose what memories I had of the past six years, but I would make new ones, better ones. I would be a winner again so I leaned back and hurled a leather lightning bolt.
The pitch was supposed to be low and outside, but I let it go too soon. It flew inside, inside, inside. I thought Gordy might still swing at it and strike out, but he reacted by instinct and tried to dodge it. The pitch hit Gordy in the arm as he tried to turn away and then it deflected, to my satisfaction, into Cristo's exposed throat. I tumbled off the slick pitcher's mound and fell on my side in the snow. Gordy struggled to his feet using his one good arm. Cristo clutched his throat and gargled.
“Mets win!” cried Gena jubilantly, her chant echoed by Tom. “Mets Win! We win!”
“No, Gena. Tom! We're the Red Sox. Remember? Bill Buckner? We didn't win yet. Go back to your position. Tom! Go Back. Good. Give me the ball, Sticky.”
Cristo slowly bent over and picked the ball up with the hand not holding his neck.
“Let's try that once more...Gena, I told you...”
I was unable to finish the sentence because when I turned to Cristo to ask for the ball I didn't see him throw it. So when I turned to direct Gena back to right field after she had wandered into foul territory, I caught the ball with my skull and collapsed again on the pitcher's mound. So they tell me.
All I remember is telling Gena to stop yelling that the Mets had won and to go back to her position. I felt a thud and opened my eyes in a neon-lighted roller rink, watching skaters glide in quiet circles around the starry wooden floor. Then Darcy Devins appeared in a ghostly mini-skirt and blue spandex pants, her Wham! “Choose Life” sweatshirt torn fashionably to reveal her milk-white shoulder. Stunning, the hottest girl in there. She was spinning near the perimeter of the rink where there was a snack bar and a video arcade. We weren't alone but it felt like we were. I didn't rush to her as I once thought I would; instead, I waited for her to notice me. When she did, after executing a flawless double pirouette, she glided in my direction.
“Oggy,” she said, her lips finally around my name. “Oggy. I've been waiting. You took so long.”
“Darcy? Is it you? Can I touch you? I've waited my whole life for this. I've tried to do the right thing. I've tried to keep your sock safe, but I lost it. I lose everything.”
Darcy blinked bashfully. My love.
“I'll give you the other one. I've still got it. I dropped it on purpose that time at Kodiak's house. I thought you would talk to me.”
“You mean you knew how I felt?”
Darcy looked away, almost embarrassed to speak the truth. She was nearly as pretty as Lacy when she blushed.
“I thought you would stop me and give it back to me. Then I could tell you how much I wanted to go see Top Gun with you or go to a Bruce Springsteen concert at the Boston Garden. I didn't know how else to do it. But you took my sock instead and never talked to me.”
“Of course I took it, D. It was you, it was a part of your body and I got to touch it every night and imagine it was you.”
I no longer had to hide anything. I could be myself and she still understood. It was like that scene in Dirty Dancing when “Baby” leaps into Johnny's arms, trusting him to accept her en total.
“I know,” said the Blonde One. “And that's why I kept the other sock. I kept it because I knew you had the other one.”
We were skating now as we spoke, effortlessly rolling around the disco ball dabbled rink, teens in glitter shorts passed us with a wink, an occasional hustler in tight corduroy pants would hot shot past with a backward butt wiggle. But we, Darcy and I, looked only into each other's eyes and danced on our skates almost hovering above the dusty wooden floor. Old couples pointed to us and nodded. We touched all who saw us, because it was clear we were in love and would never part. We were like Kira and Sonny in Xanadu, together on the roof of the world, speaking without words, singing harmony.
“This is my dream, Darcy. We've finally met and you understand that I love you and you share my love. This is right.”
And Darcy spoke tenderly, “All those years in High School, do you know how hard it was for me to watch you lick my locker combination, to see you hiding in the forest or under the wooden bleachers, to hear you under my window at night, but not be able to reach out, to tell you that I felt the same way.”
“I know. It was torture, was it not?”
“Yes. Torture. I thought we would never talk, never touch. But I could sleep knowing you had my sock and that you treasured it. I would wear the other one as a sign to you, as a message that I knew you still had my sock. It saw me through the dark times.”
It was all coming out, the truth of her secret desire. She had tried to communicate, poor girl, but she wasn't able to reach me. I'd been too busy looking at her spandex wrapped legs to notice that she was wearing the matching sock. How many missed opportunities? How much pain and anguish we'd caused each other because of our childishness. Why? If only I could go back and try to reach out to her, to admit I'd taken her sock for my own pleasure. Why had I been so cowardly, so blind? It was like Flashdance except I was the stripper/welder who was blind to her bosses love. I reached out to her and touched her warm skin.
“It's all over now, my sweetness. We've found each other, at last. We have no more secrets to hide. Yes, I hid beneath your window, yes I watched you from the bushes and the forest and beneath the bleachers at the track. I wanted only to be near you, near the foot that belonged in my sock, my precious sock. Sadly, your sock is gone now. My father threw it away. I tried to find it but failed. It has returned to the earth.”
We paused near the disk jockey's booth. He was playing the usual favorites, Reo Speedwagon, ABBA, Journey, the Bee Gees. Darcy looked into my eyes. Here was the moment I'd waited for even longer than the third strike against Knight. Darcy loved me and she wanted to kiss me, to feel my lips on hers, to share my flesh, to occupy me. The moment was perfect and timeless. An animated Fairy flew by and showered us with glitter stardust. Darcy's hair smelled like lilacs and her skin was the unblemished skin of a 17 year-old, and her button nose, slightly upturned and covered with Fairy dust, glistened in the disco ball glow. I was a winner. Finally, I was a winner.
As I learned to kiss her, to take that which I deserved, to regain possession of the matching sock, to finally raise my shine box out of the mud, I was struck by a wave of water and awoke on the snowy Leary Field.
“Should I get more? Kodiak? Should I give him another shot? He looks pretty bad.”
Erin was looking directly into my wet face. Gentle Gena and the other retard were kicking the ball along the base path. The Monahan brothers were nearby talking to each other. Justin was watching with Gordy. Cristo held a water bottle that he had just emptied on my face.
“No,” said Erin. “I think he's up. Oggy? Oggy? Mork calling Orson. Come in Orson.”
“Did I strike him out?” I asked hopefully. “Did Knight go down swinging? Is it 1986 yet?”
“Mets Win!” cried Gentle Gena to my teeth's despair.
Erin shook his head and helped me sit up in the snow. My hands were cold but the rest of me was surprisingly warm. Erin had covered me with his coat.
“You hit Gordy in the back.” He explained. “Does that load the bases? We decided to wait for you to get up.”
Leary field appeared to be revolving in a clockwise motion around me like Darcy at the Roller Rink.
“Are we spinning. Kodiak. Is the world spinning?”
“Yeah, at about twenty-thousand miles an hour.”
“No, is Leary Field spinning by itself.”
Erin called Cristo over to give me some more water. A faucet connected to the snack bar had a little water left in it and Cristo was able to fill the plastic bottle up again. I sucked some water and tried to stand up. Erin caught me and allowed me to use his shoulder as support.
“Just like that time Pedaris hit you in the head, huh, Oggy? Remember when you were throwing batting practice and he hit that line drive right back and it hit you in the head?”
I did remember. I'd been struck in the forehead by a smoking line drive. It knocked me out for a few moments. In fact, it had taken place just a few feet away from where I was now standing in the snow. That was the last summer I had played baseball.
“I had a vision I was roller skating with Darcy in Greenfields.”
“The new Conference Center?” asked Cristo.
“Yeah, and they were playing Journey and we were skating an my back didn't hurt. It was the best!”
The sight of Erin and Cristo and Gordy's shriveled arm dulled my enthusiasm. I still had work to do.
“Take your places,” I announced. “We've got one more strike to get. Where's the ball? Hey, Gena. Give me the ball.”
I watched Gena bend over with some effort and pick the ball up with both her hands, but she threw three balls at me and I dodged them all. Erin picked my up again.
“Maybe we'd better call this off, Oggy. Get you home. Sticky whipped that ball pretty good and it caught you just under the temple. We can come back in the spring. Do it right.”
“No. We're going to do this right now!” I bellowed as I searched for the ball in the snow. The fact the ball was white and the snow was white aggravated my sudden vertigo. I fell again as I tried to pick up one of the three balls I saw.
“Mets Win!” Gena said for no reason.
“Shut her up. I never should have brought her.”
Erin helped me back to my feet and put the ball in my hand, but I knew I couldn't pitch. I'd need ten or twenty minutes before my vision straightened out. The Brothers had to leave before then and Cristo wouldn't stay and the Syndrome kids would never wait. It was over. My mission had failed.
“Give me the ball.”
I heard the words before anyone else. This voice had the slow Clint Eastwood urgency of one who understands. There would be no spring reenactment. Ray Knight had to strike out right now.
“Give me the ball. I'll pitch. I'll be Schiraldi.”
We all turned slowly to the first base line near home plate. Justin was still in his wheel chair, no miracle had happened in that department, but his eyes were fierce and his hand, normally trembling like a fish in a bucket, was as steady as the Fenway flag pole. The Brothers didn't even have to be told to return to their positions at their bases. Silently, Cristo walked back to play Gedman.
Before returning to the batter's box, Gordy asked, “But who's going to be the ump?”
This was a good question. I asked, “Who can say 'You're out'?”
“You're out!” echoed Gena.
Yes. This made sense. Justin would be Schiraldi and Gentle Gena, a syndrome kid from my own street would be Dale Ford, the home plate ump. Who better to set all things right than a girl who had once lashed me with a set of plastic whips?
Gena bellowed again, “You're out! Out! Out!”
“You're hired, Gena. Go behind Sticky. When Ray Knight swings and misses then you say...”
“Mets Win!”
“No. The Red Sox will win when Ray Knight strikes out. You say 'You're out!' Say it.”
“You're out! Out! You are out!”
“Good. Let's take our places. Everyone. Hurry up before Gena forgets.”
As Erin and I pushed Justin onto the pitcher's mound, Erin asked me where I was going now that Justin was pitching.
“Where I belong, in right field. I'll make the late inning defensive move that McNamara never made. Gena will be the ump and I'll play right field and Wheels will pitch.”
“Dewey would be proud.”
“He's going to win, Kodiak. He deserves to celebrate.”
Erin was silent as I handed Justin the ball. Justin wiped some spit off his chin. His ears were turning red so I pulled his cap a little lower on his head.
“You don't need to tell me. Curveball in the dirt. I know.”
I surveyed the field. Cristo was trying to keep Gena from touching him. Gordy was in the batter's box, practicing his one armed swing. Justin was established on the mound and was looking the ball over for the best grip. I prayed he had improved his pitching form by taking my coaching to heart since I last saw him. Moony and Roddy were on their respective bases like Carter and Mitchell. The other Syndrome Superstar was standing on first base like Buckner. Erin was bouncing around second base like Barrett. I nodded at them all and jogged out to right field.
As I passed Moony he said, “I give 100 to 1 odds this kid doesn't get the ball to the plate.”
I stopped next to Erin and asked him if I could borrow ten dollars.
“All I've got is a five spot, but, Oggy, the kid isn't going to reach the plate. He can't move his arm.”
I didn't say anything, but just put my hand out. Erin dug a five dollar bill out of his pocket with a bus ticket from Vermont. He handed me the dough and I walked over to Moony.
“Put me down for a fiver. Justin puts that ball over the plate and you owe me five hundred dollars.”
“Happy to take your money, Oggy. I'll be surprised if that kid gets the ball in front of him.”
It had been three or four years since I took the field, but my feet still knew the way. I played shallow right because that was where all the outfielders should have played in that inning to prevent cheap base hits such as Knight's. When I was in place I gave a thumbs up to Erin who passed it along to Justin. Before me were eight people dedicated to my goal. They all focused their attention on Justin.
“Come on Schiraldi,” called Erin. “Blow it by him. One more strike!”
I threw my encouragement in, “Get nasty, Calvin. Smoke that son of a bitch. Sit his ass down.”
“Put it in there, kid,” said Cristo with what approached enthusiasm.
Dale Ford was bouncing behind Gedman, bobbing and weaving to some secret beat. Schiraldi paused under the gray sky, looked both Mitchell and Carter back to their bags. Barrett faked toward second and Carter scooted back. Buckner was holding Mitchell on at first. I was pounding my glove in anticipation because I promised this win to a boy outside of Fenway Park one year. I promised him a victory and this was the moment it would happen, with the winning run at the plate, two outs, two strikes. The magic would be unequaled.
Schiraldi went into his wind up. Gedman slid to his right and laid his glove flat on the dirt to indicate low and away. Schiraldi's pitch left his had and streaked past Enos Slaughter, past Bucky Dent, past Joe Morgan, and past Ray Knight, who reached out for hooking pitch with a mighty swing, but was so fooled that his bat slipped out of his hand and flew into the air, flew into the air like Dale Ford's mighty fist of destiny. Ford turned and, with a motion similar to starting a chainsaw, punched Knight out and yelled “Strike Three! YOU'RE OUT!”
I floated in as Barrett and Buckner both leaped in the air. Carter and Mitchell hung their heads and started to walk toward the dugout. The Red Sox had won. Gedman converged with Boggs and Spike Owen on the Pitcher's mound. Jim Rice ran in from Left. Dave Henderson, a hero, ran in from Center. The Sox bench emptied. New England charged onto the field. 68 years had passed without this celebration, and as many winters of unanswered questions and bitterness. But Ray Knight had struck out and it was my turn to celebrate. I'd played since 1972, 14 years with only one World Series appearance in 1975 and a seventh game loss. I knew when I started playing for the Red Sox that this day would come, that I would be part of the celebration pile on the pitcher's mound. It was destiny. That was why I could make that promise to that little kid outside the player's parking lot. I knew this was my time, that I was a winner. I hit a home run in my first at bat of the 1986 Season. My name is Dwight Evans and I'm a winner.
posted by Oggy Bleacher | 11:10 PM
<< Home