Chapter XXXXVIII Lonely is the Night

Chapter Forty-Eight: Lonely is the Night

Later that night, I watched Game Six in my bathrobe. I took a shower to feel closer to Lacy when I dried my hair, rubbing it just like she had. I meant to call her and tell her that I made it back but settled on writing a letter and then burning it in the sink.
I guess I made too much noise when McNamara allowed Schiraldi to bat in the top of the tenth, because my father appeared with his sleep deprived eyes again. Mac's decision is just so bad that I couldn't help it screaming. After two innings in relief there was no question that Schiraldi didn't have his best stuff, and with Stanley and Sambito out in the pen and Baylor ready to bat with a one run lead, the best move is to take Calvin out and pray Stanley can preserve the lead. Stanley was the closer after all, and asking Schiraldi to pitch three innings was too great a gamble. He wasn't the ace in the bullpen so why hang everything on him? Why? As the consequence of this decision made itself apparent with three straight singles, I got excited and started to jump. This brought my father downstairs to complain about work or something.
“I didn't mean to get loud, but an 0-2 RBI single? Can't Schiraldi just throw a high pitch? Maybe try to throw over to first base? They had Carter picked off of second, you know?”
“I have to work tomorrow morning,” said my father through gray hair dangling over his forehead and deep furrows on his cheeks like folded pie crust.
“But if Stanley is good enough to come in with a one run lead and a man on third base then why didn't he start the inning? Can you answer that? Why let Schiraldi get in the jam if you know you have a winner in the bullpen. And if Stanley can't be trusted here, which he proves he can't, then why bring him in at all? Schiraldi wasn't throwing bad pitches. He was just getting hit. There is not chance that he throws a wild pitch to Wilson. None. Schiraldi probably strikes out Wilson. You know? In the ninth inning Wilson had to bunt against Schiraldi. So why is he suddenly going to stroke a two-out single to tie the game? Because he isn't. And Schiraldi only threw three pitches to Knight. So why is he any less ready to pitch to Wilson? Either Stanley pitches to Knight or Schiraldi pitches to Wilson. You can't have it any other way. Right? Right?”
My father shook his head at my hairy legs and scrotum dangling on his living room couch. Nearby were piles of dirty tissues as my allergies raged.
“I just want you to find a job, at least look for one.”
“Do you think I get up every morning with the goal to dissapoint you? This is all I am, Dad. This is me! I’m not wearing a mask that covers up my true identity. Look at me!”
I pointed to the yellowish growth on my toenails, the dandruff falling from my scalp and beard, the crusty things in my eyes, the mysterious mole that was growing on my arm. I pointed as if to say, “This is what’s on the menu, Dad. There are no special items I’m hiding for my real father.” He ignored my gesture.
“Everyone work’s, Oggy. You’re not special. Just find a job”
“Sure, and the next thing you know the Jews are back in Zion, a comet will cross the sky, and the Romans will rise to power.”
I figured I'd just mess with his head.
“Romans? Their called Italians now.”
“No. The antichrist. The signs of Armageddon. It's right there in Revelations.”
“Your getting a job is not one of the signs of the Apocalypse, Oggy. It'll be a miracle, but not the end of the world.”
“But,” I said as I paused Bob Stanley in the middle of his windup, “How do you know? How can you be sure?”
Stanley's pitch should have been strike three to Wilson! It was my job to make it a strike. Why couldn't my father see that? I concentrated on visualizing the pitch entering Gedman's glove. For a moment I could see it happen.
“Come on! Strike him out! There it is. Strike three! Sox Win! The Red Sox are The World Champions! We did it!”
I threw my arms up in the air, oblivious to my father's trembling chin and the fact that the tape was paused at the very moment the World Championship slipped away forever.
“I don't understand you, Ogden. I never...”
“You wouldn't understand me because you are a slave to your flesh! You're a bootblack. A bootblack can't understand me. I've transcended all this pettiness.”
I stood up, letting the filthy bathrobe fall to the floor around the tissues and the three-sectional staff I'd been practicing attack techniques with.
“I have transcended this Earth. I have transcended this era. I have...”
The pause limit was reached on the tape and it erupted to life. The pitch flew past Gedman's glove as Mookie Wilson dodged it. Mitchell ran towards home plate to delirious cheers. The game was about to be tied. I frantically looked for the remote control while my father watched.
“I've transcended...I'm beyond...I've...where the fahk is the remote? God! Jesus! I've got to make it stop! Help me!”
The remote was hidden in the pile of tissues or the bathrobe or under the couch. I tried to turn the television off manually but tripped on my three-sectional staff when a spasm gripped my back. I lay on the floor grasping for the television controls as Mookie Wilson hacked at one of Stanley's cutting fastballs. A slow ground ball to first base...Buckner hobbles in...the crowd erupts...
“Red Sox win. Strike three,” I murmured. “Strike three.”
I clawed at the carpet for a moment and then lay still and silent. My heart pounded as the sounds from the television faded into silence. My feet throbbed. I sneezed.
“I just don't understand you, Ogden. What goes on in your head? What is it like to be you?”
“Hell,” I said simply. “There are no feet. There are no cookies.”
My father picked some the dirty plates that had accumulated in the living room since I had returned and walked away. His head was down, his back to the field, like Bill Buckner heading into the dugout to the static hiss of fifty thousand fans. I found the remote control and sullenly rewound the tape. One more strike...