Epilogue: Heaven is a place on Earth

Epilogue: Heaven Is a Place On Earth

Jones Avenue lay before me once more, but the reaching branch shadows now appeared neutral. The shining holiday lights on the live spruce trees in the Clipper Home were a tacky tribute to commercialism, but better than a Jesus in the Manger play set. What could I expect? Bone Harbor was a town of donut lovers, bowling nuts, fishermen, and teen mothers. It wasn't Camelot.
Walking up Jones Avenue, away from Ogden's Point, I felt like Buckner jogging off the field after Game Six; I wasn't embarrassed by what I had done--others had done much worse--instead, I was proud that I had reached a point where my mistakes made a difference; besides, where else could I go? When the movie is over, you move to the exits. I'm not going to make a big apology or hang my head like I'm a bootblack. Buckner sure didn't; he did exactly what Ray Knight would have done if he had struck out to end the game. Buckner jogged off with the rest of the team and never looked back. Now that, amigos, is a man who understood baseball--and maybe even life. He knew there's always one more game to play, and I'd gladly shine that man's shoes.
Now, all this talk of emotional resolution doesn't mean I would hesitate to pop someone in the jaw for ribbing me about the Sox losing in 1986. Don't believe me? Go ahead, make fun of the Sox, tell the jokes about Schiraldi and Buckner, ask me how many years it's been since they won the World Series, remind me about their historic losses. Have your fun. I'll be happy to buy you a new set of front teeth, ya fak. I didn't make it this far to let people bust my shine box and piss in my milk bowl. So, go ahead and test me. It isn't like I've never been sued before.

Jones Ave threaded through the woods like a lazy river from the rural houses with wide lawns to the duplex condos where Chrissy and Karen lived long ago. If I didn't get side tracked in the cemetery looking for Wynn's grave, I would make it to Gillies in twenty minutes.
The stars of Orion, now free of WHEB's red star, blinked through the bare trees. I could still remember inventing the three-part plan to save the world on the side of the road in the desert. I remembered looking up at the giant sky, flattened at the three stars, fixed for eternity, and I knew that if I could develop three solid precepts then I could save the world. Under these same stars, I had developed the
masterful three precepts: Hitchhiking, Nudity, Crawling, yet the plan never enjoyed mass appeal. It was a perplexing problem, but no one said saving the world would be easy. But, like Huggy used to say, “With a little bit of optimism, a sense of adventure, and some penicillin, you can do anything, Oggy.” I just had to persevere.
Many stars unnamed and mysterious blinked through the bone trees lining Jones Ave. The clump of Seven Sisters, the faint stars of the Little Dipper, Draco, Polaris and the Big Dipper. Those same four stars had hung above the clouds over Fenway Park when I waited to buy tickets for the '86 ALCS. The Big Dipper was visible for 22 hours a day in Fairbanks. It simply rotated as I slept in a pine tree shelter near my trap line. The stars had followed me from the desert floor in Death Valley to the Rocky Mountains to the Andes to the dizzy beaches of Key West. Those four stars had been there on the night I searched for the rope in the Sagamore tide. They alone knew my secrets, my petty trials, and my bloodless battles. A thousand Tribes had gone to that land of Nostalgia under their glow. Those four stars, like the best of friends, do not mold us nor manipulate us nor pull us nor follow us; whether it be to flesh or to spirit, in the end, they lead us nearer to ourselves.
Those four stars...I paused on Jones Ave near the Denniford Scrap Yard. The Big Dipper had four stars. Four of them. Not three. Three was too obvious. Three was triangular. Three implied an order of importance where the power distribution was decided arbitrarily. How could change occur in such ill-conceived parameters? It couldn't. My three-part plan had failed because it was structured as though one part was more important than the other two parts. But all the parts were equally important. I only needed to add a fourth part to make it look more like the Big Dipper, or like the Fenway Park baseball diamond and then the structure would imply equality and sturdiness, like a foundation or a shine box. Of course. I could even call it the Shine Box Solution. SBS. The triangle can stand alone, but I wanted to build a foundation on which the masses could build their own ideas of salvation. It was there all along, and I had been blind to it. Everyone had been blind. To save the world we would need to crawl, hitchhike, wear no clothes to promote health, and...what? What was the fourth precept?
Hoping something might jump out at me as worthy precept, I looked around the neighborhood. Rusted metal in Denniford's dump creaked in huge piles. The Clipper Home was quiet except for the insomniacs watching late night news and reruns of Hogan's Heroes. Up the street was where Chrissy Jenkins used to live, but it had been almost a year since I had snuck around in her bushes hoping to luck out and catch her changing or in the shower. Her home no longer attracted me. Cars hummed by on Sagamore Drive, passing the South Street Cemetery on their way into Langdonville. The channel markers in the Chickanoosuc River rang in the distance, guiding ships to and from the sea. Then I understood. Hadn't Bullwhip intoned it every day since I made the deal with him? Sure, he had only appeared to me as a wraith in my imagination, but that didn't mean I should ignore his words. Even Snoopy had pretty good insight into life and he was a dog who slept on top of his dog house. “Don't forget where you come from.” That seemed like a noble enough precept to add to my plan. The indomitable square, the invincible diamond was now complete.
In the distance, the North Church's big brass bell rang announced eight o'clock to Bone Harbor. I was already late to meet Kodiak and Sticky at Gillies, but if I ran I could get there before the second order of hamburgers was cooked. I could take a shortcut through the cemetery and across Richards Avenue by the empty Little Store. Then I could climb through the Leary field fence and past the Junior High School. Then it was only a matter of going up the narrow alley between the Fire Station and the Court, past the stone Unitarian church, near the telephone pole that Rachel had hit, and down Fleet Street, past Justin's apartment, to Gillies. I knew my way around Bone Harbor; I could say that with certainty.
I started to jog slowly up Jones Avenue. No miracle had taken place in my right knee, but that was just a sports injury, the price you pay for access to the game. Still, my legs fairly flew over the pavement as they hadn't done since 1980, the year Dwight Evans hit .266, the worst among starters. I honestly didn't feel too horrible. The past six years were like a book I had once read. As long as the pages were closed, I didn't have to be reminded of Ray Knight and Mookie Wilson.
The important thing was to spread my four-part plan. The trick with these things is to get the word out to the people. Let them do the work. My old manifesto was somewhere in my closet, unless my father threw it away in his purge. If so, I could have my mother send it to me from Ecuador. In a few hours, a day or two, a week tops, I could work this critical fourth part of the plan into the text. I was ready.
Reaching Sagamore Drive, I decided to cut through the dark cemetery. The time had come to find Wynn's grave. He would be the first to hear of my new and improved plan to save the world.
Just as I prepared to sneak across the dark asphalt, a car clunked to a stop in front of me. The driver threw a cigarette onto the road and then stuck his face out.
“I've been looking for you. You shaved. Looks good.”
It was Vance. He was driving Poncho.
“Vance. What? Tell me you didn't steal Poncho from Rachel. Do you even know how much trouble I went through to give it to her?”
“You want to talk about stealing then you go talk to Roddy and Moony. Those chowderheads stole my plans for First Class Escort. I didn't steal Poncho because Poncho doesn't belong to Rachel. He belongs to The People. I'm just using him. Did her a favor anyway, the transmission is locked in second gear. What did you do to our horse?”
“Lacy threw it into Park while I was driving.”
“Why?”
“I thought she wanted to go to Mexico with me. She...actually,” I said, deciding to tell the truth for once, “I wanted her to go to Mexico with me. I was afraid to go alone.”
“You tried to kidnap her? How many times have I told you to treat women with respect?”
I thought for a second, then said, “You've never told me that.”
“Exactly,” he smiled. “I thought you would never learn. Good for you. Take what you want. That's my motto.”
While I was trying to decide if this was a compliment or not, Vance squinted down Jones Ave.
“What are you doing out here, kid? Where's your cap?”
“Listen, you'll never believe what I just came up with. I've got a foolproof plan to save the world.”
Vance picked a piece of plastic interior off the car door and threw it into the street.
“Tell me about it on the way downtown.”
I hesitated and peered into the glowing cemetery.
“No, thanks. I'm going to track down Mack Wynter's grave tonight. I think...”
“Mack Wynter? The dead bald kid?”
“Oh, yes.” I grinned. “I've sort of got this tradition where I search for his headstone. I think the stars are on my side tonight. They gave me the fourth part of the plan. Now they might guide me to Wynn's headstone.”
Vance lit another cigarette and motioned toward the cemetery on his right.
“Stupid ass tradition, Ogden. Wynn ain't buried in there.”
I looked into the night sky and bit my lip. Then I tilted my head at Vance. Vance blew some smoke through the windshield.
“Don't you know?” he said in answer to my expression. “He died in '83 or '84, right, and his parents had the memorial service here over at the Unitarian Church. I remember because that was the year I got Mono from that slut in Whaleswood. Reese Something. Or was that her last name? Anyway, Wynn got buried back in New York where he was born. That's what my mom told me. What do I know? I was all drugged up with antibiotics at the time.”
“My father wanted me to wear these ancient corduroy pants. I wouldn't do it so I missed the service. That's why I never learned where he was buried. I'm such an asshole.”
“Well,” continued Vance, “The Wynters only lived here for four or five years. Mack was buried near Buffalo, I think, where Kurt was from. Bone Harbor got a water fountain. Buffalo got the bones. I figured you knew. I'm pretty sure it was in the paper.”
“I was just near Buffalo,” I moaned. “I could've seen it.”
He didn't know that I had never been near Buffalo, but it made the farce of my life more pronounced. Vance shrugged as if this was beneath his concern.
“What are you gonna do? Put it on the list of places to go. Where's your hat?”
I didn't let it go that easily.
“I've been searching for that grave for the past eight years. I've walked around this place for eight fahking years. I must know every damn person buried here. Two new sections have been filled since I started searching.”
“Look at it this way, dude. It could have been your grave. Right? It could be worse.”
Vance always could put things in the right light.
“Give me a ride to Gillies? I'm meeting Kodiak and Cristo. We're gonna eat hot dogs and meet chicks.”
“Nice. Where's your Sox hat?”
I dismissed this with a one shoulder shrug as I fell into the passenger seat. Vance handed me a tray of Onion Rings. I poured them down the hatch.
“I burned my hat in a big fire,” I said as crumbs spilled down my shirt. “Justin struck out Ray Knight at Leary Field and I went back in time and gave my hat to my son, my second kid--who I don't think was mine-- and he didn't even care. See?”
Vance nodded and said, “Of course.”
“So the Sox won but nothing changed. I didn't marry Darcy or get hand jobs from Chrissy in a white 1987 Lamborghini Countach 5000 like I used to dream about. It was just...life...except I could watch a tape of the Sox winning instead of losing. And I ended up at a supermarket like you said and I was an old, befuddled man with nothing but memories no one cared about. You know?”
“Absolutely,” said Vance.
“Then I came back to '92 and burned my hat and the tape. I didn't burn Darcy's sock because my father threw it away. All this time I kept that hat because Bonigan said the tribe needed it. He said that if I kept the fires burning at Ogden's Point then I'd have a chance to win the game. He was right, but it didn't matter. So I torched everything. The Tribe is gone. No more Youthfires. If there is a land of Nostalgia, I guess we've entered it. The ashes are cold.”
Vance nodded. “Curveball in the dirt?” he asked.
“A-yup. Curveball in the dirt. Knight waved at it.”
“Just like you always said, Oggy. Curveball in the dirt. It's a good 0-2 pitch. How did you get Ray Knight to come up here?”
“I didn't. I found Gordy Clutcher in Marshford. He had one crippled arm from an ATV accident. He's still the best.”
“So Knight struck out and the Sox won? In 1986?”
Vance's tone wasn't as skeptical as you might think it would be after having just learned I went back in time after reenacting a six year old World Series game. After 12 years in my company he had long passed the period of incredulity. Now he just liked to get all the facts.
“They were World Champions, Vance. It was the best! Dewey was so happy. But I thought more would change. Life was just kind of Brady Bunch. Even more Brady Bunch than it is now. I was just an old man with no hat.”
This description seemed to satisfy Vance, who shook his head and said, “That sucks, dude, but you know what Poison says?”
Poison, one of my favorite hair/spandex bands, produced videos guaranteed to give me an erection because the obligatory groupies/girls were always wearing torn jeans and sexy pink leather cowboy boots and at least one of them would strip her clothes off for no reason at all. Or was that the guys?
“Your mama don't dance and your daddy don't rock and roll?”
This was the first Poison tune that came to mind. It was a cover of a Loggins and Messina song, but their video was pure pornography. How else would you choreograph a scene where a couple gets into the back seat of their car at a drive in movie? Not soon forgotten.
“Nope.”
“Talk dirty to me?”
This was the second video that came back to me. The title says all you need to know about the video.
“Close. They said 'Every Rose Has Its Thorn.'“
Naturally. This cliche was the opposite of saying every cloud has a silver lining. So, if Poison had all the answers, what was the “rose” and what was the “thorn” in my case? Was the rose my successful break from the cycle of Game Six, the thorn being the absence of that which defined the past six years? Was Lacy the rose who had hit me with an apple and demolished my Falco 3 tape (the thorn)? I didn't know, but Poison was right about one thing: Every cowboy sings a sad, sad song.
“Sage advice, Vance.”
The passenger seat was still lumpy and the car smelled faintly of urine and burned chocolate. Vance's foul cigarettes didn't help.
“I don't know what you did on your little trip, Ogden, but it smells like you stored road kill in the trunk. Truck stops have shower rooms, you know. And,” Vance said pointing to a crack in his line of sight, “what happened to the windshield?”
“It is a long story. Long as an Alaskan winter night.”
Poncho chugged for a moment so Vance shifted between first and second gear. That seemed to work and we started to move.
“Transmission is fahked. Lucky I've got a few days off. We can use your garage and I'll pound out the linkage rod.”
“Whatever you say. Rachel might call, the whore.”
“Don't worry about that strumpet. I promised her I'd ask Moony to call her up. She's got this big dream of being famous. Crazy. She'd need a whole new mouth to be an actress. But since Roddy owes me a favor for breaking my piggy bank and then stealing my idea for First Class Escort, I got him to agree to show Rachel the ropes. He knows some agents in California. Whatever. She'll be famous one way or another. She said it was worth twenty five bucks just to see you shave. I can't believe you shaved for a court case. You sissy. You really aren't a man, are you? What's wrong with you?”
“Please leave my shine box alone, Vance. I've had a tough two months. I thought shaving would make me respectable. You know Kodiak was the one who drove that night. I just laughed while we chased them.”
“Cristo already told me,” Vance assured me. “Anyway, it's good you came back. This is where you belong. Right? Why fight it? So, what won't I believe you came up with?”
Having my decisions summed up thusly did little for my self-perception, but could I blame Vance for seeing me as the cosmic jester? The farce I called my life never failed to amuse or confuse my familiars. Nevertheless, I was glad for the chance to talk about my four-part plan.
“Oh! Listen to this. I'm glad you reminded me. I developed a radical system. It was right in front of me all along.”
“Wicked. I've got a system too, Ogden. I can't lose. I've finally got a foolproof system.”
“You said that three months ago.”
“But that system was for football,” he said, “Football is for losers. Never bet football. Too many intangibles. They should call it Foolsball because only a fool would bet on it. I was out of my head. I think they put drugs in Dippy Donuts coffee. Now, I've got a system for basketball that is flawless. I did the math. Basketball is easy money. The Monahans are giving it away. I just need a little cash to get me started.”
“Please, Vance. I have nothing. I gave my last dollar to a retard to pretend she was a home plate umpire during Game Six.”
“Well, listen to this anyway. I've been out at Macy's at the Fox Run Mall, right? I've got a friend who works in the Women's department. Have you seen what school girls are wearing these days? Bazooka Joe!” Vance twisted his hands around the decade old steering wheel. “I'm glad I don't go to school anymore. I'd have to get castrated before I could concentrate on Advanced Math. Anyway, their security system has all sorts of holes in it. I mean it is laughable. They haven't updated their security since Carter was president. We can beat it, Ogden. Then we take the goods to these kids in Riversook I know and have at least three thousand dollars in our pockets by Saturday.”
“Seriously?”
“At least. Do you know how much 501 jeans are going for these days? They sell like rolling papers at a Grateful Dead concert. You in or out?”
“Is it a job?” I asked.
“What do you mean,” siad Vance as though the word “Job” was one used by extraterrestrials.
“I mean, can I tell my dad that I got a job. Is it steady work? Can I tell him I found work and that I'm going to go to a job?”
Vance chuckled. “It's not just a job, Oggy. It's a career!”

“Great,” I said. “Now that we've got that taken care of let me tell you my little secret. You think you've got a system? No, Vance. I've got the John Lennon of all systems. See those stars up there in the Big Dipper? See the four of them? That is my system. With those four stars we can go anywhere. The Red Sox won the 1986 World Series. If I can make that happen, I can do anything.”
“You don't say,” said Vance very slowly and deliberately.
“Absolutely. Wait until you hear my four-part plan to save the world. History doesn't teach itself, Vance. Now I'm back and I know where I come from.”
Vance squinted into the night as he ran the red light at the intersection of South Street and Sagamore. He wasn't as ugly as I remembered. In fact, he was almost beautiful in the flickering dashboard light, his face wreathed in ghostly smoke. We hit Miller Avenue travelling twenty-five miles an hour. I knew the streets, Miller Ave., South Street, and Sagamore Avenue, like I knew Bill Buckner and Dwight Evans. We were winners, Bone Harbor, the Boston Red Sox, me and Vance. We didn't know that a few months later Butch Hobson would lead the Red Sox to their worst season since 1966. In 1992, the Sox would finish in last place, with a record of 73-89, 23 games behind the Toronto Blue Jays. We didn't know this, so we were still winners.
“First, I have something to confess, Vance. Something I'm not proud of.”
“I already know,” said Vance, “ that you and Flash ate all the cookies at the Church bake sale and all we sent that crippled kid in Iowa was eleven dollars.”
I grinned at the chocolate chip memory of my religious days.
“No. It's something else. Worse.”
“Oooh. I'll bet it's good.”
Then I dropped the bomb.
“I cut the rope you were climbing that time. Remember?”
Vance appeared unaffected.
“No. What rope? What time?”
I was shocked Vance didn't remember. How could he forget the moment I had learned I was a separate entity, whose decisions could destroy or save the world?
“That time we were playing Capture The Flag at the dump. Remember? You were climbing up the cliff and I saw you and cut the rope with the survival knife I got out at the Flea market with the quarters me and Flash stole from his father. I thought you would just fall into the water and not get hurt. I'm sorry.”
“I have no idea what you're talking about, dude,” said Vance.”The last time I played Capture The Flag had to have been ten, twelve years ago. I dislocated my shoulder remember? I was...oh. Oh.”
Recognition dawned in Vance's smoky eyes. Poncho was spurting along like cold ketchup from a bottle.
“You cut the rope,” he said. “I thought it broke. Bastard. You tried to kill me.”
“I cut it,” I said sheepishly, “and you fell and I didn't say anything. I even might have lied to the others. I went back that night to find the rope but it was gone. It has haunted me for over a decade.”
Vance chuckled. “You seriously almost killed me.”
“I've suffered for ten years, Vance. I've had nightmares about it.”
“Well,” shrugged Vance, “I'm feeling generous these days. I forgive you, Ogden. We were young. Kids do crazy things. Take, for example, those baseball cards that went missing from your collection.”
“The ones Wynn stole to get back at me and Kurt?” I said ruefully. “He claimed he didn't steal them, that fool. Did he think I was an idiot?”
I laughed as I recalled Wynn's sad attempts to clear his name. He should have confessedanddied with more honor.
“Well,” said Vance hesitantly,”...he wasn't lying,”.
“Of course he was lying,” I chuckled. “I know he stole them. Flash and me stole his cards so he stole ours. It was only natural. But while I got caught that sissy got the pity pardon just because he had cancer. I still know he stole them. Who else would have? What wanker would ever stoop so low?
Vance coughed deliberately. I turned to look at him. His unrepentant hair blew in the cold wind channeled over the broken windshield. I squinted daggers into his neck.
“No.”
“Oh, yes,” he said. “I needed the money, Ogden. I was gonna pawn 'em at that card shop near the old pizza place and then return 'em when I could get the money back, but Squidly fahked me.”
“You stole the ’82 Sox from me. That was my childhood”
“The Squid swindled me and we both lost everything. Your cards were just part of the deal. Blame Squid”
“No,” I cried, “I blame you! Vance, I loved those baseball cards. The 1982 Red Sox set is priceless! They were everything! The sun doesn't set on Fenway Park without me thinking how my life isn't really complete without those cards. I cursed Wynn 'till the day he died because he wouldn't give them back. I called him a dirty liar while he was sucking on oxygen. I hounded him as the cancer ate his insides! I'm a monster. You made me a monster!”
“Well,” whined Vance, “ do you think I liked wearing a brace on my arm for six weeks? You know when it gets really cold, and I'm sober, my arm still aches. I'll trade you that pain for your baseball cards anytime, baby.”
Vance had a point. Maybe we were even. After all, it was better to move forward without any remaining ties to yesterday or the day before.
“Then that's it.” I said as I punched Poncho's dashboard. “We move on.”
Vance put his cigarette in his mouth and shook my hand.
“I’m glad that’s over with,” said Vance, with his tongue jabbing his cheek.
I tried to settle into the seat, but I was sitting on something hard that turned out to be the baseball card package I’d just received in the mail. I pulled it out and sighed before tearing the paper off to get a good look at Tony Perez in his last year.
“It doesn’t even matter who stole those cards,” I said philosophically, “because I finally ordered the missing ones. See? Took me a decade but the 1982 Red Sox set is now complete. Just check out some of these stats.”
I was expecting Perez and Rick Miller and Yaz to stare back at me with veteran experience and youthful confidence, but a cassette tape fell onto my lap. A cassette tape?
Vance said, “Nice. We need new tunes. What's the tape? Rush? The Scorpions? Please don't tell me it's more Hall and Oates. If I hear “Kiss on My List” one more fahkin’ time...”
Bewildered, I stared at the plastic rectangle in my hands. A short note in my brother's block handwriting was stuck to the case. Great, I thought. What attack on my shine box had he come up with now? Expecting a taped sermon in defense of a strong military by Nixon or Eisenhower, I read:
“Moron - Here's your stupid hippie music. Remember those who died giving you the freedom to listen to it.”
My mouth fell open when I crumpled the note and read the cassette title. Then I reached unconsciously to adjust the Sox cap, which wasn't on my head.
Vance saw this automatic motion and said, “You need a new cap, kid. Cover up those big fahkin’ ears. We'll get you one this summer when we go to a game. Hey? Sox – Yanks. Get some beahs.”
“I don't believe it,” I mumbled.
“What is it,” laughed Vance, “A Culture Club album you already have?”
What else could it be?
“Xanadu,” I said, “My brother actually got me the Xanadu soundtrack. On Tape. That… bastard.”
“Xanadu?” Asked Vance poisonously, “The gay roller skating movie with the chick from that movie. That other gay movie.”
“Grease?” I offered snobbishly.
“No, dude. The workout flick. Physical. Or was that Jane Fonda?”
Vance sighed.
“I beat off so many times watching that,” he confessed. “All that spandex. Jesus!”
“The name of the movie wasn’t Physical. That was the name of the song. The movie was called Perfect. And Jamie Lee Curtis was the actress. Olivia Newton John was in Xanadu and Grease.”
“You are such a fahkin’ loser, Oggy. Whoever it was your brother got you a gay soundtrack.”
“ “Xanadu is the best,” I countered.
“ Yeah, well, your brother put any tabs of acid in there?” asked Vance. “Because that's the only way I'm going to listen to it.”
“Hush, child,” I said as I tenderly opened the case. The cassette itself was crisp, somehow preserved since 1980. It smelled like a Pink Floyd song.
“You hear who the Sox got? Some pitcher who throws like two hundred miles an hour. This is the year, buddy.”
“Yes it is, Vance.”
I nodded as I removed and tossed a Dio’s Greatest Hits tape over my shoulder. I then slid the tape slowly into the deck and pressed PLAY. The machine rejected the tape onto the floor. Neither Vance nor I said a word as I picked the tape up and tried again. Patiently, like a pitcher waiting for the sign from the catcher, I held the tape in the deck until the magic started:

A place
where nobody dared to go
The love that we came to know
they called it Xanadu
And now
open your eyes and see
what we have made is real
we are in Xanadu.

I smiled at Vance, whose withered and nicotine-stained lips curled into a nostalgic smile as he floored the accelerator. Poncho coughed, but then responded with a surprising surge of power. We were on Miller Avenue now, incredibly. Downtown Bone Harbor, the North Church Steeple, Market Square, JJ Newberrys, Leary Field, and steamed Gillies hot dogs flew toward us at the speed of neon starlight.

The End

Chapter LV: The Flame

Chapter Fifty-Five: The Flame

A sandy wind blew from Pirate's Cove over Ogden's Point, bringing scents of seaweed, fog and sand castle memories into Bone Harbor. The WHEB broadcast tower reached into the night sky adding an additional red star to Orion's great belt. The Golden Arches reflected off the extreme end of Sagamore creek, serving the carbohydrate addicts. Sparse traffic on Route 1 moved north and south past the Dunkin Donuts and Yokens and the Bread Box sub shop. Through the trees and over the landscape of Bone Harbor, New Hampshire the smoke of the final Youthfire drifted west. The smoke moved slowly through the hushed lanes of granite gravestones in the South Street cemetery, down Richard's avenue past The Wynter's old house, past the corner of Lincoln avenue by the worn wooden steps of the Little Store, up Highland Avenue and over the empty sand base paths on Leary field and the Central Little League field and Wynn's water fountain, past the Junior High School's red brick walls, through busy Market Square and Prescott Park to the banks of the Chickanoosuc River where the smoke could be drawn west with the wind or east with the knowing current. Around the smoldering ashes of the last Youthfire stood the gathered tribe awaiting my final act.
I felt the soft fabric of my Sox cap with my fingers. Many years, summer rains and winter gales, had worn the cotton smooth. Only two tabs were left on the adjustable plastic band. The B was so worn it was just a smudge of red. Faded latex paint was still visible on the bill, a testament to Kurt's failed painting company that didn't clear a dime during its one summer in existence.
I placed the hat in the flames and watched it ignite and burn hotter than wood. A breeze from the river caught the ash and scattered it through the misty images of the remaining Timewraiths. The team photo had already been used as a starter for the kindling and had been reduced to ash along with a 1989 Fenway Park bleacher ticket stub that I had saved because it was the game Rose and I had gone to together.
Earlier, on my way through my house, I had purged the remaining artifacts from beneath my bed. I found a wrinkled Fenway program from 1987, a scorecard I kept during one game late in 1985, a Patriots postcard, a wrinkled piece of paper with “'90” written on it in magic marker. Of course, my Dire Straits Brothers in Arms Album wasn't going anywhere, but I did part with a Fenway Frank hot dog napkin I'd saved because Dewey hit a double off the wall as I ate the hot dog. I put these in my Red Sox pillowcase and on my way down the steps found a small package that was shaped like a cigarette box. There was no return address so I assumed it was a pack of baseball cards I had ordered to complete my 1982 Red Sox team set, the set Mack had defiled with his thieving hands. I put it in my pocket along with a note from my father to call Lacy. The message from Lacy was worth more to me than all the 0-2 pitches in the world. On the way out the door I had called the Health clinic in Willowville. Good news: I'm not terminally ill!
The cigarette shaped package almost ended up in the fire the fire before I recognized it and tucked it into my pocket. There was no sense in destroying good baseball cards. I could just donate them to an orphanage or something. Next, I pulled the video tape of Game Six from my coat. The tape still dangled in the wind and even before I could act, it ignited in a snake of flame. I dropped it hastily and had to kick it into the coals. My sock, Darcy's sock belonged in the fire, but not all stories end neatly. I had to accept that the sock had returned to the soil and was with these other treasures in spirit alone.
The dust of these artifacts was carried through the forest to the old Capture The Flag battlefields near the hobo's forlorn encampment. The sound of running feet, cries of surprise and attack from 1980, had not vanished forever as I had feared, but had only weakened as they must. I didn't need the hat to remember the passage back through the woods, past my plywood shack which the hobo had pillaged for materials. I didn't need the game six tape to remember Dave Henderson's home run to lead off the tenth inning and the way it smacked the Newsday sign and silenced Shea Stadium. And I didn't need the tape to remember how Spike Owen had touched Hendu's helmet at home plate. Hendu and Owen had come from Seattle together and they knew their moment had arrived. Win or lose, the hit was clutch. They were winners. I didn't need the tape to remember Boggs's double and Barrett's two out RBI single. And with two outs in the bottom of the tenth inning, I could not forget the look of boyish anticipation and intense concentration on everyone's face, Dewey's, Oil Can Boyd's, Buckner's, Rice's, and even my own as Schiraldi threw pitches to Gary Carter, Kevin Mitchell and then Ray Knight. These pitches gripped every face in the stadium, from the bat boy to the pretzel girl to Marty Barrett and Daryl Strawberry. These pitches were nothing less than the world.
Well, that's it. Most everything is true. Alright, I made up a few names and put some words in people's mouths and I'm not that big a fan of Wham!, but everything else is completely 99.9% fiction. Or is it non-fiction? I always get those two confused. Anyway, I sort of let things get out of control at the end of the story. I'm in a hurry to call Lacy back. I haven't actually convinced her to, you know, watch Xanadu with me, but I've got a feeling about us. When she hears about my four-part plan the neon is gonna fly! I thought I'd have time to tell you more about Ecuador and California and Alaska, but it looks like I've run out of room; the coals are dying. You'll just have to meet Nancy and Moonrise and Stu Walleye another time. They're good folks, worth meeting. The hitchhiking trip across the country is also good for a laugh. Remind me to tell you about the Vietnam Vet I met in Denver. Listen, I'll meet you down at Gillies one of these nights if they haven't closed it. Or else we can walk over to Moes and get a sub to bring to Prescott Park. I can show you Squid's house and the Pierce Island Memorial Bridge. Bring your glove so we can throw a few at Leary Field.
All the other interpretations of my song, I leave to the students of time. I'm just a bootblack after all. But one conclusion I must impose on you:
Like all humble sports, Baseball demands few tributes. The Hall of Fame, official scorecards, record books, bronze trophies, autographed cards and coveted memorabilia tucked in childish corners are all coveted, worthwhile inventions, and have their reserved box seat in our nine-inning lives; but when the stadium lights are dimmed, the mound is covered in protective plastic, and the last bench is emptied, Baseball asks for only one thing: to be remembered.

Chapter LIV: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

Chapter Fifty-Four: I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For

“That's the second time today, Oggy,” a kid with short hair was saying as I opened my eyes. “One more time and you win a trip to Florida.”
Another dark haired Greek-looking guy was looking over his shoulder with a water bottle in his hand, smoking a cigarette. A guy with a crippled arm looked the most concerned.
“Oggy, it's been so long since I swung. I couldn't hold on. You OK? You got fahkin’ creamed.”
Oggy? Creamed? Who were these lunatics? Maybe they had drugged me.
“What the hell is happening? Who are you people? Where am I?”
“Leary Field. You alright, Oggy?”
Oggy? This time the name sounded familiar coming from the kid with the crewcut. Was I Oggy? I reached up to find something, a hat. It wasn't there.
“Where's Dewey's hat?” I asked as my senses came back to me. Then I remembered part of my vision. “I mailed it to my son and he didn't care. Where is it? That bastard son ignores my hat, doesn't even write that he got it. He spits in my face. I raise him up to respect the Sox and he spits in my face for it. His mother moved out west.”
I frowned bitterly as I realized my youth was gone and the Red Sox victory meant nothing. I was an old man with neither a hat nor respect. Soon, death would carry me away, yet I had no close family to grieve for me and no home to collect my effects; everything had been a waste.
“I gave my hat to my youngest son. And he didn't care.”
The Greek looked at the Crewcut with a look of peculiar loss.
“So now he's totally lost it, Kodiak. Oggy's finally gone. He cracked.”
“Hey, Sticky,” responded the Crewcut. “Your mouth is moving, but I only hear shit.”
Kodiak? Sticky? These names had been part of my life once. My past was smoky, but the details were coming back.
“Wait. You, Sticky, you called me 'Ogden' and you, you're Kodiak. Aren't you? You never wrote to me after the Sox won. Then I had two kids with two different women.”
“That's the first sign it was a dream,” Said Sticky to Erin with a wink.
Dream? I looked at my hands and saw they weren't wrinkled. My knee still ached in the one spot above the knee cap where I slid into a second baseman. My face was still cut up from shaving. I recognized the kid with the crippled arm. His name was Gordy “Clutch” Clutcher, and I played Whiffle Ball with him.
“You've been out fa' five minutes, man. The bat caught you on the nugget and you went face first into the snow.”
Erin nodded, “I wanted to call the ambulance, but Sticky said you'd come around. Roddy and Moony brought Gena and Tom back, but they said we could use their car. You want a ride to the hospital?”
Roddy and Moony were the two Monahan brothers who lived on Richards Ave. Gena was the retarded girl who broke into my house and attacked me with a whip. I had no idea who Tom was. Erin and Sticky were my friends from school.
“But Sticky had a girlfriend. He had a girlfriend and he called me Ogden. I read in the paper that he died.”
Sticky shook his head.
“I haven't called you Ogden in twelve years.”
“Since 2039?”
“Come on! Quit joking. He didn't hit you that hard. Since 1980.
This news hit me like another bat in the head.
“Wait. Twelve years ago? It's only 1992?”
“And the sand is running out, kid.”
I ran my hand over my face. My chin was a little sore and still sported some shaving scars, but it was wrinkle free. It was twenty-years-old still, reborn tight.
“I had two kids and I drank and no one cared about the Red Sox winning the series anymore.”
“If they get a manager, they stand a chance of beating the Jays. Somebody from the national league, someone who can play small ball, right Clutch?”
As Gordy nodded I held some snow on the bump on my head.
“But we did everything Bullwhip asked for. We struck out Ray Knight. Right? I get my sock back, don't I?”
Bullwhip was gone. He wasn't in the bleachers and he wasn't in the dugout and he wasn't in my head. Holden Caulfield was right, you do start missing everyone once they're gone.
“If you want to put it that way,” offered Erin. “That kid in the wheelchair actually threw a decent pitch past Clutch. Sinking fast ball. Then the bat hit you. I don't know where that crippled kid went, do you Sticky?”
“Yeah,” said Cristo. “Roddy and Moony pushed him back to their house. As soon as he found out they run that escort service he was pulling out the checkbook. At least one kid in this rotten town is gonna get lucky tonight. Chrissy's a whore anyway.”
“I thought Vance owned First Class.”
“Not anymore. His loss is our gain. That kid couldn't sell a dime for five cents.”
This was too much to absorb at once. Justin had struck out Ray Knight and now was on his way to have sex with one of my former classmates? What next?
Erin asked, “You alright, Oggy? You were mumbling while you were out. Talking about Dewey and Fisk.”
I waved my free hand.
“Wait! The Sox didn't win? You mean the Mets still won in '86? I traded six years of memories so the Red Sox would win.”
“Oh,” said Cristo, “That's all we mean to you? 'Look at me. I'm Oggy and I'd sell my own mother for the Red Sox. I don't care about my friends.”
“Did they win, Sticky?”
“You know the Sox lost, Oggy!” he yelled. “You've been calling my house for the past five years talking about replacing Schiraldi with Stanley and Buckner with Stapleton and lately you've been talking about putting Boggs behind the plate. Some crazy shit. The Sox blew it. Gave up three runs with two outs. Then they lost Game Seven. Don't tell me you don't remember.”
“I ended up at a supermarket with a bunch of TV dinners. I was in the long line and it wasn't moving.”
Said Erin, “Why not go to the express lane? You know if you've got ten items or less you can...where are you going?”
I used Erin and Gordy as supports and tried to get up. I wasn't as dizzy as I had been when I Sticky hit me in the head with the baseball. Instead, I was clear-headed, my vision sharp, my hearing acute. Leary field, the Basketball courts, the mill pond, the Junior High School were where they belonged. Lincoln Ave. was right down that street. I looked for Bonigan where he had been standing in the dugout, but only saw the most recent graffiti spray-paint. Erin brushed some snow off my back. Gordy handed me something. It was my hat, Dewey's hat, and I put it on, wincing as it hit the bump on my head.
As I started for Lincoln Avenue and one last mission, Sticky called out, “What about Gillies? Kodiak leaves tomorrow. Roddy gave him your five hundred from the bet. Hey, Oggy.”
I looked at back at Erin, who was happily waving a stack of twenties. In the distance was the Junior High School and Wynn's water fountain and the Little League Field. Gone were the normally clear voices I heard from 1983. I listened closely for Wynn's voice telling me he had just kissed a girl. I listened for JoJo predicting a Home Run on the next pitch. I listened for the sounds of Market Square Day, the funnel cakes, the lemonade stands. I listened for the 1982 carnival that found Kurt and me on the Rock-O-Plane ride, suspended upside down as all the stolen quarters slipped out of our jeans pockets and fell like Toto songs onto the crowd below. How we had howled over the mill pond, over the fields, over the years, yet there was only stillness now. All that remained was Bone Harbor, 1992.
“Order me a hamburger,” I said pleasantly, “And a hot dog.”

Chapter LIII: We are the Champions

Chapter Fifty-Three: We are The Champions

On October 25, 1986, Calvin Schiraldi struck out Ray Knight for the final out of the World Series. The Red Sox beat the Mets 5-3 in the tenth inning. I wept before the television, sobbed uncontrollably through the post game show, the highlights, and the interviews with Buckner and Dewey as they clutched the champagne glazed World Championship trophy. This was our dream and we gripped it with both fists. The losers, Gary Carter, Lenny Dykstra, Daryl Strawberry and others conceded that the better team had won, that their team didn't get the hits when they needed them, allowed too many scoring opportunities to slip away--most notably the bottom of the ninth inning when runners were on first and second with no outs. But they had to hand to the Red Sox; winning on the road was no easy task. Destiny, it seemed, at last belonged to Boston.
Destiny found me running through Bone Harbor on that October night, running with a Red Sox banner and my Red Sox sweatshirt and Dewey's hat to meet Cristo at Gillies where an impromptu celebration was in progress. Destiny swept me through Market Square and into pubs where drinks were on the house, The sacred cask was tapped and we toasted Marty Barrett and Bill Buckner and Calvin Schiraldi. I hugged teary-eyed old men wearing '75 era, blood red Sox caps as they cried into their hands and announced in beer-muddled New Englandese, “ I can't believe this day got heah. I didn't think I'd evah see it. If only my pop was still alive. Now that was a fahkin’ Sox fan, that was a fahkin’ man who loved the Sox.” And he blew his nose and cried and I cried with him, '75 era, blood red tears down our cheeks, mopped up with our Sox shirts kissed away by women wearing hooded Sox sweatshirts, dried by the heat of collective joy, a joy of combined pain and relief that throbbed and made us weak. Our tears fell down our cheeks because the burden was ours no longer, the curse was broken, the clouds had lifted at last.
A weeping bartender stood on a crate and yelled, “Your tears had been saved for this day, New England. Let them flow now!”
And we did.
It was a night against which all other celebrations would be measured, a night that would never end, a night when everything was right and correct and true and perfect, a night when the spot light of fortune radiated from me, around me, within me, and on me. I was fifteen years old, clutching Dewey's hat to my lips, and the Boston Red Sox were the champions of the world.
On November 1st I called Cristo to celebrate the one week anniversary of the Red Sox victory.
“Forget about that, Kid. Varsity hoop plays tonight. Let's go watch.”
“Forget about it? No. Sticky, this is it. We made it.”
“Yeah, yeah. Yesterday's news. Hoop, kid.”
“Listen: We're winners. The Sox won. Let's watch Game Six. Dewey won!”
“Naah. You hear about Barrett?”
Cristo then explained that Marty Barrett, the MVP second baseman of the ALCS and of hero of Game Six, had hurt his elbow during the celebration. Someone, possibly Oil Can Boyd, had stepped on him with his steel cleats. Nothing serious, but doctors were looking at it.
“He looked fine at the parade,” I said fretfully, like a new mother.
We had skipped school to attend the victory parade in Boston, a city wide celebration on a scale that I hadn't seen since the Pope visited Boston years earlier. Cristo and I watched the Mass Ave. cavalcade of cars with our returning heroes, our winners, our giants and I cried again. Dewey, Rice, Clemens, Buckner, Schiraldi, Hendu, Boggs, Owen, Gedman, Barrett rolled past us and threw T-shirts and souvenirs into the crowd. I fought for and claimed a pencil with “Boston Red Sox” stenciled in gold across the red paint. It was a treasure. We visited Fenway Park for the final speeches by the victors, the “Thank you for supporting us this year, thank you for never giving up on us for sixty eight years, thank you for believing in us because this is your World Championship too” speech. And I cried again because Dewey had fulfilled his promise and was my hero forever. It was my World Championship too, Buckner had said. Mine too! And Cristo had agreed that it was ours, never to be taken from us, always to be shared with those who know what sacrifice is, those who know heartbreak and scorn and defeat and frustration. It was ours, Boston's, New England's and I brought a feeling of invincibility back to Bone Harbor, back to BHHS where the teachers winked at me when they handed me back my papers. I had arrived at a station in life from which all roads originated; I could do anything, go anywhere, be anybody, surmount any challenge.
“He'll be alright,” Cristo said casually. “He'll be back. Good old Marty B.”
“Of course he'll be back,” I urged. “He's a World Champion. He won. He's a winner. We all won.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen, you want to go to the hoop game or do I have to go alone?”
The champagne wasn't even dry on the Shea Stadium visitor's clubhouse floor and Cristo was talking about High School Basketball. I went to the High School game with him anyway, and Kodiak and Gordy and Skip and Piper pumped their fist when I yelled, “Sox Rule! Word up!”
But on Monday I was standing at my locker, straightening my nude picture of Madonna, when I felt something hit me in the back. Bonigan had spit on my new “Red Sox 1986 World Champions” sweatshirt.
“What's wrong with you, Bullwhip? The Sox are winners.”
“You're still a loser, though. That sweatshirt is super queer. Huh? You say wanna fight?”
I ignored this comment and others like it and spent November watching the VCR tape recording instead of doing over due homework. What was more important? My “Why The Red Sox Won the World Series” English 10 paper got a C- because I had not followed the proper citation format in my bibliography and had failed to identify my thesis statement. But watching Ray Knight wave at an outside curveball to end the game made all my troubles melt into tears of joy. Jim Rice had never looked so relieved. The coaches were as rowdy as the players. Yaz and Ted Williams both said they were very happy for the team and for New England. Owner Jean Yawkey dedicated the win to long time owner Tom Yawkey. The moment that brought me to tears every time I watched it was the sight of an older man wearing a Red Sox hat. He was so overcome with emotion that he didn't even cheer when Ray Knight struck out. He simply sat down behind the Sox dugout and fought back tears as the celebration erupted around him. Here was a man who had witnessed the '67 loss to the Cardinals and the '75 loss to the Reds and the '78 loss to the Yankees. He had survived all the close calls and near misses and was now struck numb by the victory. Was it real? Was it OK to cry? Yes, it was.
On the November day destiny might have found me playing football at Erin's house, the day I found a certain piece of Darcy's intimate apparel, I was instead watching the video tape of the Red Sox victory, reliving the moment when Dewey reached the infield and climbed onto the bodies of Barrett and Boggs and Buckner. Dewey, that man who seldom displayed emotion, that consummate professional, that farmer of a boy's dreams, threw his glove in the air and embraced Don Baylor, Spike Owen, Al Nipper, Rich Gedman. These were his teammates, men, trained horses and their race was won. Why did I need to play football? This was the ultimate victory and I had complete control over it. The winter belonged to the fall. I watched the game every day of Christmas vacation and every night before I went to bed. My dreams were given to the poster players of my wall gallery. Fisk and Yaz and Dewey never grew old in my Lincoln bedroom. While snow and sleet fell against my windowpane, I curled around my hat and dreamed or winners.
Bill Buckner delivered 102 RBIs during the 1986 regular season. Wade Boggs scored 107 times. Marty Barrett hit 4 triples.
The Junior Varsity baseball coach said I didn't hustle during spring tryouts. This was crap. I hustled every play, but I couldn't concentrate. It may have appeared like I was wandering the outfield looking for land mines, but really I would just imagine how happy Dewey had been when his promise came true. He was a winner like Gordy, and he...a ball dropped somewhere near me.
“Bleacher! Get your head out of your ass!” yelled the coach.
The center fielder was picking up a ball ten feet away from me in right field. He threw it in to second base.
Dewey played right field in 1986. He hit 26 home runs during the regular season. Roger Clemens won 24 games and struck out 238 batters. Bruce Hurst threw 11 complete games, 4 of them were shutouts.
My name was not on the list of players chosen for the team. I had to wait until summer to play baseball. Summer: An opportunity to visit Fenway Park and see next to an ancient 1918 World Championship banner a gloriously shiny, brand new wooden plaque pronouncing that the Red Sox were the 1986 World Champions. Champions! It was right there! My World Championship!
Don Baylor was 37 years old, second oldest after Tom Seaver (41), and played all but two games, mostly as a designated hitter. He led the team with 31 home runs. Jim Rice hit .324 in 1986. He played left field.
In 1987, the title defense season, Dewey had an average season batting .254, with eleven home runs. He hurt his back in July and was on and off the disabled list. Clemens pitched well again but the hitting to support his efforts was terrible. He only managed 13 wins though he had a 3.87 ERA. Bruce Hurst couldn't find his groove for and went 2-9 his first 13 starts. Oil Can Boyd surrendered eleven runs in one May game against the Yankees and was ejected for spitting at Don Mattingly. Jim Rice surrendered his Double Play King crown to Dave Henderson. Gedman managed to go the entire year without getting a clutch hit. Buckner hit .178 for the first half of the season so Mike Greenwell tried to learn to play first base with disastrous results. When the Sox could get to the ninth inning with a lead, Schiraldi would come in from the bullpen and allow a two-run home run to the number nine batter. He just killed us, but the Sox no longer had Bob Stanley to pick up the pieces. After a slow spring training, Stanley had announced his retirement. He wanted to leave on top. The Fenway Boo Birds, a genus of discontent fan, returned to roost in June.
Wade Boggs was the only man in the line up who appeared to be playing to win. He hit .330 but drove in only 69 runs because no one was on base when he got his hits. Marty Barrett was inconsistent at second base and just before the fall trade deadline was sent to the Texas Rangers for two pitching prospects who never got out of the minor leagues.
I went to twenty games in the 1987 season, but I still had to watch the victory tape to regain that special jubilation and relief I felt when Ray Knight waved at a Schiraldi curveball in the dirt.
When Cristo called to invite me to a Sox game against the Tigers, I told him I preferred to stay home and watch Game Six. The Sox were fifteen games out of first place, after all. What was the point of going to a game? The Sox went 76-86 games in 1987 and were out of the playoff race in early September. I didn't care as long as I had my tape. Our Junior year was over before you could say “Pour some sugar on me.” There must have been a Junior prom because that's one of those traditions kids look forward to. I definitely didn't go to it. I probably watched the top of the 7th inning when Dwight Evans grounded into a possible inning ending double play with Marty Barrett on third base, but Dewey hustled to first and beat Kevin Elster's throw. Barrett scored to put the Sox ahead 3-2. Clemens sat the Mets down 1-2-3 in the bottom half of the inning. The Sox were six outs away from winning. I smiled serenely as I watched Greenwell pinch hit for Clemens. Considering Clemens had dominated the Mets the entire game, this was a bonehead move, but I knew the Sox would win even more dramatically three innings later.
The BHHS varsity baseball team didn't win the State Championship in 1988. I watched a few of their games at Leary Field but could tell the chemistry was off. Bonigan said they argued on the bus, everyone thought they were prima donnas. You can't win if you're not a team, I said. The team was eliminated in the first round of the playoffs.
Dewey understood what it took to win. He understood sacrifice. His hustle led to the third run for the Sox. He was a winner. The High School team was Little League compared to Game Six. I loved to watch Knight make an error in the 7th inning that gave Dewey a chance to drive Barrett in with a fielder's choice. Knight was the clean shaved perfect kid and he had lost the game for the Mets. How much that must hurt, I wondered. I didn't know that pain and would never know it. Though the had done poorly in 1987, I still felt they were winners. I'd never know the ache Ray Knight must have felt after the game. He made an error to cost the Mets a run and then he made the last out of the game. Too bad.
I meant to ask Darcy or else one of the girls in my Earth Science class to go with me to the Junior Prom. I thought they would get a thrill from being seen with the number one Red Sox fan in town, but I never got around to asking them. Who had the time for those things? I had my tape recording and I knew the stupid Junior Prom wasn't going to top the magical celebration.
I even watched Ray Knight strike out as the summer of '88 turned to fall. There was no need to go to a Red Sox game anymore. Sure they played poorly again, but everyone knew it was nearly impossible to put two championship seasons together in three years. 85 wins isn't anything to scoff at. Dewey was back from his injury and ranged right field with impunity. He drilled more than enough balls into the net. I read about them in the paper. Clemens was pitching well again. Boggs was hitting well. They were winners no matter what happened in 1988. I possessed the only game that mattered and I also had a pencil that Al Nipper threw to me. We were winners, Bill Buckner had said so.
I graduated BHHS after attending summer school to get a half credit in Science. It was humiliating, but what could I do? Because I was short on credits I was prohibited from attending the Celebration Graduation. I heard there was some crazy partying, but I had my own celebration in front of the television with my pencil and soiled Red Sox 1986 World Champions sweatshirt. When I watched Dewey run in from right field the shame of my class graduating without me melted away. I didn't need baseball, didn't even try out for the Babe Ruth League teams or Legion. I had everything I needed on October 25, 1986. We were winners.
Erin went to college somewhere in Vermont, I heard. Cristo probably went to college at UNH. He was always a homebody. We didn't stay in touch anymore after he got a girlfriend. High School was just about sex and popularity. No one cared about the important things like the Sox winning the series in 1986. I remembered one of our last conversations that took place in 1989:
“Schiraldi completely fooled Knight. I mean, that pitch was ten feet out of the strike zone and Knight went fishing. Brilliant.”
“Yeah, whatever. Listen, My girl's coming over. Call me later.”
“Wait. Listen to this. Those two hits by Carter and Mitchell just made the Mets believe there was a chance. They didn't have a prayer, did they? Remember that 0-2 pitch to Knight?”
“You gotta stop watching that game, kid. It's ancient history. They've had one winning season in two years. They suck.”
“Watch your mouth! These are the Sox you're talking about. They are the 1986 World Champions in case you forgot. Dwight Evans beat out a throw to first that scored the third run for the Sox. I'm sorry, but that doesn't suck. You're the one who sucks for talking trash about my boys. We're winners. Remember what Nipper said about everyone being part of the team?”
“You need to have your fahking head examined, Oggy. That was three years ago. They lost everyone that was good and their prospects are a joke. You need to start going to class. Stop watching that tape.”
“You sound like my father, Sticky. What's wrong with you? You don't know me. You don't know what I need. You don't know Calvin Schiraldi. The Sox are winners.”
“Whatever.”
“Not whatever. The Sox won and the Mets fans just deflated. Remember? I'm watching it right now. It's so quiet in New York that you can hear Boston. Remember when the announcer said that?”
“I gotta go, Ogden.”
I never liked the nickname Oggy. It wasn't dignified.
“And you know what? I thought McNamara was crazy to let Schiraldi bat. Remember? Remember when Schiraldi struck out in the top of the tenth? I thought that was crazy to let him bat. But if Mac pinch hits Baylor for him then maybe Boggs never gets that double and Barrett never scores him. See? Then Stanley has to come in to protect a one run lead. What chance does he have of doing that? None. Remember how wild he was? The Mets had the top of the line up coming. If they got two hits off of Schiraldi then they would've murdered Stanley. But they didn't. I'm watching the highlights right now. Schiraldi came out and sat them down just like we knew he would. Two hits just made the final out sweeter. McNamara was right all along. Look at Dewey. He's so happy. He's waving to the Sox fans. Remember him at the parade? He said that all of New England won. He said we were all winners. Wanna come over and watch it again? I can just rewind it. We can watch 'em win, Sticky. The Red Sox win. Sticky? Cristo?”
I applied to a college in California, but didn't get accepted. I thought I'd just go to a nearby technical college, learn to repair cars or install heating systems, but I never sent in the forms. I preferred to sit in the living room and fondle my Red Sox pencil and watch Jim Rice pump his fists when he picked up Wade Boggs near the pitcher's mound. The team was as playful as puppies. They're long road had ended just as Dewey had promised. Old McNamara exploded from the dugout like a seventeen-year old. He was triumphant though he would be replaced in two short years after having trouble keeping the team together in the clubhouse. Too much ego, he said. Inflated salaries tend to do that to some players. I also loved watching the scenes of the Mets clubhouse, the awful silence, the solemn packing of bags for the long winter. What could they do? It was destiny.
My father kicked me out of the house during the '93 or '94 season. I forget which. He said I was wasting my life and he told me to pack my Red Sox posters and record albums and move into my own apartment. This was fine with me. He had been getting on my nerves ever since I bought a second hand television to put in my room so I could watch Game Six while from my bed. I got a room in a nearby town, Marshford or Plumsook, I think. IT was a long time ago and the names start to overlap. My memory isn't what it was like in 1986. I could tell you every player's batting average and number of home runs. I remembered everything, but not no more.
I didn't run into the old gang anymore and Gillies burgers started giving me heartburn. I got a job at one of the outlet stores and was a manager for a while until one of the employees said I'd been harassing her. This wasn't true at all. She was coming on to me and I told her to go home. She threw a coat rack at me and I defended myself. Kids just don't respect their elders anymore. Then I worked a bunch of jobs that are the type you don't put on a resume. I was the custodian at a Junior High School for a year or two. I worked at an oil change place in Homestead, my old town with the lilacs and play room. I even drove past the old house before the land was sold to some developers in 2005 or 2006, and next thing I knew there were a dozen apartments. I would've lived in one if I'd stayed in the area, but I got hooked up with a ticket broker for a while and made some money scalping Red Sox, Celtics, Bruins, and Patriots tickets. It was good work if you knew how to handle the cops and the crowds.
I started hitting the bars in Maine at night just for something to do and sometime in 2009 I was at a place called The Wheel Room, when a guy walked in wearing a Red Sox hat. He saw my own worn Sox cap, the same one Dewey had given me, and he asked how the Sox had done that day.
“They won. Sox five, Mets three. All of New England won. Bottom of the tenth inning with the winning run at the plate...”
“Mets? The Sox are on the west coast. Hey, sweetheart, put a little more water in this guy's whiskey.”
I didn't think that was so funny.
“The Sox won the World Series, man. They're winners. Don't forget it.”
“Sure buddy.”
I pulled out the worn pencil. It was unsharpened but scratched from being moved from apartment to apartment. I placed it next to the 1986 team photo that I had just been showing the bartender.
“This is Dwight Evans and this is the pencil he gave me,” I announced. “The Sox are winners. They won. Dewey told me he'd win and they won. Look.”
The man rolled his eyes and found another place at the bar. That night I went home with the waitress. I can't remember exactly what her name was but I know it rhymed with 'sadness'. We lived together, didn't see much of each other because she was working nights and I had to sell tickets in Boston during the day. She didn't bother me too much and I didn't bother her.
Our kid came at a bad time, though, just after the Cubs won the Series. Winter months at the ticket broker were slow, the Celtics played like shit that year and I couldn't give tickets away. The Bruins had moved to Springfield back in 2012. The wife couldn't get much work off so I started working for a mason laying sidewalks, busting my shine box for those rich assholes in Plumsook, folks from Virginia and D.C. area trying to build their own castles, their own Xanadu in my own backyard. Hurt my back in the spring and had to go on disability. The kid was alright, a girl with two different colored eyes. I used to say that she had to be my kid because I never did anything the same way twice, and that was good for a laugh.
They moved into their own place when the kid was two or three. I saw the little one on weekends. We'd go to the park and I'd hold her real close and tell her not to get hurt. But she always found a way to get hurt. You know how kids are. They blamed me for the bruises and I told the judge that I wasn't doing anything except holding her so she wouldn't fall down. Because if she fell then she wouldn't want to come see me and we couldn't watch Game Six at night and talk about Schiraldi and Rice and Dewey. It was a father's responsibility to teach his children about history, wasn't it? When I went into the new pen over in Riversook, her mom wouldn't even let her send me letters. No postcards, no nothing. That was in 2016, I think.
Wife number two was a mistake from the beginning. Met her at the Social Services in '24 or '25, picking up our checks. She had a kid too, a boy with hair the same color as Gordy Clutcher's, but neither one of us could see our own children. How do you like that? We'd hit the bar until the end of the month and then start picking on each other waiting for the next check. She said she'd grown up in New York as a Yankees fan and she used to give me shit about the Yanks winning a bunch of championships in the late '90s. But I always had '86 No one could take that away from me.
Must've been that guy she met at the bar, the red head, who got her knocked up. The boy she claims is mine has red fahking hair. No one in my family has red hair. I know they got paternity tests and all but I don't see either of them much. Don't want to know. She gets half my check and I get half drunk. Works fine with me. That kid came over once, and while I was taking a nap he taped a program called “Win my Wife.” over most of Game Six.. I might've taken a belt to him, but I didn't do everything they said I did. I still have most of the post-game show and the highlights of the game are almost as good as the real thing. I can still watch Dewey's interview. That was before my dad died. My brother lives in our old house. I forget the name of the street. You know the one, over by the Junior High school. Pretty house. I've been meaning to visit but I don't like to get in the way of his family.
Was in the supermarket the other day picking up some dinner. They got some real good meals in the frozen food aisle. I never remember to get a cart so I had to carry the boxes up front. So I'm standing in a line a mile long and it wasn't going anywhere, when a girl came up to me and said she could help me at the express lane. Express lane in a supermarket? What'll they think of next? I looked at the girl's name tag and it said, “DEE DEE”
“I once dated a girl named Darcy.” I said. That's a name I can't forget. “Pretty blond hair like yours. Ran real fast too.”
I went to follow Darcy when one of the frozen dinner slipped out of my hand. Tried to catch it but only managed to drop all of the damn boxes on the floor. My hands were shaking and tired. I'm not young anymore. Darcy helped me pick the boxes up. She was real nice. I went to get my wallet and it fell on the ground too. It's no fun getting old, but I guess it won't be long now. Picked up my wallet and found two dog-eared photograBHHS
“This is a picture of my oldest,” I said to Darcy. “She's in New York, I think, gonna be a nurse. Real good student. Real smart. And this is my youngest. He's older now, of course, I don't have a recent picture. He and his mom live out west. I hear he's real good at math. A real math whiz.”
Darcy nodded politely as she ran my dinners through the scanner thing. As I was putting the pictures away I found the eraser end of a pencil. The letters “ D Sox” were stamped on it and worn away almost to nothing. Near my library card and instructions about my medicine there was a larger piece of glossy paper. I took it out and unfolded it, smiling.
“Look at this. I'd forgotten I even had this. This was my team back in '86. We were winners. These men made my dream come true, Darcy. They said I was a winner too. They won in '86. Was it that long ago? This man here made me a promise once. His name is Don Evans.”
I knew his name was Dwight, but sometimes the details don't come out right in my mouth. It's just one of those things.
“He gave me this here hat...oh, I forgot I don't have that hat anymore. I mailed it to my son out west. Swell cap. Fit real nice. Don't know if he got it. Don Evans, we called him Dewey, he gave me a hat and made a promise to win and they won and I got a pencil. They were winners...my heroes. And this man over here struck out Rick Knight to...”
“Let's move it!” called a voice from the back of a line that had formed behind me. I couldn't see who it was without my glasses, but I was sure it looked like a boy I once knew. I think his name was Button or Brendan.
“Move it, captain.”
I nodded. People live fast these days, live fast and die young. They don't care much for the old stories, the songs from my time. Young folks have their own songs now. I nodded and asked how much I owed for my dinners.
“Twenty-Two dollars and fifty cents, sir. How would you like to pay for that?”
“Twenty dollars? In my day I could get a burger and a slice of pie for two bits. There was this place called Gillies over where the new downtown mall is. Before your time. Good sandwiches and omelets for a good price. Went there with my old friend Cristo. Read in the paper that he passed away. Had two nice kids. He...”
“Kind of in a hurry back here.”
Again that kid, Bonigan, that was his name. Bonigan. I wonder what happened to him.
I looked through my wallet, but couldn't find any cash. I must have left it on the nightstand again. I'm doing that more often these days. I never was one to use credit cards, even though my oldest has tried to get me to switch over. It's just like music; some people don't like change. I guess I'm one of them. I don't listen to much music these days, the equipment is so complicates with ten different buttons you have to push to play a song, but sometimes I hear the songs from the old fires. I still hear them, and they call me down.
“I guess I forgot my cash clip, honey. I sure do think I forgot my money clip at home.”
Darcy smiled cheerfully, a pretty smile, with good teeth. I wish I'd kept better care of my teeth.
“We'll hold onto your selections for the rest of the day, Sir. You just come back when you want to purchase them. Thank you.”
She looked to the next customer and I got pushed a little by the cart. I smiled with my lips closed to hide my dentures, but no one was watching. My slippers don't work too well on slick tile so I walked outside real slow. It was raining. I felt very tired, like I'd forgotten something other than my umbrella, but couldn't name it. People my age get that way sometimes, they forget things and complain. Life hasn't been a carnival, but I got what I asked for; the Red Sox won and nothing can take that away from me, not old age or a child custody judge or a welfare case worker, or some government bootblack working in an office. I guess when my memory is completely gone I won't have Dewey's smile to remember, but that doesn't mean it never happened. It can feel like a curse, this losing memories, misplacing long-kept treasures, but I think the only reason I get up anymore is to remember what I forgot.
When I stepped outside I got hit by a wave of cold water. Damndest thing.

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.