Fenway Fever
Authors: John Ritter
PHILOMEL BOOKS
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Copyright © 2012 by John H. Ritter. All rights reserved.
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Published simultaneously in Canada. Printed in the United States of America.
Edited by Michael Green. Design by Amy Wu. Text set in 10.5-point Life LT Std.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ritter, John H., 1951– Fenway fever / John H. Ritter. p. cm.
Summary: Twelve-year-old Alfredo “Stats” Pagano and Boston Red Sox pitcher
Billee Orbitt work together to break a potential curse at Fenway Park. 1. Boston Red Sox (Baseball team)—Juvenile fiction. 2. Fenway Park (Boston, Mass.)—Juvenile fiction. [1. Boston Red Sox (Baseball team)—Fiction. 2. Fenway Park (Boston, Mass.)—Fiction. 3. Baseball—Fiction. 4. Blessing and cursing—Fiction. 5. Boston (Mass.)—Fiction.] I. Title. PZ7.R5148Fe 2012 [Fic]—dc23 2011037113
ISBN: 978-1-101-57198-9
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
JOHN H. RITTER
PHILOMEL BOOKS
AN IMPRINT OF PENGUIN GROUP (USA) INC.
This one’s for my big sis,
Dr. Carol Pierce,
who altered her life to watch over, guide, and sacrifice
for her three young brothers when our mother died.
And she watches over still …
with love, John
And for Michael Green,
longtime true believer
my editor, anchor, brother, friend,
and pilot once again
without whom there would be no sky
con gratitud infinita, juan
I particularly wish to thank: Dr. Janis Flint-Ferguson of Gordon College and her husband, Rex, for my baptism long ago upon the oakwood seats of Fenway and for hosting many happy returns; Vanessa Crooks, for her expert assistance over the years in organizing my forays in and about New England; Tamra Tuller, a wise and vibrant editor with high patience and a keen eye; Anthony Wing for his thoughtful insights on an early draft; Marlie Allen for homemade ice cream and emotional support; Kannon Allen for his creative sparks and contagious can-do spirit; and most of all, I want to thank Cheryl, my bride of now forty years, who interprets the world for me in both concrete and angelic ways, as befits a teacher of both English and Yoga, beyond a doubt the Pegasus of my life.
with love, John H. Ritter
Spring of 2012
“ONCE YOU HAVE TASTED FLIGHT,
YOU WILL FOREVER WALK
THE EARTH WITH YOUR EYES TURNED SKYWARD,
FOR THERE YOU HAVE BEEN,
AND THERE YOU WILL ALWAYS LONG TO RETURN.”
—Leonardo da Vinci
“THE GOAL OF LIFE IS TO MAKE YOUR HEARTBEAT
MATCH THE BEAT OF THE UNIVERSE,
TO MATCH YOUR NATURE WITH NATURE.”
—Joseph Campbell
“O! FOR A HORSE WITH WINGS!”
—William Shakespeare,
Cymbeline
CHAPTER
0
It was the last of times, it was the first of times.
It was the old ending. It was the new big inning.
It was the magical year of 2012.
And among the fens and bogs of Boston town, something was amiss …
Let’s face it, baseball fans, no ballpark on earth holds as much legendary drama, karma, curses, heartbreak, and hope as Fenway Park at Number 4 Yawkey Way in Boston. Sure, you got your Wrigley Field in Chicago town with its ivy-covered walls or the old coliseum out Oakland way or the big blue sea of seats at Dodger Stadium in L.A. A lot of greats have passed through their gates, no doubt, but when it comes to legends, no ballyard anywhere holds a candlestick to the ol’ Fen.
And no one knows that better than Alfredo Carl “Stats” Pagano, who’s spent half his life (that’s six out of twelve years
or, more precisely, 73.5 out of 147 months or, expressed as a batting average, an even .500 of this baseball lover’s lifetime) gathering stats and data on the Boston Red Sox and their quirky hundred-year-old ballfield.
And during Fenway Park’s hundredth anniversary, in that legendary year of 2012, the place went bonkers. Banners flapped from bridges. Billboards told the tale.
100
YEARS OF CHEERS AND TEARS!
they read.
CATCH FENWAY FEVER!
others proclaimed.
IT’S A FAN-DEMIC!
Old pros and Hollywood celebs alike recorded JumboTron testimonials recalling what the ballpark had meant to them. Centennial posters hung in bookstore windows, while “First Fen-tury” flags adorned the walls of sports bars everywhere.
Ah, but deep beneath all the festivity and hooplicity, there crept the foreshadows of a calamity that no one in town, from the sea captains of Gloucester to the philosophers of Harvard University, seemed to notice.
Luckily, one small and brilliant boy and one rather strange Red Sox pitcher saw the signs and decided to step up to the plate and swing away.
What happened next was out of this world.
1
The pre-game street scene rivering past Papa Pagano’s Red Sox Red Hots hot dog stand, just outside the gates of Fenway Park, had grown loud and tense.
A certain fear hung in the air.
“No, no, I’m telling you,” one Red Sox fan bellowed at his buddy. “Orbitt should not be pitching. After four straight fiascos, why is he starting? He should be in the bull pen. And I mean the one down in Pawtucket.”
“Like I said before, Mr. Beer-for-Brains, he’s had some weird luck, is all. The Spacebird is still the man. You’ll see.”
“Weird is right. I got twenty bucks that says Billee Orbitt, the space
cadet
, won’t get out of the first inning.”
“You’re on!”
All afternoon, from his station at the back of the handcrafted wrought-iron hot dog stand on Yawkey Way, statistical whiz kid Alfredo “Stats” Pagano had taken these friendly quarrels in stride.
Tonight’s match, the third of a four-game series pitting the Boston Red Sox against their archrivals, the New York Yankees, had the streets and bars around Fenway Park packed and punchy, even three hours before game time.
“Hey, was that guy right?” asked Pops Pagano, a burly man with a husky voice. He plopped a fresh-grilled Smokey Joe wood-fired dog onto a toasted bun. “Billee’s on the hill tonight?”
“Last I heard,” said Stats, who tended two steamy kettles next to Pops’s grill. “Unless they make another last-minute change.”
And even though the Red Sox had dropped the first two games to the so-called Evil Empire from New York—or maybe because of it—Stats could hardly wait to head inside and catch the action.
He took a second Smokey Joe from Pops and began to wrap them both. “They skipped over Billee last time around. So he should be up.”
His older brother, Mark, who at fifteen towered head and elbows over Stats, called from the cash register up front, “Skipped over him? They
sank
him just because of a little bad luck.”
“Ahh,” Pops growled as he slapped a half dozen more hot dogs onto the grill. “He’s a tough kid. He’ll bounce back.”
Stats boxed the Smokey Joes and slid them forward.
Mark caught the box and passed it to a shirtless fanatic everyone called Announcer Bouncer—a guy with a voice so loud you could hear it from home plate to the Green Monster seats
high above left field. Rainbowing across his bouncing belly, he’d painted
BILLEEZ BOYZ!
in white, blue, and red.
“Here you go, Bounce,” said Mark. “See you inside.”
“I’ll put it on my calendar,” he barked.
Mark shook his head, laughing. “Get outta here. Next!”
Up stepped a white-haired man in a rumpled dark business suit, sans tie. “I’ll have two Teddy Ballgamers, kraut, no mustard, two Smokey Joes, mustard, no ketchup, three Chili Billees, and one foot-long Hit Dog with everything.”
Pops, in his high-top chef’s hat, looked up from his grill. “Got it, buddy! Hey, is that for here or to go?”
The man arched his eyebrows. “What?”
Pops was always using that line on new customers, just to bust their chops.
Here or to go?
What could the guy say?
Mark waved his hand. “I’ll take that as a ‘to go.’”
Stats had already grabbed two Smokeys and set them aside, then he fished two regular dogs and a footer from his saltwater kettle. He put the regulars inside fresh Boston rolls atop blue paper sheets stamped “Teddy Ballgamer” and dropped the footer onto a soft steamed bun.
Next, Stats sprinkled onions and diced tomatoes on the foot-long Hit Dog, which actually measured 12.5 inches, because, as the sign for this one promised,
YOU GET
MO
FOR YOUR MONEY
.
He slid all five down the side counter to Mark, who dumped a ladle of sauerkraut on the Ballgamers, finished wrapping them, and started a box.
“Waiting on the Billees,” called Stats.
“Can’t rush magic,” said Pops.
Stats knew that, as did all loyal Red Sox fans. Magic can take a long time.
It had taken until 2004, in fact, for the Sox to win their first Major League World Series in eighty-six years. And they did so in magical Red Sox fashion, mounting a surge from three games down in the League Championship Series to stop the New York Yankees in seven (becoming the first team to ever do such a thing), then swept the St. Louis Cardinals in four to win the World Series and break baseball’s longest-running bad-luck streak, the legendary
Curse of the Bambino
.