Fenway Fever (18 page)

They nodded, and that was it. Two desperadoes bidding each other adios after the ride of a lifetime.

The everyday go-to-work world, which was just beginning to stir, would never understand what they had just gone and done. But they did.

Tonight, they had tipped their hats to the universe. And now all they had left to do was to go about their business and wait for the universe to tip back.

At 7:05 Thursday night, Billee completed his final warm-up toss, and everyone around section 71 sat poised for a great game.

“Tonight’s the night,” said Lucy to no one in particular. “I can feel it.”

Behind her, Mr. McCord asked, “What do you feel, Lucille?”

Lucy turned and waved her rolled-up program. “Tonight, everyone hits. Everyone runs. Everyone scores.”

“I feel that way, too,” said Mrs. McCord. “But it’s more than a feeling.”

“More than a feeling?” Her husband looked around for consensus. “You mean the merry fans walk away winners tonight?”

“I mean,” said Lucy, “the merry Sox walk away winners tonight.”

Mark nudged Stats. “Hope she means
Red
Sox.”

Point taken. The Chicago
White
Sox were in town for a short two-game series, and having beaten the Boston Red Sox
last night, they were riding a three-game winning streak and sitting all alone in second place in the Central Division.

But Billee moved with an air of confidence Stats had only now realized he’d been missing over his last several starts. Billee stood on the mound, looked in, and got his sign from Burly Fiske. He nodded. He pitched.

Fastball. Ninety-six miles an hour. Strike one. Everybody cheered.

They cheered again when he retired the Chicago leadoff man on four pitches, finishing the poor guy with his buckler, in at the knees.

Stats looked into the sky. There must be a hawk up there somewhere, he figured. He glanced toward the scorebooth. Nothing. Maybe they were already settled into their new home.

Or maybe not.

Billee would go on to face seven more batters that inning. He would retire none. The whistles and cheers came no more. After the third walk of the inning, two with the bases loaded, Billee was gone.

What
happened
? thought Stats. Everything was supposed to be so perfect after such an amazing night. Was it just too soon to expect anything to have changed? Or, worse yet, could it have all been for nothing?

While watching reliever Kurt Pfenning chill the White Sox, fanning his first hitter and getting ahead on the next guy, Stats noticed the pitcher casually rotate his right shoe a few times, as if loosening his ankle.

After two more pitches, Coach Stallings jumped out onto the field, asked for time, and conferenced with Pfenning. Immediately, the coach waved for the trainer.

Pfenning would not throw another pitch.

“What happened?” asked Stats.

“He landed wrong,” said Mark. “It was four pitches ago. I remember seeing him hop a little after throwing a changeup. Didn’t seem right.”

It wasn’t. Pfenning left the game, and the carnage resumed.

What followed was a long game, as the Red Sox went through five pitchers on the night. What followed for Stats and Mark was a long, quiet bus ride home. Mark was eager to get to bed. Stats was eager to get free of a weird feeling that had crept into his mind. Before he turned out the light, Stats checked a few of the blogs, just to see how Red Sox Nation was reacting.

Most were convinced that Billee needed to be sent down to Pawtucket to work out his kinks. No, thought Stats. Don’t send him away. We need him. Some fans argued for a bull pen stay, letting Billee pitch only in the middle innings of games that didn’t matter. A mop-up guy. And those were the friendly ones.

In the morning, Stats checked again. He had awoken with the same feeling he had retired with. That Billee was going away. And he was right.

The Sox were sending Billee to Pawtucket for a “rehabilitative” stay. Stats knew what that meant. If he could not regain his form, he would be gone. Out of baseball. History.

He realized then, it
had
all been for nothing.

“Hey there, good to see you, Mr. Lucchesi,” said Pops as he spotted the Boston Red Sox president the next day approaching the stand. “Step right on over here. I’ll give you personal service.”

Mr. Lucchesi
, thought Stats. Maybe I can find out what his plans are for Billee. What if the Sox don’t ever want him back? Were they thinking about trading him to another club?

“That’s what I like about this place, Pops. Plenty of personal service by the family who knows what they’re doing.”

“Been doing it so long, the chili dogs are starting to follow us home.” He barked out a laugh and tapped the grill to clean his tongs. “What can I do for you?”

“I wonder if I could speak to Freddy for a minute.”

“Absolutely.” He turned. “Alfredo, Mr. Lucchesi wants a word.”

Stats had heard the whole thing, but had only just then looked up, pretending to be quite busy. “Sure, be right there.” He gave the chili kettle another stir.

Pops winked at the Red Sox chief exec. “Can’t rush magic, eh?”

The club president understood completely. “I haven’t been able to yet, Pops.”

Stats wiped his hands on his apron and stepped over behind Pops at his station. “Hello, sir.”

“Hello, Freddy. I want to ask you something. The video production people thought it might be fun for you to give your little speech during a game instead of taping it ahead of time. What do you think?”

Stats shrugged. “I don’t know. Might not be as good if I don’t get a chance to rehearse it in front of the cameras a few times first.”

“Well, that’s part of the idea. We don’t want a slick production from you. You’re the fan of the future. You love the game. You’re loyal. Your family has a long history of being associated with Fenway Park. We thought it might be nice if you told us what you like about being here. No rigmarole. No script. Just something short and sweet from a true young fan. What do you say?”

“I like the ‘short’ part.”

The man laughed. “Don’t blame you. Twenty, thirty seconds tops. We think you’ll be great. Half the crowd knows you and your family anyway from all the years you’ve been down here. It’ll be a real treat for everybody.”

Oh, man,
thought Stats. If only he knew those days may soon be over, that Pops is on the verge of selling the stand, just
so we can afford to pay our bills. Still, Stats had to try. Billee would want him to.

“Okay, I can probably do that.”

“Super.” He rubbed his hands together. “What about tomorrow night? With the Yankees in town, it’ll be a good crowd. Saturdays, we usually get a lot of kids coming out.”

“Sure, I guess.”

Tomorrow!
During the Yankees series? With Billee in Pawtucket?

But what could he say? “Uh, could I ask one thing? How long do you think Billee will be gone?”

Mr. Lucchesi scratched at the gray stubble on his jawline. “Can’t say, Freddy. I want him back up here as much as anyone. We’ll give him a few starts in Paw and see how it goes.”

Stats nodded. “Hope it goes good.”

“As do I.” He stepped back. “Okay, all set?”

Stats gave another nod.

“Super, super.” He turned. “Pops, a star is born. The kid’s a natural.”

“He’s a bright boy,” said Pops. “He’ll do all right by you.”

The man thanked Stats and Pops and left.

“You think so, Pops?” he asked.

“Of course. You’re gonna knock ’em out. You’ll be terrific.”

“No, I mean what you said about being bright.”

Pops gentled his eyes. “Ah, Alfredo. You’re the brains of this whole family.” He spoke louder. “You’re so brilliant you make us all shine just hanging around you. Ain’t that right, Markangelo?”

Mark turned from the customer he was helping to shout out one of his plays on words. “You got that bright!” He went back to work.

And that was that.

All Stats and his bright brain had to worry about now was thinking up something brilliant to say.

Stats decided to study the Fen-Cent message delivered during Friday night’s game, looking for clues. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a “slick production”—just the opposite of what he would do.

Two Boston singers, Kay Hanley, dressed in old-fashioned dance hall clothes from the 1920s, and Amanda Palmer, dressed basically in old-fashioned underwear, teamed up to perform their Red Sox tribute called “The Knights of Fenway.”

Mark could not tear his eyes away. It was fancy. It was dancey. “See, Freddy, that’s all you gotta do.”

“Wear skimpy clothes and shake a lot?”

“No, just talk from your heart. Personal stuff. How much you like coming to the park, hanging out with Billee Orbitt, snagging foul balls during the game.”

“You always get the foul balls. I’ve never caught one.”

“Yeah, but you’re excited when I glove it, aren’t you? And tell ’em how you always keep score. People eat that stuff up.”

“Really?” That sparked an idea. “Maybe they’d let me announce one batter’s entire at bat, pitch by pitch. That would be awesome.”

“That won’t happen. But look at it this way. Your whole message will be a baseball broadcast. It’s like a dream come true, Stat Man.”

Stats smiled at Mark. No one but Billee had ever called him that. But now Billee was gone.

On one point, however, Mark was right. It
was
a chance in a lifetime to speak to the crowd at Fenway. Even for twenty seconds.

But what in the world was he going to say?

At least there existed one aspect of Stats’s life where good news prevailed. It was the only bit of hope he had to hold on to, that maybe something in his life might turn out all right. As of today, Saturday, June 23, 2012, out of all YMBL shortstops in North America, Mark Pagano’s numbers were the best. Only one game to go.

“Congrats, dude,” said Jacky as Mark and Stats arrived in Stonybrook for the ten o’clock game.

“Way to go, Mark.” Sully Frankson slapped his hand.

The congratulations came from everyone on the team, leaving Mark a little out of sync and the last one ready to take the field for warm-ups. As he hurried to lace up his cleats, Coach Carrigan sat down alongside him on the bench. Stats rustled through some pages and pretended not to be listening.

“I’ve seen all the numbers, Mark,” the coach said. “Looks like you’re a shoo-in for this thing. Chance of a lifetime.”

“I know. It’s hard to believe.”

“How do you feel?”

“Good, good. A little nervous about it, but good.”

“Yeah.” The coach let the word hang there a moment before adding, “I was thinking, why don’t you enjoy the feeling a little and sit this one out?”

“What do you mean?” asked Mark.