by John Ritter
That afternoon, Stats did not bother watching for Billee to appear at Papa Pagano’s, since he was due to pitch, and the last time he had stopped by on a game day—well, let’s just say it did not improve his luck much. So Stats was not disappointed when his expectations proved to be the case.
He spent the last few minutes before game time running the recyclables to their respective bins and humming a song about how good times never seemed so good.
What Stats could not have expected was to hear from Bull Brickner, the usher, that the Red Sox had just scratched Billee from the lineup.
“Clubhouse says it’s a groin muscle,” said Bull. “Paolo thinks it happened during warm-ups.”
“A pulled muscle?” said Stats. “Doesn’t sound like Billee. He stretches for hours.”
Bull shrugged. “I think they’re gonna take Woods out of the bull pen and have him start, or else maybe move Beer Can Byrd up a day.”
Stats hustled back to share the news with Mark and Pops. But by then, they, too, had heard the announcement on TV.
“Did they say if he’s on the DL?” asked Stats.
Mark shook his head. “No, they said it’d be day-to-day.”
“So who’s pitching?”
Pops seemed to know. “They’re moving Byrd up in the rotation.”
“Yeah,” said Mark. “I think they’re hoping to get five out of Beer Can, then go to the pen.”
Stats shook his head. “So Byrd’s pitching on three days’ rest. This can’t be good.”
“One of those things,” said Pops. “Why don’t you two go on in. Catch the national anthem. I heard they got Chick Corea playing a jazzy electric piano with a local kid, Maria Tecce, singing. Supposed to be sultry.” He waved his hand. “Go on. Tell me about it.”
If sultry meant old-fashioned, then it was, and Stats sort of liked it. But he missed seeing Billee take center stage.
“Maybe you can find out what happened after the game,” said Mark.
“Hope so.”
That was not to be. Billee had spent the evening in the clubhouse getting extra attention for his muscle strain.
And when the Sox left town on Thursday, after a short six-game home stand, without Stats ever getting a chance to connect with Billee, his heart reminded him daily that things were not “balancing out” very well. Sure, Pops had handed out the tickets to several business associates for the last few games. That happened from time to time. Sure, Billee had rehabilitation work to focus on, so he was in the clubhouse a lot. And by the time the home stand ended, with three wins and three losses, they had simply not been in the same place at the same time.
But every time Stats asked himself whether he should be concerned about the new curse growing a little stronger each day, his heart would slow down, engorge a bit, then double pump. Pure stress.
To Stats, it was a sure sign that something bad was brewing.
As June’s first week of baseball rolled along, Stats tried to stay as positive as possible and look for any signs that things might be balancing out for both Billee and the Red Sox.
Sadly, none appeared.
Boston’s current ace, Cannonball Jackman, the only starter with a winning record, had been placed on the DL with a sore shoulder on June 5. So to start that Tuesday’s game, the Sox promoted left-hander Howie Woods from the bull pen. As a reliever, Woods had been known to throw the kind of smoke that finished off most hitters. In his new starting role, however, he could not finish the fourth inning.
Since they were playing in Oakland, Stats followed the game online as well as on TV. By the third inning, the fans in the blogosphere had again turned ugly. The virtual boos they had first aimed at Woods morphed into barely censored catcalls, taunts, and sneers for the entire team. That continued until the bitter end, with the Sox dropping a lopsided wartsfest, 9–1.
By the end of the weekend series in Seattle, Billee had yet to see any action at all, and Stats had seen enough. He’d seen so many “lost-in-the-lights” doubles, booted double-play balls, and run-scoring unholy rollers to become obsessed with this new curse. He talked about it constantly with Mark and wanted nothing more than to find a way to undo the thing, no matter what it took—now.
CHAPTER 19
The following Tuesday, June 12, the “Dead Sox,” as the bloggers had already begun to call them, were once again back at Fenway hosting Tampa. Having just been swept in Oakland and Seattle, tonight they were hoping to halt a seven-game losing streak.
During that time, the Red Sox pitching rotation had undergone a slew of changes. Stats wasn’t certain, but according to a few websites, Billee was healthy enough to start and was, in fact, due to pitch on Wednesday.
It was all rumors, though, since the Spacebird didn’t show up at the Red Hots stand on Tuesday to visit or report or confirm anything. Was Billee just going to let the curse run its course? Had he gone on to other ideas without mentioning them? Or was he so immersed in his struggles on the mound and the team’s overall downspin that the strain of it completely absorbed him? If any of these were the case, Stats would not blame him one bit. But where was he?
Then, on Wednesday afternoon, something strange happened.
Just as Stats had finished helping to set up the stand at the ballpark, Paolo Williams, the groundskeeper, came outside and said Red Gruffin wanted to see him.
“What for?” asked Stats.
“Beats me, Freddy Ballgame. Said he had something for you.”
Well, as long as it’s not a cigar stub to chew on, thought Stats.
He found Ol’ Red sitting all alone inside the nearly deserted upper-deck seats above the infield on the first-base side. And though Red watched closely from the moment Stats emerged from the tunnel, he said nothing until Stats greeted him from the aisle two feet away.
“Hi, Mr. Gruffin. Paolo said—”
“Hey!” Ol’ Red cut him off and aimed his cigar butt at Stats’s nose. “You didn’t hear this from me. Got it?”
Stats did not even offer a nod, afraid to acknowledge he’d heard that much.
Ol’ Red peered around the park, then shifted forward in his seat.
“Back in April 2008, just before opening day, a little girl and her school class was here on a tour of the park, okay? She walked right along the rail there.” He pointed past the bottom row. “The situation was, a mama hawk had a nest right up there in them rafters.” He indicated the ceiling of the upper deck. “Had two eggs she’d been brooding. Now, the kid was doing nothing but minding her own beeswax, and that mama bird come swooping down, claws out, and strafed that poor girl’s head like a jet pilot running touch-and-goes.”
He sat back. “Well, she wasn’t hurt bad. Scratched up some. Scared, mostly. Which was the point. Mama bird just wanted to send a message. But the next thing you know, animal rescue was out here taking down the nest, eggs and all. Now, I don’t agree with that. Them hawks do us a service keeping down the rodent population. Besides, I happened to see ’em living in that nest. Right after we won the ’07 World Series. Good-luck sign, far as I’m concerned. But everybody’s worried about lawsuits, ain’t they? Anyways, after that I had to crack the whip. Every year, baby birds or not, we cleared out the nests. I never felt good about it. But …” He shrugged and left it at that.
“Anyways, you seemed interested in rats. And like I told you, if I thought of something …” He cocked his head and narrowed an eye. He held the look until Stats had to blink. “All right?”
Ol’ Red pushed himself up, thrust a black leather work boot into the aisle, stepped out, and kept on going. Had Stats not jumped back, Ol’ Red would’ve run him over.
Stats watched the crotchety old man clop down the steps and onto the landing. Crotchety with a heart of gold.
“All right,” said Stats, weighing the news. “All right.”
CHAPTER 20
At game time, Stats paused with Mark at the top of the aisle while the Mighty Mighty Bosstones played the national anthem. Afterward, as Stats set
tled into his field-level seat for the game, he was so happy to finally see Billee Orbitt scratching up the mound and going through his pregame rituals. Even if most fans had tired of the show—that is, they had tired of Billee’s focus ritual not being connected to, say, ten straight wins for a pennant contender, as he had done during one stretch in 2011—Stats still loved to watch Billee Orbitt slip into his O-Zone, as some fans still called it.
During the game, however, he slipped even further—into the “Oh, no!” zone. As painful as it was to watch, Stats did find comfort in at least something. Billee had done his best. He had worked as hard as Stats had ever seen him work. He hit his targets, he changed speeds, he worked the corners, he held runners close, even picking off a guy on first.
But he only lasted three and two-thirds innings. And three of those were struggles. Why? Pure, unadulterated bad-luck runs. The two errors to begin the fourth were only the final examples. The ground rule double that came next, of course, was on Billee, whose ERA, despite a ton of unearned BLRs, had ballooned from 3.13 to 9.50 in the past four weeks.
What hurt Stats the most, however, was the booing. The loud, boisterous, angry boos that greeted Billee from the second inning on cut into Stats as deeply as they seemed to affect the performance of his friend on the mound.
Each time Billee tromped around or held the ball in front of his face and talked to himself, the hecklers would go nuts.
“Throw the ball, Birdbrain!”
“Pretend like you’ve played this game before!”
Even his world-famous leaflutz pitch brought ridicule. “Where’d you learn to throw that, Space Case? On the moon?”
In four weeks’ time, the Red Sox had gone from being tied with the Yankees to being eleven games off the pace and nine games behind Tampa.
Even so, thought Stats, why do people get like that? Now is the time the Sox needed them most. Besides, it’s only the middle of June. Lots of baseball to go.
After the game, Mark urged Stats to make a quick exit. “Billee won’t be leaving the clubhouse tonight, Freddy.”
Stats had already checked twice. He pulled in a deep breath. “I know. But let me go down and take one more look, okay?”
Stats finally caught a glimpse of Billee’s bare feet protruding from the bull pen.
“Just give me a minute,” he shouted to Mark.
He ran to the front row and called down to the pen.
Billee poked his head out. “Come over this way,” he said. “I’m not coming out. I’ll bring you over the lip.”
Stats slid underneath the railing just above the pen, and Billee reached up to swing him all the way in.
“Dude,” said Billee as Stats hit the ground. “We’ve been booed so bad, I’m afraid to show my face around here. I hope you scored something. I need any shred of hope you can give me. The cosmic momentum of this deal is galactic. I tell you, it’s taking us all down.”
“I think I might have something. Not sure, but back in 2008, just before opening day, this mother hawk swooped down from her nest and attacked a girl here on a field trip. Scratched her head up and everything.”
“Well, that hawk was just protecting her young.”
“Yeah, sure, but Ol’ Red says they had to call animal rescue to come and take the nest away. And ever since then, they take down every hawk nest they find.”
“They do? So that’s what we’re dealing with.”
“What?”
“A hawk’s nest monster.” Billee winked and slapped the visor on Stats’s hat.
“Billee, focus!”
“Okay, okay.”
“Because the point is, ever since then, the Sox have never come close to another World Series.”
Stats let Billee digest the info while he tapped his eXfyle. Up came a historical site for Fenway Park. “And, okay, one last thing.” He showed the screen to Billee.
“This article is a hundred years old, from back in 1912, the year they built the ballpark. The mayor was a guy named Honey Fitz, and he gave a little speech at the dedication ceremony.”
Stats read part of it out loud.
“This base ball playing field represents the sort of exceptional community involvement I support with all my heart. From the days of swamps and marshland where the only local occupants might have been a few frogs, muskrats, hoot owls, and hawks, to the more recent days of industry and all its dust and grime, this plot of land has come a long way. Today, with the completion of his improvements upon this site, Mr. John Taylor has given the city of Boston a sporting facility of national merit. May it shine forever.”
Stats looked up. Billee sat grim-faced with his arms pressed against his chest.
“It seems like all this fits together, right?” said Stats. “I mean, there must be a connection … somehow.”
Billee nodded. “There is.”
He rose. He said nothing as he walked to the bull pen fence and rested his arms on top, facing home. For a while he simply looked out over the ballfield.
“Can you see it?”
“See what?” said Stats.
Billee pointed across the diamond. “From ancient times, the balance of nature on this land meant a natural park, right here. White oaks and silver maples towering out of the marshlands, like we had out where I grew up.”
“Like you saw in that dream you told me about.”
“When did I tell you about that dream?”
“You know. In the hospital.”
“When was that?”
“Oh, never mind. I think I was dreaming.”
Billee stared. “You dreamed my dream?”
“Were you flying over Fenway?”
Billee nodded.
Stats opened his mouth wide. “Whoa.”
Billee stood stunned. “Oh, my goggles. Dude, I don’t believe that happened! Okay, okay. This is big. This tells me something. On this land, on this sacred ground we’re standing on, there has always been a balance. There’s been a special energy, a …”
“… a chi?”
Billee grinned. “Exactamundo. And what I mean is, it connects me and you as much as anything else.” He knelt down, facing Stats, taking him by the shoulders. “Stat Man, this is our big break. No wonder the first curse lasted eighty-six years. It’s not the ballpark that’s out of whack. It’s not even the team. It’s the balance of nature. It’s the chi. The hawks! That’s our wing flap.”
He turned toward the right-field bleachers and shouted, “We need to bring back the hawks!”
CHAPTER 21
As with any diagnosis, naming the problem and solving the problem were, of course, two different things. Billee was convinced that the natural chi must be returned to Fenway by way of bringing back the displaced hawks. Fine, thought Stats, but how?
Then an idea hit. As he and Mark rode the Route 8 bus home that night, he announced, “When I see Billee tomorrow, I’m going to suggest that we get boxes of rats and frogs and dump them all around Fenway Park. What do you think?”
“What, you think that’s gonna attract some hawks?” said Mark. “Balance things out?”
Stats shrugged. “I guess. Gotta think of something.”
“If the hawks were so important to the winning energy at Fenway, why haven’t we heard about them before? Wouldn’t you think that they would’ve noticed big imbalances at least a few times in the past? I’ve read all about 1967 and ’78 and ’86—all those heartbreak years—but nobody ever said, ‘Hey, guys, look at all these rats running around. Better get some hawks over here, pronto.’”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s because they used poisons instead, the way they always did. But Red Gruffin did complain about the rats in ’86. It’s just that nobody ever thought of using the natural approach.”
The bus jerked to a stop. Mark rose and grabbed his bag. “You mean, until 2004?”
“Well, even that wasn’t on purpose, but, yeah, that’s what me and Red think. That year, with all the construction, the hawks were left alone to do their job.” Stats
pushed himself up. “And in 2007, Ol’ Red actually saw a nest.”
As they headed to the exit, Mark thanked John Dog, the Route 8 driver, as he always did.
“Yeah,” Stats added, “thanks, Mr. Daemon. See ya next time.”
The driver casually tucked a hank of long loose hair behind his ear. “You cowboys take care.”
Stats followed his brother off the bus. They walked quietly for a while, approaching their block.
“Well, in a, you know, ecological kind of way,” said Mark, “it sorta makes sense, what you guys are thinking. But on the other hand, Freddy, remember, Billee is pretty well known for being about six outs shy of a complete game. So, you know …”
“Don’t worry. I know it sounds loopy. But at least it feels like I’m doing something. I mean, what if it turns out we could’ve done something to help the Sox, and we didn’t?”
“I hear you. I’m just saying, don’t go too overboard on all this, okay? They don’t call him Spacebird for nothing.”
Stats let that comment stew as they arrived home. Silently, they climbed the stairs. Creaking open the front door, Stats saw that Pops was still up. He had several manila folders and sheets of paper spread out all over their big mahogany table.
He did not greet them with his usual exuberance.
“How did it go, boys?”
That question alone was surprising. Didn’t he know?
“They lost,” said Stats.
“Ah, geez.” In what appeared to be a bit of guarded stealth, Pops cleared the table with quick hands, not bothering to sort, and slid the papers together, placing them inside a single folder. Then he set all the folders on a shelf in the alcove facedown. Turning back, his mood seemed to have brightened.
“Had a little success with my chili dog buns today. Added some rye flour, and they held together a lot better. Think I’m getting closer.”
Mark joined Pops in his elevated mood. “Hey, that’s good to hear. No more soggy middles.” Playfully, he slapped his father on his rather abundant middle and pulled back, in a boxing pose.