Fenway Fever

by John Ritter

“Anyways, your grandfather,” Pops began, “had a hard time with English, too. Once I remember complaining about not being able to get a pair of these sneakers, Jumping Jacks, that all the other kids were wearing.”

  “Jumping Jacks?” Poor Mark could not resist.

  “Hey.” This time Pops sent him “the look.” It froze Mark as Pops held him with magnum eyes, then followed with “the nod.”

  Mark lowered his head.

  Order restored, Pops went on, allowing himself a smile.

  “Anyways, I put all sorts of pressure on him. I gotta have these shoes, this and that. But you know, things were tight. Even so, I get to where I think I’m wearing the poor guy down, and he finally goes outside to talk it over with the neighborhood family, the other paisanos on the block there, to get some advice. So the next time I bring it up, how I had to have the Whiz Kids model Jumping Jacks because every one of my pals was wearing them, Papa comes back with, ‘Markangelo, if everyone you know was going to jump off a boy named Cliff, what would you do?’”

  Pops roared out a laugh at his own story. They all did. “That’s what he said! A boy named Cliff. Papa, he didn’t quite have the English down so good yet.”

  He laughed some more.

  “Well, did you get the shoes or not?” Mark wondered.

  “You know what, I never did. All I did was, at that moment, I tried not to laugh.” He shook his head. “I tried my level best not to laugh, and I said, ‘Papa, don’t worry. I won’t ever jump off of Cliff.’ And that was that.”

  “Great story, Pops,” said Mark, with a big smile. “I like to hear all that old-time stuff.”

  “Ah, geez, times, they are so different these days. But back then, you know, that’s how it was.”

  That’s how it is now, too, Stats wanted to say, for he sincerely believed it. Love is love. Honor is honor. And family is family, no matter who they are.

  “Tell us another one, Pops. Tell us what it was like the first time you walked into Fenway Park.”

  Pulling back, Mark shot Stats a fierce-eyed glare, one that basically said, “That was probably the dumbest thing you could’ve asked.”

  Stats knew what Mark meant, since Pops no longer attended games, but he disagreed. He wanted Pops to reminisce, to remember the good times, the magic, and to one day actually come back and sit in his rightful place inside the ballpark he loved so much.

  Pops brought his water glass close and took a sip. “Ah, you’ve heard that one before.”

  “Yeah, but not in a long time.”

  “Maybe later.” He swiveled to look at the back of the room, toward the sound of the swinging kitchen door, and held his gaze until Angie appeared table side. Clearing a spot in the center, she set down a basket of warm breadsticks and an oval bowl of red sauce topped with fresh-grated Parmesan cheese.

  They all dug in.

  As Stats savored the chewy bread, he had an idea. “You know, Pops, I think this dough is strong enough for your chili dogs. You should talk to Angie about her recipe.”

  Mark agreed. “Yeah, really. What’s a good hot dog bun, anyway, but a big fat breadstick?”

  Angie reappeared with the entrees and began passing them out. “Who’s making fun of my breadsticks?”

  “Nobody!” said everybody, keeping their heads low.

  “They’re perfect,” Pops added. “Someday, maybe I could get your recipe?”

  She stood a moment, hands on hips, her dark eyes decoding him.

  “All you have is to ask.” She then reexamined the table. “All right. You boys, all set?”

  Without waiting, she hastened off.

  From out of left field, Pops said, “Reminds me a little of your mother.”

  He received two soft, uncertain hums in response.

  Pops dabbed at his mouth with his red cloth napkin, then rested his fork and knife.

  “I know I don’t say too much about her.”

  Stats could feel Mark hunch over, tensing his arms. Neither boy dared look.

  “But I should,” Pops continued. “You boys need to grow up knowing about her, not wondering about her.”

  He re-clenched his knife and fork. He began to cut. “I’ve been meaning to, you know, but …” He rested his hands, fork in the left, knife in the right. “What can you do?”

  At that point, all three attacked their meals with vigor. They cut and stabbed and chewed and swallowed, working in a vacuum of silence, until two of them had cleaned their plates and the third had done his best, finishing up with a few last dabs of sauce and garlic bread.

  Then, as if answering the question he’d left hanging, Pops said, “What I gotta do is take care of this bill collector situation first. Need to get that ironed out.”

  Mark rested his forearms on the table edge and sent Pops his own rendition of “the look.”

  “Whatever you decide, Pops, we’re with you. It’s a family matter. So whatever we need to do … we’ll get it done.”

  That seemed to surprise Pops as much as it made him glow. He sat back and took them both in. Mark first, then Stats. With a grin and a huff, he reached over and grabbed each boy by the back of the neck and jostled them.

  “I know we will,” he said. “You are your mother’s sons.” He looked around again, as if for Angie, as if he suddenly needed to pay the bill.

  “It’s all taken care of, Pops,” said Mark. “Remember?”

  “Ah, geez.” Pops waved a hand. After a quick sniffle, he slid from his seat and cleared his throat, coughing a bit louder than necessary.

  “Okay, okay,” he rasped. “Let’s go. Game’s coming on. I’ll make the popcorn.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The Sox went on to win three in a row against Minnesota and traded places with Toronto, climbing out of fourth by three percentage points. For one night. And on that night, Stats pretended he had been right all along. That maybe things do even out, given enough time.

  It’s logical. It’s scientific. Things are turning around.

  Then the Sox lost two in Kansas City to end their short road trip right back in fourth place—and both losses were directly linked to bad-luck runs. So much for turning anything around.

  Meanwhile, Toronto had won three of four against Detroit, so the Sox slipped even deeper into fourth and were now eleven games out of first.

  Stats could not ignore the trend. Yes, it was only the third week of June (lots of baseball to go), but on the other hand, it was only the third week of June (a long way to have fallen in just five weeks). On top of that, Billee had not pitched in seven days. Once again, after a poor performance, he had been passed over in the rotation.

  On Wednesday, the first day the Sox were back in town, Billee showed up at the stand four hours before the start of the game. And he was pumped. It had been seven days since they’d seen each other and Stats was thrilled beyond words. For one thing, Billee had a plan!

  “Here’s the deal, Stat Man. We’ve got to get the hawks to come back to Fenway, right? But the question is, how? And the answer is right back there.” He pointed to the rear of the stand.

  Stats ducked under the counter and stepped to the other side, eager to see what his brilliant co-conspirator in curse-busting had come up with.

  He followed Billee to the rear of the stand, where a small electric cart was parked, snugged up against the brick facade to the ballpark.

  “We lure them back home,” said Billee, “with what they need most.” He stood next to a small mound on the cart’s cargo area, which was covered with a green sheet. Then, like a stage magician, he yanked the sheet away.

  “Ta-da!”

  They both stood staring at a huge clutter of sticks, twigs, and leaves, all bundled together.

  “What is that?” asked Stats.

  “It’s a bunch of sticks and stuff.”

  “You know, Billee, I actually do see what it is. What I meant was, what’s it for?”

  “A hawk’s nest!” He bent over the bundle. “Don’t you get it, bud? It’s home sweet
home. Hawks have excellent eyes, right? So we put together a nest and set it out someplace. Before long, we got a couple of hawks living here. They tell their buddy hawks and bingo! The balance of nature is restored at Fenway.”

  Stats grinned widely. He loved the idea. “I always knew you were a genius,” he said, “but this totally proves it. I kept thinking we had to litter the place with rats or catch the hawks and put them in cages or something. But this …” He walked from the front of the cart to the rear, examining Billee’s sticks. “So where are we going to put the nest?”

  “Well, that’s what I want you to calculate out for us. It can’t just be any old place. I’ve been reading about electromagnetic fields and the ancient pyramids, and—”

  “Wait a minute. The pyramids? Electromagnetics? What’s that have to do with a hawk’s nest?”

  “Not just the nest, Stat Man. The curse. People think a curse is bad luck. But it’s not.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No, it’s bad energy. It’s all about the energy, bud. That’s why we’re bringing the hawks back.”

  “I thought it was to restore the natural balance.”

  “And natural balance is based on energy. That is, the flow of energy. Look, bud, the Chinese have known this for thousands of years. So have the Native Americans. And now Western scientists are finally proving what lots of cultures already knew. When your energy flows, all systems are go. You’re golden!”

  “You’re starting to lose me.”

  “No worries. You asked, I answered.” With a shrug, he set a moccasined foot on the edge of the cart and re-examined his cluster of twigs.

  “I asked, why pyramids. But now I’m not sure I want to hear …”

  “Because”—Billee poked the air with his finger—“pyramids are energy magnets. That’s why Cedro and Dusty and I wear crystal pyramids around our necks.”

  “You do?”

  Billee shook open his medicine pouch. Out poured a few herbal stems, powdered leaves, and a miniature quartz pyramid, clear as glass.

  “See?”

  “Okay, but it doesn’t seem to be doing you guys any good.”

  “Ah, bud, it can only do so much. But if we didn’t have ’em, things would be a lot worse, believe me.”

  Stats could not dispute that, nor would he try. “Look, can we just get back to the hawk’s nest? Where do we put it?”

  Billee nodded. “That’s what I’m getting at. It needs to be placed at the perfect spot to attract the highest degree of positive energy.”

  “I’m afraid to ask where that might be.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you. That’s what I want you to figure out.”

  “How?”

  “Easy breezy. What you have to keep in mind is this. The base of every four-sided pyramid, like the Great Pyramid at Giza, is a diamond.”

  Stats closed his eyes. “I’m going to yawn now.”

  “No, no, seriously. And Fenway Park already has a diamond. It’s a ninety-foot square. So we know the baselines of our pyramid. Those are the baselines of our infield.” He snapped his fingers. “Hey, maybe that’s why they call it baseball!”

  He paused a beat, then came back to earth. “Anyway, the Fenway pyramid is imaginary. I just need to know how high it is.” He raised his palms to the sky. “Say it was built with the same proportions as the Great Pyramid at Giza, how high would it be? Okay? Find that out first. The nest should sit at the top of that pyramid along the most powerful ley line. So then research ley lines.”

  “Ley lines?”

  “Energy lines. Look it up. You’ll see. But once we have the line and the height, that’s where we build the nest. Easy squeezy, double cheesy, buddy.” He joggled the top of Stats’s cap.

  “Okay,” said Stats as he straightened his hat. How could he say no? But first, he had to think. He loved a challenge. But he hated busywork. He’d have to check into Billee’s plan to see if any of it made sense.

  “Let me research the idea, okay? Might take a few days.”

  “Uh, no, Stat Man. No can do. I need that info ASAP. We have to build the nest tonight.”

  “Tonight? How come?”

  “Because tonight’s the summer solstice. And besides that, I’m pitching tomorrow.”

  “You are? But don’t you think you should get your rest? We could get it done by your next start.”

  “Stat Man, the way things are going, I may not get another start. And look at Marichal, at Denton, at Woods. We’re all struggling. Last year at this time, we were in a pennant race. This year, we’re in the dungeon. Every single game counts. We need those hawks!”

  Billee re-covered the sticks with the sheet. “Okay? So look, I’ll pick you up in front of your house at midnight tonight.”

  “Midnight? What’ll I tell Pops?”

  “Oh, yeah.” He thought a moment. “Why don’t we get Marko to come with you?”

  “Mark won’t do it. He has a game tomorrow, too, and he sleeps, like, fourteen hours a night as it is.”

  “Okay, scratch Mark. Tell you what. You guys sleep on top of your roof sometimes, don’t you? Why don’t you do that tonight? Then just be ready to go out for a little midnight stroll. I’ll have you back in no time. Besides, tonight is the summer solstice. It’s gonna be magic! And we could use a little bit of magic.”

  Billee grinned with eyebrows arched.

  What he could use, thought Stats, was a little bit of logic. But at the same time, he realized how much this meant to him. Besides, Stats loved the idea of a geometrical math challenge. He loved the idea of a late-night adventure at Fenway Park with the one and only Billee Orbitt. And, really, how long could it take to build a three-foot nest?

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll meet you at midnight.”

  CHAPTER 26

  At the first opportunity, Stats sent out a “data dump” request to the Stat Pack.

  “Anything!” he wrote. “Need the magnetic power points of Fenway, ley lines, whatever. Need info on pyramids, dimensions, uses (why did they build them, anyways?), info on hawks’ nests. Anything!”

  Before long, Stats found himself sifting through his own personal Wikipedia of data on electromagnetic force fields in, on, around, and through Fenway Park.

  Some he deemed useless. Some he flagged as significant. Mostly, it was a lot of reading.

  Among the significant points, a few really stood out.

  Hatonn, down in Louisville, wrote, “Most people believe the pyramids were built to be royal burial tombs. Not so. The first pyramids were built as healing stations. The Egyptians used strategically placed crystals to create positive healing energy in the heart of the pyramid.”

  That tied in to what Billee had said. Maybe they really were going to heal Fenway Park.

  He also learned about ley lines from Willem Rike, a high school kid in New Hampshire.

  “Ley lines,” wrote Rike, “are intense rivers of energy within the earth. They usually connect two powerful or sacred sites.”

  Then Rike added something that floored Stats.

  Dude, when it comes to pathways of energy, Boston is a hub. Think bike wheel. Boston = axle.

  Turns out, Fenway Park connects two powerful and sacred sites. The ley line runs from center field right THRU home plate! It connects the oldest rocks on earth + newest rocks on earth. Isle of Iona + Island of Hawaii. Tons of chi if nothing blocks the flow. THIS is one MAJOR ley line.

  L8r, sk8r

  Stats could hardly believe this. A major energy line right through Fenway? But it took him only twelve minutes to verify what Rike had written.

  In order to draw a straight line from the very mystical and sacred Isle of Iona, off the coast of Scotland, with its 4.5-billion-year-old surface rocks, all the way to the Kilauea Volcano on the Big Island of Hawaii, whose lake of fresh lava spills into the Pacific Ocean, where it cools and creates new rocky shoreline every day, your pencil would run right through Boston.

  Once again, Stats could not wait to share ever
ything he had discovered with Billee.

  This, he loved.

  Stats knew he would never experience the feeling of catching a deep fly ball up against the Green Monster or sending a home run over the right-field wall, but he reveled in that cool surge of energy he always felt when his brain was quick-flicking and his fingers were clicking.

  For a kid like him, that would have to do.

  Stats had almost fallen asleep when his eXfyle buzzed inside his sleeping bag. He got up and peered out over the edge of the half wall that ran along the roof of his house. Billee blinked his car lights from below.

  Stats climbed down the old steel roof ladder to the back porch and eased softly onto the wooden deck. Then he tiptoed to the steps that led downstairs to the sidewalk.

  Upon entering Billee’s compact sports car, he said nothing, sinking low into the cushioned seat, shutting the door softly. As they pulled away, Billee asked, “What did you tell Pops?”

  “I left a note. Said I’d be right back. But I hope he doesn’t even read it.”

  “Where’d you put it?”

  “On the roof.”

  “Dude,” said Billee, but that was all he said.

  “Where’s that bunch of sticks?” asked Stats, looking around.

  “In my locker. I buried it under my incognito wardrobe.”

  “Can you still get into the clubhouse and everything?”

  “This late, usually not. But Paolo said he’d stick around so we could haul out the sticks, grab the cart, and go.”

  “So Paolo knows about this? Hey, maybe he can help.”

  “Not likely. He told me he’d be sleeping on his cot. He said, officially, he really doesn’t want to know what we’re up to.”

  “Oh.” Stats peered up through his window over the rooftops. “Why is the summer solstice so special?”

  “Because it’s powerful. The sun’s rays strike the earth head-on, sending us the maximum amount of solar energy for any day this year. And during the solstice, a bunch of planets line up with the earth and the sun forming one huge ley line. The first twenty-four hours are key. And it started tonight at 7:09.”