by John Ritter
“Which means?”
“Which means, we have the rest of tonight to get the nest in place. Then all day tomorrow it can absorb all this positive energy, which will not only help bring the hawks back and restore the natural balance, but if the nest is set in a real strong power point, it will completely negate the negativity of any curse in the Red Sox universe.”
“Wow.”
“Wow is right. That’s why tonight’s the night.”
“You sure know a lot about this.”
Billee grinned. “What else did you find out?”
Stats checked his eXfyle. “Carl Yastrzemski used to say that Fenway Park rejuvenated him after a road trip.”
“True, so true.”
“And there was a baseball commissioner named Giamatti who compared Fenway with the Great Pyramids at Giza. That goes along with what Yaz said, since I found out the first pyramid at Giza was built for healing.”
Billee glanced over. “Good research, bud. Yaz had it right, too. Fenway can heal. I’d rank it right up there with the Mother Church here in Boston or the Dalai Lama’s place in Tibet or the Hopi mesas in Arizona. All sacred. All timeless. And they all have what Fenway has.”
Stats saw no reason to disagree.
Before long, the baseball cathedral was in view. Billee turned onto Lansdowne Street, which ran behind the Green Monster.
“Now tell me, where do we put the nest?”
“Well, I …”
“You figured it out, didn’t you?”
“Sort of. My Stat Pack friend Willy Rike said that to do it right, we have to use the sacred geometry of baseball. That is, the circle, the triangle, and the diamond.”
“Sounds about right.”
“He says that in almost all ancient traditions, a circle represents the sun. A triangle represents heaven. A square, the earth. On a baseball field, there is one primary circle: the pitcher’s mound.”
“We can’t build it there, bud.”
“No, I know. Besides, a circle is not part of a pyramid. We need a triangle and a square.”
“And the diamond is the square?”
“Right. And triangles are everywhere. Each base has one as a corner of the diamond. But one base is different.”
“Home plate?”
“Right! And it’s the strongest geometric shape of all. Here’s what he said.”
Stats brought up the text on his eXfyle and read. “‘This symbol of the triangle upon the square originally came from off-planet sources.’ So I wrote, ‘Off-planet? UFO people? Ha ha.’ And he says, yeah. Listen.”
Affirmative. Google The Law of One, but not now. Anyway, home plate’s shape is formed by adding a triangle to a square. Get it? Heaven on earth. In baseball that lone spot on the diamond also represents the alpha and the omega, the starting point on a runner’s journey as well as his ultimate destination. A real power point. So let that be the cornerstone of your imaginary pyramid.
L8r, sk8r
“All right, dude,” said Billee. “Great work. So, once again, where does the nest go?”
“In the stands, behind home plate.”
Billee looked up, squinting.
“And,” Stats continued, “the very tip of our imaginary pyramid would be about fifty-seven feet up, somewhere right around the catwalk just below the windows of the announcer’s booth.”
“Ah, just like we dreamed it.”
“Pretty much.” Stats looked down. “But since we can’t build it there, I added fifty percent to all my calculations.”
“Okay.” After parking the car, Billee led Stats to a door on Van Ness that Stats had never seen before. Once inside, they set off down a dim hallway lit only by emergency lights. After reaching the concourse door at the other end, Billee headed off for the clubhouse to gather the sticks, while Stats made his way outside, climbing all the way to the top of the bleacher seats.
In a little while, Billee cruised out of a nearby tunnel, driving the cart right onto the upper deck promenade.
“Where do these go, Stat Man?” he called, indicating the bundle.
“Come here, I’ll show you.” He retrieved a laser pointer from his pocket.
After Billee walked up to join him, Stats pointed with his red beam. “Right there.”
The beam hit the base of the flagpole at the very top of the old-fashioned stepped-roof facade that formed the front wall of the huge press box area overlooking the ballfield below.
“The only problem,” said Stats, “is how to get on the roof.”
“We’ll use a rope. We’ll have to start from down here. Somewhere.”
That was when Stats noticed the twigs were bundled by a small piece of rope peeled off of a full coil holding maybe one hundred feet of line. Suddenly, he felt uneasy.
“What do you mean, we?” he asked. “You’re the only one going up, right?”
“Oh, sorry, bud. No, I didn’t mean ‘we.’ I meant you.”
“Me? Billee, are you—” He stopped short of asking the obvious question. “How am I supposed to get way up on top of that roof? You know I’m just a kid, right?”
“Sure. And that’s what makes you just the right size to hoist up nice and easy-like. We’ll toss a rope over a beam or something above the stands, then I’ll pull you up to the edge of the roof. You toss the bundle over and climb on. Set up the nest, and I’ll lower you down.”
Stats stared at the flagpole. “Billee, I’m not getting the picture. How do I actually climb on?”
“Don’t worry. I’ll rig you a harness with a step about waist high. I saw it once on a survivor-in-the-rain-forest show. Seriously. When you get close enough, you’ll … uh, you’ll figure it out.”
“I will?” He seriously doubted it.
Billee avoided any hint of eye contact. “Sure.”
“Don’t you think maybe we should think this thing through a little more?”
“I do, I do,” said Billee as he began unraveling the rope. “No, you’re right.” Using a seat back as a form for shaping, he started designing the rope seat. “That’s exactly what I want you to be thinking about while I figure out the harness and hoist.”
Billee had a great arm. An obvious observation, Stats knew, but to see him throw a weighted batting doughnut tied to the end of a rope up into the rafters was unbelievable. He threaded two needles, one on the way up—between two support beams—and one at the edge of the roof itself as the weight skidded just over another support arm, falling cleanly to the other side, and dangling there until he let out more slack.
“We’ll have you up and down before you know it, Stat Man.” The heavy doughnut-on-a-rope glided back down into Billee’s waiting hand. He removed the weight and attached the small seat he had created, the type you might see a rock climber use.
Stats stood back and eyed the rope. “It’s kind of thin, isn’t it?”
“Hey, no worries. It’ll hold five hundred pounds. Said so on the wrapper. Now, look, I’ll strap you in, clip on the bundle, and hoist you right up. When you get to the top, toss the bundle up first. Then climb onto the harness here.” He pointed to the seat.
“How do I do that?”
“It won’t be that hard. I’ll talk you through it.”
“Talk me through it?” Stats took the mountaineering seat from him and squeezed his eyes shut.
While Billee fussed with the sticks, Stats pulled in two deep breaths, hoping to bring more oxygen into his brain. Gripping the rope near his face, he gave one last big exhalation.
Then he softly added, “I want to know how you ever talked me into this.”
CHAPTER 27
Billee kept his focus on the mission. With a quick snap, he clipped the bundle of sticks to Stats’s belt.
“Once you’re on the roof, bud, you just walk over to the flagpole, build the nest, and then I lower you back down. Voom! Voom! Piece of cake.”
Billy hoisted away. Slowly Stats began to rise. He had counted on going up. He had not counted on swinging from side to si
de. And the twirling-like-a-ballerina part that came next was completely unexpected.
About halfway up he was spinning and swinging so wildly, he had to tell Billee to stop.
“I’m getting dizzy.”
“Okay, just grab my line. Here, I’ll bring it closer. Grab it and stabilize yourself.”
It took a while for Stats to even locate the hoisting rope Billee had brought over to him. As he spun past, he wrapped his forearm into it and finally came to a stop.
“Sorry, bud. I didn’t know you were going to spin.”
“Look, maybe you better lower me down. It doesn’t really seem like this is going to work.”
“Sure, it is, Stat Man. You’re halfway up.”
“Then I’m also halfway down. See my point?”
Billee ignored the question. “Look, let my line slip through your arms as I pull you up. That’ll help stabilize you. Plus, the higher you go, the less you’ll swing. Just don’t look down.”
“Don’t worry.” Stats again shut his eyes. He felt himself rising.
“Just another five feet,” said Billee. By the sound of Billee’s voice, Stats figured he must be walking the line back instead of wrapping it around something. Stats preferred a nice solid wrap. What if the rope slipped out of Billee’s hands? That doughnut had fallen in a hurry.
At the very moment of that thought, Stats suddenly dropped a good ten feet before Billee managed to stop his fall.
“What are you doing?” Stats screamed, his voice cracking. “Trying to kill me?”
“Sorry. I slipped. Won’t happen again. But I had the rope the whole time, so no worries. I was looking up, and there was a big wet spot down here, so …”
Stats squeezed his eyes even tighter. Great, he thought. Nice image. One more slip like that, and there’ll be two big wet spots down there.
“Well, be careful.”
“I got you, bud.”
Finally Stats rose up near enough that he could almost touch the edge of the grandstand roof. Almost.
“I can’t reach it.”
“Can you stretch?”
“Can you fly? Look, I’m only four-foot-six, and that’s on my tiptoes. I’m at least a foot away.”
“Okay, okay.” Billee took a moment before he spoke again. “All right, Stat Man, listen. I’m going to lower you down.”
Finally. Mission unaccomplished, and he did not care. Yes, he truly wanted to lure the hawks back, he truly wanted to restore balance to Fenway Park. But this might be the dumbest thing he had ever done in his life, eclipsing even the time he rode down Beacon Street on a bike with no brakes. But at least on the bike he could drag his feet. From here he could touch nothing but nothing.
Stats began to descend. Then stopped. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
“That’s far enough. Now you can start to rock back and forth until you swing up high enough to grab the catwalk. From there I think you can toss the sticks onto the roof.”
“Are you nuts?”
Billee gave a one-legged stomp, jerking his head forward. “Why do people keep asking me that? No, I think this’ll work.”
“Then why don’t you come up and try it?”
“Believe me, bud. If I could, I would. Just give me your best shot.”
So he shot. He swung out a little, back a little. Out, then back. Each time Stats passed through the middle of his arc, his stomach flipped.
“You’re almost there,” called Billee. “One more big kick.”
Stats gave it all he had. It was now or never. As he swung toward the press box area, he kicked his feet out for an extra lunge.
They touched! His feet actually kissed the metal catwalk below the windows. Then he swooped back the other way and lost virtually all of his momentum, except for that stupid twirl.
“It’s no use,” he said. “I can’t get close enough, and even if I did, I’m not strong enough to grab on and pull myself up. Billee, you have to do this.”
This time Billee did not respond, but Stats noticed right away he was sliding down toward ground zero. When his toes touched concrete, his knees collapsed.
Billee had to catch him and steady him up.
“Okay, buddy. No worries. We’ll figure something out.”
At just hearing the tone in Billee’s voice, Stats felt crushed. He had promised his hero something and had let him down. He looked back up at the target spot. It did not seem all that high from down here.
Could he try it again? Could he somehow figure out a better approach?
“What about this, Billee? What if you lift me back up, and I swing back and forth from just underneath the lip? I bet I could swing the bundle onto the roof from there.”
Billee tilted his head back. “I don’t think that’s gonna work either.”
Stats had never heard Billee sound so defeated.
“Look, Stat Man, I’m sorry I got you into all this.”
“No, it’s okay.”
“Believe me, if I could do it myself, I would. It’s just that I can’t go up there either. I’m, uh, I’m nervous about heights.”
What?
“How can you be nervous about anything? Last year you shut out the Yankees in Yankee Stadium!”
Then, in that same instant, Stats recalled how Billee had gone so slowly and carefully up the ladder onto Stats’s roof to see the batting cage.
Now he felt even worse. So Billee Orbitt was afraid of heights. How could anyone have guessed that?
Deciding he could not bear to let his friend down, Stats said, “Billee, I want to try one last time. Come on, let’s hit it with our best shot.”
Billee grinned at the line.
“No, really,” said Stats.
“Think so, huh?” Billee peered up at the challenge. “Okay, look, I do have another idea. Sort of a backup deal I thought of at the last minute.”
He winked at Stats, who smiled. He should’ve known he could always count on Billee to have a backup plan.
Billee waved. “Follow me.”
They returned to the electric cart at the upper-deck tunnel mouth. Billee tugged on an old frazzled tarp and pulled it off the cargo area. Underneath were four huge metal cylinders and a shiny roll of silver duct tape.
“What’s in the tanks?” asked Stats.
“Helium.”
“Where’d they come from?”
“Paolo was filling balloons when I saw him this afternoon. You know, for the show Saturday night.”
“So what’s your plan?”
Billee snapped open a toolbox built into the side of the cart under the bed. He pulled out an uninflated beach ball.
“What do we do?” asked Stats. “Float the sticks up there with helium balloons?” He was beginning to like this.
“That’s what I was thinking.” Billee knelt down and pulled out an armload of deflated beach balls. “Paolo’s got a ton of these.”
Now Stats finally knew what happened to all of those beach balls the crowds slapped around before the security guys confiscated them.
Then Billee looked him in the eye. “But I’ve actually got an even better idea.”
CHAPTER 28
It took a while for Stats to google up the information he needed to determine whether the four tanks held enough helium to lift a person into the air.
The answer was yes and no. It seemed as if there was enough helium to float someone off the ground, but not just anyone. The guy could weigh no more than thirty-three kilos.
“How much is that in American?” asked Billee.
Stats had only a moment to get himself out of one more loony situation. All he had to do was answer, “Oh, it’s about forty pounds.”
Instead, he spoke from his heart.
“It’s, like, seventy-two pounds.”
Billee nodded. He smacked his lips open, took in a breath, and let it right out. He did not even bother to ask his next question out loud. He simply looked at Stats and raised both eyebrows.
“Um,” said Stats, “I weigh abo
ut sixty-five pounds.”
Billee nodded again. He began to fill the plastic balls.
As Billee worked, Stats folded himself into the driver’s seat of the cart and silently watched the constellation Pegasus, which had appeared over the rooftops along the third base line. After a while, he realized the flying horse was joining them as the lead star, Enif, which was Arab for “the horse’s nose,” slowly but surely began heading east across the center of the sky dome.
“Pegasus,” Stats announced finally, without even looking at Billee. “Coming this way.”
Billee stopped what he was doing to gaze west. “I wonder when it’ll sit right smack-dab above us?”
“Don’t know. I’ll look it up.”
Stats searched his favorite star site for the Boston sky data. “Well, this table’s not that precise. Let me zero in.” He quickly entered the exact longitude and latitude coordinates for Fenway Park in relation to when Enif would top the diamond dome.
Whoa. He could hardly believe his result.
“Hey, Billee. I got the exact time for the moment Pegasus is right over Fenway.”
“Good, read it off.”
“You’re not going to believe this.” He looked up to catch Billee’s eyes.
Billee lifted his chin, then he raised his eyebrows in a silent question.
Stats replied, “Four-oh-six.”
Magical numbers to any baseball aficionado, let alone a Red Sox fan, they represented the batting average of one Ted Williams, who in 1941 became the first man since 1930, and the last man ever, to hit over .400 in a single season.
Billee hooted as he spun the helium valve wide open, restarting his task with a grin. “Believe in magic, bud?”
“I do now.”
It took twenty-seven beach balls of assorted sizes, colors, and designs to empty the tanks. Working together, Stats and Billee bundled the various balls into duct-taped groups of four. Then they tied all seven bundles together into one huge bouquet anchored to the top rail of the upper-deck walkway.
After undoing the anchor rope and wrapping it around his waist, Billee decided to take the flying beach balls out for a spin.