by John Ritter
Two down. Tying run on third.
So who cares, thought Stats, if we win or not?
His heart hurt as if he were the one who’d lost the all-star spot. Second place. Going nowhere. All because of an error. And there was nothing anyone could do about it.
CHAPTER 35
The following hitter—the Stallions’ best—took the next two pitches, both low and away. Walk him, thought Stats. Set up a force at second. It’s a one-run game, 4–3. Only the guy on third really means anything. Come on, let’s get this over with.
The batter walked. The cleanup hitter did too. Bases loaded. Not exactly textbook baseball, since the winning run was now on second, but still, there was a force play now at every base.
“Let’s go, Bums!” shouted Stats, more out of frustation than conviction. “Last batter now. Force at any base. Come on, you guys!”
Into the batter’s box walked the catcher, a fire hydrant of a guy with no neck and thick stubby arms. Quick stubby arms. He’d already had two singles in the game, both driven hard through the hole between shortstop and third.
The first pitch sailed high and inside. The guy ducked.
“Throw strikes!” Mark pleaded. “We’ll get him out.”
The next pitch was inside again. Belt high. The guy turned on it and slapped a hard grounder to the left side. This time Mark had shaded him perfectly, two steps toward third.
He slid across to get in front of the ball. Picture perfect. He brought his hands back against his belt and, with a gentle ease, scooped the ball up.
He sent a nice low underhand flip to Kerwacki, who stood waiting with one foot on third. Jacky Kerwacki, however, possessed a trait that at times presented the guy with a challenge. He had the attention span of a juvenile gnat. The runner from second was nowhere close, but Jacky seemed to be getting anxious. He banged his glove with his bare fist, then lunged out for the ball just as it arrived. The ball bounced off the thumb of his glove before dribbling away behind him.
Mark never broke stride. After the toss, he had planned to leave the field anyway, seeing the third out in front of him. So he continued on and raced past third base, overtaking the ball before it reached the dugout, where he slid to a stop. Cocking his arm, he spun toward home from his knees to gauge the situation. The runner who’d been on third was crossing the plate.
The trailing runner—most likely underestimating Mark’s athleticism—had decided to head on home, too, once he spotted the ball bounce past Kerwacki.
About halfway down the line, though, he skidded to a panicky halt, having seen Mark’s battlefield pirouette.
For a split second, he and Mark stared eyeball to eyeball, not five feet from each other, until Mark scrambled up and charged right at him. Before the guy could regain his traction, Mark dove, head down, glove out, and slapped the runner on top of his ankle.
The umpire’s fist shot up. Three outs.
Stats caught himself hooting and bouncing against the dugout’s chain-link fence. The play was that good.
If there was another fifteen-year-old shortstop in the world who could have made that play, Stats would like to see him do it.
After righting himself, Mark flipped the ball toward the mound and came trotting in. It wasn’t until that very moment that Stats fully realized what had just happened. The game was not over. It was tied.
By going all out, by almost killing himself to make a nearly impossible play, Mark had done the only thing within his power to keep alive his already-dim hopes of making the nationals. He’d kept the game alive too.
“Who’s up?” shouted Mark as he hit the bench, slapping a posse of hands walking past. “Freddy, who made last out?”
Stats did not have to look. “Top of the order’s up.”
“Okay!” Mark clapped his hands. He showed no acknowledgment of the underlying message in what Stats had just said.
Mark was the number three hitter. He would bat again.
In the top of the eighth, Mark hit his third home run of the afternoon, and it made the other two look average. Dead center on dead red, it flew so high above the scoreboard that even in Fenway, Stats figured, the ball would have caught a glimmer of light from the fancy John Hancock sign. The Back Bay Bums now led 5–4.
After Mark crossed home, Stats was waiting at the dugout opening.
“You are having a career day,” said Stats.
“Hope so,” Mark answered, underlining the importance this day might truly have on his future. Too bad the all-star spot was based on batting average and not slugging percentage, because no shortstop had the power numbers Mark had. But when it comes to batting average, a homer is the same as a single.
Stats whipped out his eXfyle and texted away.
A lot had happened since the last time he’d checked in. Welzer had ended the afternoon three-for-four. But he had also made an error.
Hey, thought Stats, nobody’s perfect.
Now the bad news. Due to having slightly more chances in the field, Welzer was still in the lead in both categories. In batting, he led by eight-tenths of a point. He led in fielding by four-hundredths of a point.
Sully made the third out for the Back Bay Bums, and they took the field with a one-run lead.
Unless the Stallions could tie this game once again in the bottom of the eighth, Mark was finished. Could Stats even wish for such a thing?
Could Ted Williams drive a ball thirty-seven rows up into the right-field bleachers, 502 feet away?
As the bottom of the inning proceeded, it soon became apparent the Stallions were running on fumes. They had no fight left. The first guy hit a chopper up the middle, which Mark easily handled.
The next guy fouled off three pitches before popping up behind the mound. Mark called everyone off and squeezed it for out number two. Unless there was a miracle—like their number eight hitter clobbering a homer—this game was history. Mark would have no more chances at the plate. He would lose his position on the national team by an eyelash.
Even so, he had played one of his greatest games of all time. Three home runs, two amazing plays in the field, and one bad hop, bad-luck call.
Stats scanned the sky for a hawk. Nothing.
He now became a mere spectator. A “traitor” might be more accurate. His scorebook had fallen to the floor, and he’d secretly begun rooting for the Stallions to score one more measly run.
Tie this game, he kept repeating. Tie this game. Bruce Mombocat, the new Back Bay pitcher, was even wilder than Monty. He misplayed a bunt right back at him, then hurriedly threw it away, letting the batter reach second. Then he walked the guy behind him. Two outs all right, but there were now two runners on base.
No, no, thought Stats. Easy now, Stallions. You just have to tie the game, keep it alive. Please do not win it.
The next guy up swatted a flare line drive just behind third base, lofting perfectly over Jacky’s head—a softly served base hit for sure.
Stats shook the fence. Another run! Yes! He then caught himself and froze, trying to keep his excitement secret.
But before the dying quail could fall to the grass, Mark had scrambled to his right, angling deep behind third, and lunged for it, landing with a thump and a roll.
He rose quickly, showing white leather peeking out over the webbing of his glove.
A brilliant, incredible catch. A game-winning, game-ending catch. Three outs. The Bums had won.
And Mark had lost.
It was a long ride home from Stonybrook.
“I did my best, Freddy,” said Mark. “Don’t take it so hard. Look at me. I’m okay.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because I keep telling myself, this ain’t nothing compared to what Pops is going through. Or what the Sox are going through. And look at Billee.”
“Well, yeah, you’re right, but still …”
“Hey, dude, I’ll play at Fenway someday, promise. You watch. Same way all these other guys get to. I’ll work my way up and earn my spot.”
“But that’s just it. You did. It was a statistical quirk that got the other guy in. He played at second and third over half the time. Those spots are nowhere near as difficult as shortstop. He spent over half the season at two positions where he could knock the ball down with his chest, bobble it, and still throw the runner out at first. It’s not fair.”
Mark didn’t respond. It became clear to Stats that he was done talking about it. In that way, Mark was a lot like Pops. He wanted no sympathy. He wanted to hear no gripes. What’s done was done. Time to move on.
Then Stats did something he rarely did. He powered down his eXfyle—his connection to the statistical world. For the first time in a long time, he shut off his phone.
CHAPTER 36
Saturday night, halfway through a game that had already seen two Red Sox errors and two pitchers, the video crew began to set up on the field just in front of Stats and Mark.
“Get ready, Freddy,” said a crew member who wore a wide blue tie with big red baseballs all over it. “At the top of the fifth, you’re on.” He sent Stats a goofy full-tooth grin.
Stats gazed up above the light banks. He knew by now his pursuit of “hawkness” was probably a lost cause—even Billee had more important things to worry about than bringing the “chee” back to the Fen—but he wished that even one small hawk would fly over and land somewhere inside the ballpark.
So far, of course, nothing.
Mark must have read the concern on his face. He shook his brother’s shoulder. “Hey, it’s okay, Freddy. You’re a kid. You don’t have to say anything special. All right? You’ll be great.”
When that “great” moment finally arrived, Stats wondered if the pounding of his heart would be seen through his shirt and shown all over the JumboTron.
“Okay, lights,” said the wide-tie guy.
Stats rose.
“In honor of Fenway Park’s one-hundred-year anniversary,” came the sonorous tones of Carl Beane, the Red Sox public address announcer up in the booth, “tonight’s testimonial will be given by the son of one of Boston’s greatest longtime public servants, an icon of Yawkey Way, Pops Pagano of Papa Pagano’s Red Sox Red Hots, located right outside the ballpark gates. Everyone, please welcome twelve-year-old Alfredo Carl Pagano.”
During the polite applause, the production guy handed Stats the on-field microphone.
“Start, start,” he said, then quickly looked down at his watch.
Stats saw his face flash onto one of the three huge HD video screens serving the ballpark. He bent his head and turned toward home plate to keep from being distracted.
“Hello, my friends of Red Sox Nation,” he managed to say. A hush fell over the crowd. Stats could hear people shushing each other, pointing to a video board. The production guy was winding his hand, urging him to move it along.
“Like he said, my name is Alfredo, but most people call me Stats because I love the statistics of baseball and I like to keep score.” He held his scorebook in front of his face. “This is my scorebook. I bring one to every game I go to.”
For reasons he could not comprehend, he heard a smattering of applause, which then grew so loud he had to stop.
It made him grin. “Thank you. I didn’t know what to say tonight, but Pops—my dad—always told us to follow our dreams. So if I could, I’d like to tell you one of mine.”
Of course, he didn’t have to wait for anyone’s approval, but he paused a moment anyway.
“When my grandfather came here from Italy in the 1930s, he wanted to be of service to his new country. He tried to join the army, but he had a bad heart, which kinda runs in our family. So he bought a hot dog cart instead and rolled it around the town and especially to Red Sox games outside Fenway Park. To him it was the most American thing he could do.”
Stats paused again, noticing he had begun to lose his train of thought. He felt the pounding of his heart in his ears.
“Um, our family has held season tickets for over seventy years—seventy-two to be exact, counting this one. Sorry, I’m always exact. Anyhow, we’ve seen all the ups and downs. Like my brother once told me, when other people gave up, we still showed up. And during those days when the bandwagon filled up, we were always happy just to bring the food.”
It had by now become obvious that this testimony was going on far longer than thirty seconds. Already the producer had circled his finger to signal “Wrap it up,” which had only distracted Stats. When he started again, the guy made a sharp chopping motion with the side of his hand against his palm. Stats looked away.
“Me and my brother, Mark, sit in the same seats my grandparents sat in. The same seats my mother and father used to sit in. When my mom died, my father stayed outside mostly. I think it’s because he couldn’t bear to come down and sit here without her. This baseball park has sort of turned into a sacred place to our family. I think a lot of people feel that way.”
Finally the guy with the baseball tie drew his fingertips in a cutting motion across his throat.
“Uh, Freddy,” the man said, approaching quickly and reaching for the mic. “Thank you, thank you. That was great.”
Mark stood up and put his arm across the guy’s chest, cutting him off. “Hey, let him say what he’s gonna say. This is baseball. There’s no clock.”
The man started to protest. “But he’s—”
“Hey,” said Mark. “He’s speaking for us now. Stand back. Relax.”
Stats heard that very sentiment echoed by several other fans nearby.
The man backed off.
Stats regained a measure of calm. “So anyway, here’s my dream. When we walk through the halls of Fenway Park with all the memories of all the guys who played here, I dream that we remember each of them and we honor them and we honor the guys who are on the team right now, because someday they will be memories, too. And we come and watch them do their best. And we watch what we say.” He paused, realizing that thought applied to him right now.
Turning to face the people behind him, he said, “I dream that each time we walk through these gates, our hearts will be happy. Whether we’re coming in or going out, it doesn’t matter. Because this is our family. If we don’t pull for each other, who will? And even though my mom is gone, and my pop owes a ton of money for all the bills, and even though I have a bad heart like my grandfather and have to go to the hospital sometimes, I can come here and feel happy. Because …”
He paused to make sure the words fit the picture in his mind.
“Because this park is the heart of Red Sox Nation. It has the kind of heart I always wanted, one that’s forty thousand people strong, who love their team, even though some days it sure doesn’t seem like it, but you do. You do. And in my dream you show it. Because in my dream, when I pass through these gates, this balky heart I was born with turns perfect. Sometimes it lasts for a few innings, sometimes it lasts all week. But when I hear my friends in the stands yell and boo at my friends on the field, it breaks my heart. And I don’t like it.”
At this moment, Stats realized the fielders had stopped warming up, had ceased any movement at all. Every one of them stood facing him.
“So I hope someday it’ll be like in my dream in here, and my heart could stay like it is when I come to Fenway forever. Thank you. Sorry I took so long. Um, play ball.”
It was as if the sea tide of normal sounds had pulled back and receded deeper than anyone had ever witnessed, leaving a strange void, which then gave way to the roaring tsunami of sound that followed.
The crowd clapped, whistled, cheered, and stomped. Though to be honest, Stats barely heard any of it. Why had he gone on so long? Boy, they must be glad that’s over with. He should’ve just stopped when the guy asked him to.
The first sign Stats saw of any impact his speech might have had on the Fenway faithful was the lack of signs. By the start of the inning, gone were THE BREEZE BLOWS IT AGAIN, WANTED: SOMEONE WHO CAN PLAY THIS GAME, and the one Stats particularly disliked depicting a Red Sox cap sitting a
top a tombstone that had the letters R.I.S.P. on it.
And though that sign would’ve proven useful later on in the seventh when the Breeze popped up with two outs, leaving two Runners In Scoring Position stranded on second and third, it never appeared.
Some hecklers still heckled, but not as much, and their catcalls were often followed by shouts of encouragement from others. Yankees fans, well known to be boisterous and bellicose, kept their comments geared toward congratulating their guys on a play well executed. The most amazing thing, however, was when Announcer Bouncer used his megaphone voice to calmly and loudly announce, “Red Sox, we love you. That’s from the kid’s heart, and we’re all The Kid tonight.”
The whistles and cheers that followed came through this time, loud and clear.
“Freddy,” said Mark in his softest brotherly tone, “you knocked it out of the park.”
CHAPTER 37
Alfredo Carl “Stats” Pagano had not planned on being famous. If he had, he would have worn better clothes. But that night, before the game was even over, dozens of fans had approached him and asked, rather politely, he noticed, if they might take a picture of him. And then they would ask for one with him.
Soon, Mark was directing traffic in and out of their small section of seats. That lasted well after the bottom of the ninth, when Dusty Doretta hit a sharp liner to second for the final out, with the tying run on third.
Before Stats left the ballpark, Bull Brickner approached him with another request.
“Hey, Statsmo. Lookit, some guys in the press box are wantin’ you to come up and take a few questions. Whaddya think?”
He thought it would be scary, but fun. He went.
The first few questions were easy. What school do you go to? What grade? Do you play baseball? How many games do you go to a year? Who’s your favorite player?
“My favorite player is Billee Orbitt, but I like them all. This is my favorite team so far.”
“Even though the Spacebird just got sent down?”