Date: Sun, 1 Feb 2015 14:43:24 -0500
From: Paul Knoke <paulkdoctor@gmail.com>
Subject: INSTALLMENT SIXTEEN

INSTALLMENT
SIXTEEN

from

THE FATHER
CONTRACT

By Arthur Arrington

Edited Paul Scott

Please try to donate to Nifty so that we can keep this wonderful saga of PJ
and Jack going and going and going. . .

Chapter Thirty-Two: A Field of Dreams

For the second morning in a row, PJ woke up in strange surroundings. But
this time he didn't feel anxious at all, even though he had no idea where
he was. All he knew was that he was somewhere with Jack. And if he was with
Jack, he was safe.

He turned his head sleepily and stretched. There wasn't a clock in the
small room, but sunshine was streaming in at the window so he knew it was
long past sunup. Then he remembered. It was Easter! He looked around to see
if there was an Easter basket for him. Last year when he'd spent Easter at
Gordonsville, Mrs. Williamson had left one for him and he thought Jack
might have too. But he didn't see anything.
       ' For awhile he just lay in the bed, enjoying the lazy feeling of
not having to get up if he didn't want to. At last, he pushed back the
covers. He was only wearing his underwear. He had no memory of going to
bed. Jack, or someone, must have undressed him and put him there. He
crawled out of bed to look for his clothes, finding them along with his bag
in a small closet. After getting dressed in shorts, polo shirt, and his
Nikes, he poked his head out the door into a hallway. There were faint
sounds which he followed around the hall corner into a big living room,
where a TV was on over by a wall, tuned to ESPN with its volume turned
down. No one was watching it, but a tall, lanky stranger wearing shorts and
a tie-dyed tee shirt was sprawled in a big recliner, reading a paper, parts
of which were strewn all over the floor. Behind him was a wall of glass
with a sliding door leading to a big patio with a spectacular view of the
cityscape. Memory stirred in PJ as he realized how high in the air they
were.

The man looked up, saw PJ coming quietly into the room, and yelled, "Hey
Jack, the kid's up." Then with a smile, he said, "Hi ya' PJ. You looked
kinda tired last night, so we let you sleep."

Jack stuck his head out over a breakfast counter on the other side of the
room. "Hi, PJ. If you're hungry, get in here and I'll fix you
something. Don't waste any time with that low-life out there."

When PJ walked into the kitchen area, Jack poured out a bowl of cereal for
him, got some milk from the refrigerator, put PJ on a stool at the bar, and
gave him a spoon. "Want some eggs, pork, and toast?" he asked. PJ managed a
smile and nodded. Now that he was fully awake and had food in front of him,
he felt ravenous. While he was eating, Jack began to cook eggs and bacon,
and the man with the paper came over to introduce himself. "Jim Wagoneer,"
he told PJ.  "Actually, we met on the plane last night, but you weren't
taking much notice just then."

"I don't remember anything," PJ said, glancing up shyly.

"I think you were a bit worn out then, Little Champ." Jack buttered a piece
of toast and handed it over.

"Yeah, Jack and I took turns carrying you through the airport last night
after we landed," Jim said.  "And I got you up here and put you to bed,"
Jack finished with a grin.

PJ's face reddened and he stared down at his cereal. "All I remember is
being really tired." He looked up at Jim. "What position do you play?" The
man chuckled. "Oh, that was very well put, PJ." Eyes twinkling, he turned
to Jack. "You hear that? Instead of saying 'Who the hell are you, I've
never heard of you,' he asks me politely what position I play. Very
diplomatic."

      	"It's that fancy school he goes to," Jack said, laughing. "They
teach them stuff like that there. He turned to PJ. "Jim is an aging
journeyman. He's finishing out his long career in baseball as a reserve
catcher."

"The reason you don't know who I am, kid," Jim explained, "is that unless
the TV camera shows me warming up a pitcher in the bullpen, you'll never
see me."

"Don't be fooled by Jim's false humility, PJ," Jack went on with another
grin. "Actually, Jim fills a crucial behind-the-scenes role as unofficial
assistant pitching coach, lending his years of hard-won experience to our
young relievers in the bullpen."

"They look upon me as their father," Jim said proudly.

"And, of course, Jim is always ready to step into the catcher's role on the
field should disaster strike both of our starters."

"I could probably handle at least two innings before they'd have to bring
out the stretcher," Jim said, stroking his chin. PJ started laughing,
nearly choked on a piece of toast, and Jim gently slapped him on the back.

Then Jack asked in a casual tone, "So how'd you get that shiner, Champ? You
never told me."  Frustrated that Jack hadn't heard him the evening before,
and embarrassed to admit the truth in front of two Major Leaguers, PJ
hedged. "It was a grounder that took a bad hop during baseball practice."

Jack, however, stared at him with a look of skepticism, so PJ felt that he
had to confess. "Okay, that wasn't quite the way it happened. I misplayed
the darn ball. I didn't judge it right."

"A chopper," Jim said. "They're tricky. But didya' stop it and pick it up?"

"Are you kidding?" Jack leaned over PJ, and with one finger gently probed
the bruise. "You don't know this kid. He might have messed up with his
glove, but you can bet he made the play! You don't even need to ask."

Those words sent a thrill through PJ that left him tingling with
pride. Jack doesn't blame me. He understands! He always understands! He
wanted to say something in reply, yet a lump as big as a house had lodged
in his throat and all he could do was to manage a grateful smile.

Jack straightened up and forked scrambled eggs and bacon onto PJ's
plate. He ruffled the boy's hair. "That thing'll be OK. Just remember to
keep your glove up."

"Dang!" PJ exclaimed. "That's just what Erik said!" They both laughed.

Jim moved beside PJ and spread the Sunday sports section on the
counter. "Here's something you might be interested in, kid." He pointed to
a picture of Jack signing autographs and PJ standing beside him. Underneath
was an article about the game. The caption read, "Superstar Jack Canon
greets young fans after Red Sox win." Fearfully, PJ scanned it for his
name, but it wasn't there, thank goodness.

 	"There were more reporters at the airport when we landed," Jack
told PJ. "I kept 'em busy while Jim smuggled you past."

	"We'll be seeing them again today," Jim warned.

Jack nodded. "Yeah, but I have a plan. PJ's gonna keep a low profile."
Right, Little Champ?"

"Uh huh," PJ mumbled, mouth stuffed with food." He had no idea what Jack's
plan was, but he was ready for anything.

He kept eating while the two men talked and discovered from various remarks
that Jim, Jack's usual roommate while Boston was on the road, had moved
into Jack's apartment the year before after a messy divorce. "Needed
someone to help with the rent on this dump," Jack told PJ. "Couldn't handle
it on my own."

PJ remembered what Jason had confided during Thanksgiving, when he'd stayed
at Jack's house in Florida. "Jack's broke," he'd whispered. So, probably
what Jack had just jokingly stated was true, or at least it had been until
the signing of the new contract, the one that PJ had gotten for him.

Jack watched PJ polish off the last of the eggs. "Just wander around and
take it easy, Tiger. We'll head for the ballpark at about two. We've got a
game tonight against the White Sox."

After he'd finished eating, PJ helped clean the kitchen. There was a big
stack of dirty dishes, but Jack washed, PJ dried, and Jim put everything
away. Then Jack disappeared into the bedroom while Jim stretched back out
on the recliner.

When PJ went exploring, he discovered that he was on the top floor of a
huge apartment building. From what he could see through a sliding glass
door, Jack's penthouse was recessed pretty far back and had its own patio
with a table and a couple of lawn chairs. But he had no desire just then to
go outdoors onto the roof. Instead, he took the self-service elevator down
to the lobby where a man in uniform stood behind a counter and another man
dressed exactly like him stood outside the front door. PJ greeted them both
on his way out onto the sidewalk. There was almost no traffic. The day was
sunny, but a little cool, and PJ felt a bit chilly in his light clothes. He
walked quickly up the street, looking for someplace to warm up, but almost
everything was closed, except for a drugstore on the corner. PJ went
inside.

Wandering around the aisles, he found a display of Easter candy, and after
studying the options, picked out a bag of jellybeans and three chocolate
rabbits, purchased them, and went back to the apartment house where the
doorman and hall attendant smiled pleasantly as he walked in. But when he
took the elevator up to the roof, he found the door to Jack's apartment
locked. He had to knock to get Jim to come to the door and let him in.

"Been shopping?" Jim asked, spotting the bag in PJ's hand.

PJ nodded yes, went into the kitchen, and got three small plates. He set
them out on the breakfast bar, put a chocolate rabbit on each one, and
carefully surrounded the rabbits with jellybeans. He thought they ended up
looking pretty nifty. Jim came over to see what he was doing. "It's for
Easter," PJ explained, looking up at him. "One's for you, one's for me, and
this one's for Jack. My housemother showed me this last year."

 	Jim gave PJ a fatherly look. "Thanks kid," he said. "I guess we
sorta forgot about Easter."

After lining up his makeshift Easter baskets, PJ further explored the
apartment. Jack was apparently still in his room. The apartment was big:
three other bedrooms besides his and two bathrooms. After poking around, he
returned to the living room and cautiously, feeling strangely anxious,
finally walked out on the balcony. They were so high off the ground! PJ
knew he was looking at a spectacular view of Boston, although he had no
idea what part of town he was in. And yet . . .

. . . he was in that high place . . . so high, high, high. But it was Los
Angeles . . . he knew it was . . . they kept telling him. So many rooms to
look in . . . searching, searching . . . standing on the parapet at the
balcony edge . . . looking down . . . so high! He would fly away . . . all
around the world . . . he would find them!

With an effort, PJ turned his back on the view, took a deep breath, hurried
inside, and returned to his room. There, he carefully made the bed and hung
all his clothes neatly in the closet before taking his book Safe at Home
into the living room to read. He was still there over an hour later, Jim
dozing in the recliner nearby, when Jack finally reappeared.
 "Getting to be about that time, isn't it?" Jack called out, heading toward
the kitchen. "Hey, what's this?"

PJ trotted over. "It's for Easter, Jack. This one's yours." He pushed one
of the plates toward Jack, careful not to tip over the rabbit.

"Say, that's all right, Tiger." Jack winked at him. "I haven't had a
chocolate rabbit in years. I better save it for dessert." He opened the
refrigerator door and pulled out a big plastic bottle of a
chocolaty-looking drink, put it to his lips, and chugged it down.

"What is that, Jack?" PJ asked curiously.

"Protein supplement. I take it two or three times a day to keep my intake
up." Jack poured a few drops on PJ's tongue for him to taste.

PJ smacked his lips. "M-mm-mmm, good."

"I think we'll try you on it while you're here," Jack said. "You look as
though you could use some building up. I don't think they're feeding you
enough at that school." He rummaged around in the refrigerator, got out
some sliced chicken and a cut-up tomato, and made a sandwich which he split
with PJ.

"I'm not that hungry, Jack," the boy protested. "I just ate."

"You will be," Jack said. "Just keep me company on this."

PJ was so full after the half-sandwich that he did not feel like eating his
chocolate rabbit. But he did nibble on some jellybeans.

The phone rang. "Car's here," Jim announced after answering it. Jack gave
PJ a pat on the back.  "Time to get moving. You got your stuff?" PJ ran to
his room for his fitted Red Sox cap and baseball glove, then hurried out to
where Jack was holding the door for him. They went down on the elevator
together.

"Isn't Jim coming?" PJ asked.

"He doesn't come over until later," Jack told him.

A gray Lincoln idled at the curb in front of the building. Once PJ and Jack
got in the back, the driver pulled away, taking them through a maze of city
streets that completely disoriented PJ, and then finally down a broad,
tree-lined avenue. Looming up ahead was a huge old brick structure. Across
its top, in big concrete letters, were the words "FENWAY PARK."

"Oh, man!" PJ gasped. Last night he had been in Yankee Stadium. Now he was
about to enter Fenway Park, the oldest park in baseball and one of the most
famous. What a vacation he was having!

The big car dropped them off at the clubhouse entrance, where some fans had
already gathered to watch the players arrive. There were cheers and waves
when they saw Jack. He led PJ inside and down a long, dark corridor. PJ
couldn't believe how old the place looked. It was like walking in a
dungeon. They came to a door that opened into a room with a long counter
topped by a wire screen. Behind it was a big fat man.

Jack pushed PJ up toward the counter. "Here he is, Tim." He put a hand on
PJ's shoulder and said, "Tim will fix you up with a uniform. As soon as he
gets done, go to the locker room so you can get a spot assigned where you
can change. I've got to go to the trainer's room now so they can work on my
knee, but I'll see you later. Don't worry." He gave PJ a pat and went back
out the door.

The big fat man frowned as he inspected the boy. "I don't know if we got
anything small enough to fit you, kid. But let's see." He went into the
back, came out with an armful of small Red Sox uniforms, and held up each
jersey, finally picking out the very smallest and handing it to PJ to try
on. It was lettered "BATBOY" across the shoulders.

"We keep a stock of these for the different kids," he explained. "But
you're smaller than most of them. How old are you, anyway?"

"Eleven," PJ told him. "But I'll be twelve in September!"

The fat man grunted. "That's half a year away. It don't help much now."

PJ took off his polo shirt to try on the jersey. It was baggy on him, but
wearable, his extra size in the shoulders making up for the loose fit. When
he took off his shorts and tried on the pants, however, the ones that went
with the jersey were a different story. They were way too big! "There's
nothing I can do about this now," the fat man told PJ. "You'll just have to
make do. I'll pin these so they won't fall down.  Maybe Mrs. Rivera can fix
you something else tomorrow. She's the assistant equipment manager." He
doubled the waist of the pants around PJ's sides by safety-pinning the
bunched-up cloth. "Don't yank on this too hard," he warned. Then, after
rummaging around, he found some red leggings for PJ to put on. "Now you're
all set. It's a good thing you already got a cap. We wouldn't have anything
to fit you." Leading PJ to the door, he pointed down the dim
corridor. "Around and to your right. That's where the team locker rooms
are." The door shut. PJ was left alone.

       Wearing the baggy uniform, and carrying his glove along with his
shirt and shorts, PJ walked slowly along, trying to figure out where to
go. Around the corner he found several doors, all locked, and there were no
sounds at all. He might have been the only single person in the stadium. At
last he came to a third door with a Red Sox decal on it. He turned the
handle. It was unlocked, so he went inside and immediately knew that he was
in the right place because there were lights on, the floor had green
indoor-outdoor carpeting, and the walls were lined with the same kind of
open-faced lockers he'd seen at Yankee Stadium. The big room was
deserted. He walked all around looking for someone, anybody. He found a
huge shower area, small rooms with padded tables, stainless steel
whirlpools, and one room where plates of food and cartons of protein drink
were stacked on a table. But because there were no people to ask, he wasn't
sure what to do.

Just as he was about to retreat back into the corridor and try to find the
fat man again, the locker room door slammed open and two men came in
carrying duffel bags. "Well! Just who might you be?" the first one
boomed. He grinned at PJ. "Have we got a new batboy? Kind of young, aren't
you?"

The man behind him touched the first one's arm. "That's Jack's kid," he
muttered.
       	"Oh." The first man hesitated and regarded PJ curiously. Then he
asked, "Well, what's up, small fry? You look kinda lost."

"I'm looking for a place to put my things," PJ told him shyly. "Someone was
supposed to be here to show me, but I can't find anyone."

"That's no surprise," the man said, laughing. He went on, "The locker room
attendants are never around when you need 'em."

"Show him where the batboys change," the second man suggested. "He can
leave his stuff there."  The first man led PJ around the corner into a
small area like a big closet that had a row of extra hooks. "You can leave
your things here," he said. "It'll be okay."

PJ looked at the closet doubtfully. He was not so sure. It bothered him
that nothing could be locked. After hanging up his clothes, he took the
money out of his wallet, left the wallet in his shorts pocket but stuffed
his folded-up money down his sock. He had no idea what to do next, so he
decided to go look for Jack. Carrying his glove, he went back through the
locker room where the two men, busy changing into their uniforms and
talking, ignored him as he exited. He wondered who they were. Wandering
down the corridor, he began to explore, an undertaking he was getting to be
quite good at, and found that it branched into others. Like a maze, he
thought. Like a "Dungeons and Dragons" game. Some of the doors that he
found were locked; others were not. One led into an enormous
weight-training room where PJ stared around, wide-eyed at all the rows of
benches, machines, and racks of chromed weights. Everything was brand-new
and spotlessly clean. It was bigger and nicer than the weight room at
Gordonsville for sure. He walked through the room for awhile, touching some
of the bars and sitting on the benches. Then he returned to the corridor
for some more exploring.

      	In a big enclosed space under the stands, separated by nets, he
found a set of batting lanes similar to the ones in the Gordonsville Field
House. But there the similarity ended. Two of the lanes had big pitching
machines set at one end. PJ examined them with curiosity. They were much
nicer than the ones at school.

He retraced his steps through the maze under the stands as best he could,
got turned around in the process, but eventually walked again past the door
to the locker room. There were more noises coming from it now, but he kept
going, past the turn-off that led to the equipment room, and followed a
long dark passage that led to what appeared to be daylight. He kept moving
and came out in the dugout by first base.

The field was dazzlingly bright after the dimness of the corridors. PJ
squinched his eyes, shading them with his hand as he walked up the dugout
steps onto the grass. Once his pupils adjusted, he turned his head and
stood awestruck, momentarily stunned by the beauty of the old stadium.

Fenway Park! The very name conjured up magic and historic greatness. PJ had
only seen it on TV, yet here it was--more wonderful, more incredible, than
anything he's ever imagined! It's emerald grass spread immaculately before
him, glorious in the clear light of a New England spring afternoon. In left
field the "Green Monster" with its old-fashioned scoreboard dominated
everything. Above soared the Coke light tower and the Citgo sign. Out in
center field, the bleacher wall intersected the side of a bullpen to form
the infamous "Triangle," and the bullpen itself extended all the way across
right field to make the "Porch" where the great Ted Williams had deposited
so many homers. And there, in the far corner of right field, was the "Pesky
Pole" which marked the foul line. Behind PJ, looming over the infield, rose
the renowned grandstand and huge clubhouse.

The park was old. PJ could sense it. The very air seemed different:
cleaner, crisper. Everything looked faultlessly maintained, freshly
painted, yet PJ felt in his bones the overarching sense of the
past. Slowly, as if in a trance, he made his way to home plate, every step
seeming to take him a bit further back in time. He stood for awhile, a
small figure in a baggy little uniform, staring around. And then he went
out on the field and climbed onto the pitcher's mound to again drink in the
sight of the Green Monster, the center-field triangle, and the right-field
bleachers with the "Red Seat" where Ted Williams had landed a home run in
his last at-bat. His last at-bat ever! Above, up on the Grandstand, PJ
could see, among the other immortals, a huge number "9," Mr. Williams's
number, now forever retired.

A thrill made him shiver. The history this park had seen! Babe Ruth had
once stood right where he was standing and pitched from the same mound! The
Babe! PJ had read all the books, knew the Ruth story by heart. When Babe
Ruth had played for them, the Red Sox had been the mightiest power in the
American League and by 1918 had won their fifth World Championship in
twelve years. PJ could see Championship banners painted on the
grandstand. The team had expected many more of them, until, that is, their
owner had traded the Babe to the New York Highlanders, the original New
York Yankees, where Ruth became a legend, the greatest home-run hitter of
all time. How awful, because the Red Sox hadn't won a World Series since!
There'd been a pennant or two, and of course Ted Williams, but no Series
victories. People talked of a "curse," Babe Ruth's curse for trading him
away, the "Curse of the Bambino!"

That had been so long ago . . . a long, long time ago. Fenway Park was a
monument now. The great stadium had grown old waiting for another World
Championship.

But all that tradition is still here!

The words filled PJ's mind as if someone had spoken them aloud, and in that
moment, he knew, he just knew, it was possible for the Red Sox to turn
things around if only it proved the right time--and just perhaps with the
right person. . .

PJ remembered Jack telling him and Erik that sometimes old ballparks talked
to him. Now, in the quiet of Fenway Park, where a soft breeze started
swirling and whispering over the infield, PJ knew exactly what that meant.

He decided to get off the diamond before someone saw him and thought he was
trespassing. He walked over to the dugout lost in thought and was leaning
against the railing looking up into the stands when a voice behind his back
startled him. "Hey kid, warm me up here, will ya'!" A few Red Sox players
had come out onto the field from the dugout and started tossing balls back
and forth. One player stood waiting expectantly for PJ to throw to
him. Eagerly, PJ accepted his invitation, and played catch until a coach
came out with a bat and started an infield drill. The boy was both
surprised and gratified to see that the Red Sox players and coaches used
the same kind of practice drill that PJ and his friends used at
Gordonsville. He continued to make himself useful by running around,
backing up the infielders, snagging balls that got by them. In appreciation
for his help, sometimes the coach would even hit a ball to him so he could
join in, and the Red Sox infielders would all yell out encouragement if he
made a good play. PJ felt he belonged to the team and was in seventh
heaven!

 	More and more players started coming onto the field. Some did
exercises and stretched in the outfield, some did laps around the
fences. Others just threw the ball lazily, warming up slowly. PJ stayed
busy chasing missed balls and throwing to players who needed a
companion. He kept an eye out for Jack, and finally saw him jogging in the
outfield. But PJ was working with another player and couldn't run over to
play catch. By the time he was free, Jack was already throwing with someone
else.

There were people sitting in the stadium seats now who'd come early to
watch the players go through their pre-game routines. PJ watched the
groundskeepers bring out the big half-clamshell batting cage, positioning
it behind home plate as the players lined up for their batting warmups. A
few early arriving fans in the seats started cheering. Once Jack finished
loosening up his arm, he walked over to the cage, where PJ finally had a
chance to talk to him. "Sorry I couldn't get over to throw with you, Jack,"
he said, apologetically.

"That's okay, Tiger." Jack was looking around and seemed a little
distracted. When he finally took a good look at PJ, he commented, "That
uniform's kinda big on you, isn't it?"

"Oh, it's fine." PJ touched his bunched-up waistband. "I just have to be
careful not to pull these pins out. Tim said maybe someone could fix it up
tomorrow."

Jack grunted and looked away. "Just be careful around the cage," he
warned. "Don't get hit by anything."

PJ noticed that there were now two older boys on the field dressed in Red
Sox uniforms that said "BATBOY" like his did. When Jack went into the cage
to hit, one of the teenagers came over, and he didn't seem too
friendly. "Is that your shit hanging in our spot?" he demanded.

PJ admitted that it was. "That's where the players told me to put it." He
put out a hand. "My name's PJ."

The teen eyed him warily and grudgingly offered his hand for a perfunctory
shake. "Name's Mike. That other kid's Tony. From now on just use one hook,
okay? What are you doin' here, anyway?"

PJ explained that he was spending his school vacation with Jack.

"Oh, you're that kid with Jack." Mike turned and yelled, "Hey Tony!" The
other batboy came over, not looking very friendly either. The first one
said with a sneer, "This is that peewee that hangs around with Canon. Get a
load of him." He turned back to PJ. "We thought you'd be in a wheelchair."

"Yeah." Tony, the second batboy, eyed PJ contemptuously. "We figured you'd
be one of those Make-a-Wish kids."

"Listen," the first batboy said, "just stay out of our way. We don't need
any help doin' our job."

"Just because you're wearing a uniform that says "BATBOY" don't mean you
are one," Tony added.

"Come on." Mike tapped Tony's arm and told PJ, "See you around, pipsqueak,
or whatever your name is. Remember what I said." The two boys walked away,
laughing. But PJ was not bothered too much. He'd experienced this sort of
thing before in different situations. In time, the two older boys might
become friendlier, or they might not. He knew one thing. Neither of them
knew Jack the way he did.

Talking to these two had made him miss some of Jack's swings in the cage,
so now he turned back to watch. The coach on the mound threw another
pitch. Standing this close, PJ could hear the fastball hum menacingly as it
whirred in. He could hear Jack's little grunt as he stepped into it. A
swirl of air hit PJ's face as Jack whipped his bat around, his body
uncoiling in a surge of power. The explosive "Thwack" of wood smashing into
baseball was so loud, PJ felt it in his gut. He clung to the cage in
amazement. He'd seen Jack hit in close-ups on TV dozens of times, but there
was no comparison between seeing it on a screen and standing just a few
feet away from the thing, live. He didn't just see what had just happened,
he could feel it. It was awesome!

"He's good, isn't he." PJ heard the voice behind him and looked up. It was
Jim, Jack's roommate, wearing catcher's gear.

"He's just the greatest," PJ said almost reverently.

Jim nodded. "One of the best that ever was. Well, I gotta get my boys
warmed up too." He walked off toward the bullpen.

PJ watched Jack take the rest of his batting warmup with rapt
attention. Each time he powered a ball out of the cage and into the
outfield stands, fans in the seats cheered and clapped. That was, after
all, what they'd come early to see: Jack Canon belting home runs! When he
was done, PJ noticed that the afternoon had faded to evening. Game time was
getting close. On the side of the field, TV crews were filming
interviews. One unit with portable cameras gathered around Jack. The field
lights came on.

The White Sox hitters got into the cage for their own batting warmups, and
in front of the third-base visitor's dugout, players tossed balls
around. PJ went into the Red Sox dugout and found a seat in the corner
where he'd be out of the way, and watched all the activity with lively
interest. When Jack finally came in off the field just before the start of
the game, PJ tried to stay close to him without being too obvious. Jack
didn't talk to him, just gave him a quick grin and then moved up and down
the aisle, encouraging and talking to the other players.

At last, the announcer declared, "Ladies and Gentlemen, here are your
Boston Red Sox!" Jack and his teammates ran onto the field as the crowd
applauded. The public address system played the "National Anthem." And PJ,
heart beating with pride, looked up toward the dark-blue sky and could see,
illuminated in brilliant floodlight, the American flag flapping on its pole
high above the clubhouse. . .

Once the game got going, PJ could see that the Red Sox had the
advantage. One of their best pitchers was out on the mound, mowing the
opposing batters down, while the White Sox hurler didn't seem to be
anywhere near as good. The Red Sox scored two runs in the bottom of the
first inning and took an early lead.

	PJ tried to stay as busy as he could. When the Red Sox were at bat,
he remained close to Jack and listened closely to what his idol said to the
other players. Occasionally, Jack would direct a remark to him about the
strategy that was being used or about what pitches were being thrown. Like
when the Red Sox had a man on first with one out and the count was
two-and-one on the batter, and he asked, "What would you call for here,
PJ?"

"Hit-and-run," PJ promptly responded.

Jack grinned. "That's what they're expecting. But look at their
catcher. See the way his foot is turned? He's going to call for a
pitch-out. The foot is a giveaway. It's in our scouting report on
him. We'll fake the hit-and-run on this pitch and maybe go with it on the
next." PJ watched fascinated as the play developed just as Jack said it
would. After the fake, the batter executed a perfect hit-and-run on a 2-2
pitch, driving a sizzling ground ball through the right side of the
infield. The Red Sox ended up with runners on the corners.

"How did they learn to hit like that to the opposite side?" PJ asked,
impressed.

       	"A lot of practice in the batting cage," Jack told him, "and even
then some of it's luck, or getting the right pitch to hit. A really good
location pitcher can always prevent a play like that."

      	"By jamming," PJ agreed, nodding.

"Well. . . ." Jack gave PJ another grin. "Runners are on. Now the sluggers
have to do their job and bring 'em in." He got up and went to select a bat.

But before his turn, one of the batters in front of him sacrificed and
scored the runner on third, increasing the Red Sox lead to 3-0. Then the
inning ended.

	When the players were out in the field, PJ went around the dugout,
quietly picking up paper cups and other trash while simultaneously
following the game action. He was particularly interested in the way Jack,
out in right field, moved around for each batter, and sometimes for each
pitch. At the end of the inning, when Jack came trotting in off the field,
PJ had a little cup of Gatorade ready for him.

"How did you know where to go out there when you kept changing your
position?" PJ finally asked curiously.

"We have scouting reports on each batter," Jack said. "Plus, I know our
pitchers. I have a fair idea of what they're going to throw in different
situations and what the batters will be able to do with it." He swallowed
some Gatorade and added, "You gotta watch it, though. You can get burned
trying too hard to anticipate. When the pitcher gets tired or makes
mistakes, batters do unexpected things."

	"It's always like that in my league," PJ said, laughing.

"Sure," Jack nodded. "In some ways, playing the outfield in your league is
a tougher job. You never know what to expect."

"An adventure, every pitch," PJ observed, chuckling.

A couple of times during the game, PJ tried to make friendly conversation
with the two batboys, but they both ignored him, as did most of those in
the dugout except Jack and a few of the other players.  So he concentrated
on being useful, picking up empty cups and doing his best to stay out of
the way.

The game went fairly quickly and the Red Sox won, 5-2. Jack had a good
night at the plate, going three for three with a sacrifice RBI. As usual,
he stayed out by the railing afterwards to sign autographs, so PJ helped
finish cleaning the dugout, carried equipment back to the locker room, and
waited until the two older batboys had changed before going into the little
alcove himself. His clothes had all been dropped on the floor. Assholes, he
thought. Anxiously he checked the pockets of his shorts, heaving a sigh of
relief when he found his wallet was safe. He took his money from his sock,
replaced it in the wallet, and set about getting out of his uniform and
changing. He took off his shoes, stripped off his jersey, and pushed off
the baggy pants, ruefully staring at them. They'd given him a bad moment
when one of the safety pins holding the waist tore loose while he was
chasing a foul ball near the dugout. His pants had nearly fallen off right
in front of everybody! He'd managed to hold them up until he got back into
the dugout and refastened the pin, but it'd been a close call. He hoped
someone could help him get the pants fixed the next day.

      	Once he'd changed, he folded the uniform neatly and made a bundle
he could put under his arm so he could take it home. He didn't dare leave
anything around. Then he secluded himself in a corner and waited for Jack,
who was just now coming into the locker room surrounded by reporters. He
dozed off until he was awakened by a touch on his arm. "Let's go, Champ." a
familiar voice said. PJ opened his eyes and saw that the locker room was
nearly deserted. He followed Jack sleepily through the long, dim corridor
to the club entrance.

	Outside, in the darkness of the night, off the surface of the gray
Lincoln Town Car that had brought them to the park in the afternoon,
security lighting birthed fantastical and magical reflections.

	They got in and were driven back to Jack's apartment. PJ dozed off
again in the car, briefly woke up when they got to Jack's building,
sleepwalked through the lobby, and waited patiently with Jack for the
elevator to get them to the penthouse. There was no sign of Jim. PJ said
goodnight, went right to his room, changed into his pajamas, turned on the
light on his night table, and got into bed.

But as he was drifting off to sleep, it occurred to him that though he'd
spent the whole day in a ballpark filled with dreams, he'd been unable to
tell Jack all the things that he'd wanted to. He still hadn't shown him his
medal. Maybe tomorrow. . .  Chapter Thirty-Three: Working It Out with Jack

The next morning, PJ was up earlier than he'd been the day before, and it
was a good thing because after getting dressed and heading for the kitchen,
he found Jack already there having breakfast, ready to go to the ballpark.

"Hustle along, PJ. We got a full day ahead of us."

"I thought you had another night game today," PJ said as he held out a
plate so Jack could scoop eggs onto it.

"Yup. Gotta do all my conditioning this morning. Then I gotta hit the TV
studio after lunch and film a commercial. We gotta get going!"

"Do I go to the studio with you?" PJ was afraid he might end up sitting
around getting bored.

Jack shook his head. "Nope. I got somethin' worked out for you."

PJ barely had time after breakfast to hit the bathroom and grab his uniform
and glove before Jack was calling for him. There was no opportunity to
change clothes, but he figured it could hardly matter since he'd spent most
of the previous day in his batboy uniform.

The same gray Lincoln picked them up in front of the building and dropped
them off at the field.  On their way down the long corridor from the
entrance, PJ stopped at the equipment-room door.

"Where you going?" Jack asked.

"They told me to see some lady this morning to fix my uniform."

Jack checked his watch. "Well, don't take too long. You know where the
weight room is, don't you?"

"I know where it is," PJ said, nodding.

"Meet me there as soon as you can," Jack told him over his shoulder as he
headed toward the lockers.

A heavy-set, dark-haired woman was behind the counter when PJ pushed open
the door. She eyed PJ in an annoyed way, frowned, and demanded, "What do
you want?"

Peering around, PJ saw no sign of the fat man. He went inside, put his
uniform on the counter, and explained, "Tim told me to come see you today
so you could make this uniform fit. The pants are too big, Ma'am."

The woman unfolded his uniform. "What are you doing with this? You're not
one of the batboys."  PJ explained that he was staying with Jack Canon for
a week.

"Oh." She gave PJ a sharp look. "So that's who you are. Well, put this
on. Let's see if we can make it fit."

PJ glanced around desperately for a place to change.

"Come, come," the woman told him briskly. "Shuck those clothes. You won't
be the first young man I've seen in his underwear!"

Red with embarrassment, PJ stripped down to his briefs, put on the uniform,
and stood still while the woman bustled around him, pinning and tucking
just as the fitters at Brooks Brothers had done. Then she helped him take
everything back off so he would not mess up her marks. As PJ put his shirt,
shorts, and Nikes back on, the woman said, "Come back in an hour or
so. This won't take long."

Once out in the hallway and glad to get away, PJ walked down through the
twisting passages until he came to the door of the weight room that he'd
discovered the day before. Inside, amid the gleaming equipment, he found
groups of players working out, including Jack, who was with a young man
wearing a polo shirt with the Red Sox logo and "Staff" embroidered in red
script.

"Come on, PJ," Jack said, waving him over. "I've already started. Take your
shirt off and get in here. This is Harry. He's one of our trainers." PJ
hastily pulled off his shirt, putting it down on the floor with his glove.

"You weren't kidding, were you," the young trainer told Jack, eyeing PJ as
if he were evaluating a horse.

"Told you," Jack said. "Come on, PJ, keep me company on this."

For the next hour and a half, PJ alternated sets with Jack on the hardest
weight workout he'd ever done. Yes, they were called "sets," just like in
swimming, and just as repetitive. But it wasn't the amount of lifting that
made the workout so difficult because for PJ's sake, both Jack and Harry
kept the weight down. Rather, it was the speed and lack of rest that made
it tough. They never took a breather! As soon as Jack finished a set, PJ
would start; and as soon as he finished, Jack would begin again. After the
first few sets, PJ was breathing hard, his heart was pounding, and he was
soaked in sweat.

Jack wiped the perspiration off his own forehead, grinned, and said, "Don't
quit on me now, Tiger!"

PJ felt as if Jack had hit him. How could Jack think he would ever quit?
Doubling his efforts, he pushed even harder.

Trainer Harry stayed on both of them, demanding they keep proper
form. "Remember what we're trying to do!" he kept urging. "Strengthen the
joints! Flexibility! Cardiovascular! Form and no rest!"

PJ was at a big disadvantage because he had no idea when the workout would
end and it seemed to be going on forever--set after set, exercise after
exercise! Then competitive instinct took over and he decided he was going
to die before he would stop, even if the workout went all day. He forgot
who he was, forgot about Jack, forgot about where they were. Entering that
trance of physical effort he sometimes went into during long repetitive
swimming workouts, PJ focused only on pushing himself to the limit on every
repetition, lost to everything but his body and his own driving will. When
Jack finished the last exercise, he had to grab on to PJ to keep him from
continuing.

"Okay, Tiger," Jack said panting. "You can stop now. We're done."

PJ's eyes gradually refocused as he regained a sense of where he was. Both
he and Jack were running with sweat and breathing hard. Harry was staring
at PJ with an odd expression. After a pause, he said, "If I hadn't seen
that myself, I'd never have believed it!"

"Told you," Jack reminded him. "You should've seen the swimming workout
this kid laid on me in Florida last Thanksgiving. Damn near killed me." He
turned to PJ. "Did I get you tired with this, Champ?"

PJ nodded. He was still out of breath.

Jack grinned and gave PJ a little punch on the shoulder. "Payback for that
swim marathon you put me through. I do this nearly every morning, 'cept
Sunday. You got the balls to keep doin' it with me?"

PJ nodded, but once more he was devastated. Didn't Jack know he would do
anything for him? His distress showed in his eyes, and Jack looked at him
as if he were confused.

"PJ, what's wrong?" He took the boy's shoulder. "What is it? Are you
feeling okay? I didn't push you too hard, did I? I know the kind of shape
you're in. I thought you could handle this."

PJ shook his head. "I'm okay."

Jack stared at him. "No, you're not. There's a problem." He turned to the
trainer. "Give us a minute, will you?"

"Sure." The young man walked away.

"Okay, PJ," Jack said. "Out with it. What's wrong?"

"I'm all right, Jack," PJ assured him. "Really, I'm okay."

"Damn it, PJ," Jack whispered fiercely. "Don't you be that way with me. Are
we friends or not?  Now tell me what's bothering you!"

PJ felt like crying. He couldn't lie to Jack. He just couldn't do it. His
lower lip started to quiver. Jack," he said, just barely keeping his voice
controlled, "Jack, you didn't really think I would quit, did you?" He
stared up at Jack's face in anguish.

"Quit?" Jack said in surprise. "What are you talk . . ." He stopped
abruptly and his face cleared. "Oh, I see. PJ, is that what's been
bothering you?" He looked at the boy intently. "It is, isn't it. All the
way through the workout, too." He thought for a moment, and said, "Hey,
look. Lighten up, Tiger. I was just kidding. I . . ." He paused again and
sighed. "Okay," he finally said. "It was a stupid remark. I know you'd
never quit. Of course I know that! You know I do! Have a little faith in
me, too, okay? I'm sorry. I really do want you pushing me through this
thing every morning. I wasn't kidding about that. Try not to get mad at me,
all right?"

PJ looked down at the floor. "I'm not mad at you, Jack."

"I know," Jack said with a smile. "But, you were disappointed in me, and
maybe that's just as bad. Hey, try to remember I'm not perfect, okay? And
sometimes I say things just to kid you a little. I mean, friends do that
sometimes. All right?"

PJ nodded and smiled back. He loved Jack so much at that moment it took an
effort not to hug him right there in front of all the people in the gym.

Jack went over and talked to Harry. PJ caught only a few of the words. He
heard Jack say, ". . . He takes things seriously. You have to watch what
you say to him . . ." and ". . . later on show him those good
exercises. Work with him every day . . ."

"Come on, PJ," Jack said waving to him. "We gotta keep moving. There's
another thing we gotta do." PJ grabbed his shirt and glove and followed
Jack out the door. "Harry's gonna be working with you every day, PJ," Jack
told him. "You do what he tells you."

"I will," PJ promised, lengthening stride to keep up. He was
dead-tired. Jack's routine had been tough! It was as if he'd just finished
one of the long interval-training workouts his swim coach gave them in the
beginning of the season.

They went through the locker room to the area PJ had noticed the day
before, where food and supplements were laid out on a table. Jack handed PJ
a glass of frothy liquid and took one himself. "Down the hatch, Champ," he
said and chugged his drink.

PJ drank his as well. It had a chalky taste.

"Protein supplement," Jack explained. "Drink lots of Gatorade or the damn
stuff'll constipate you."

PJ giggled and drained his glass.

"Where's your uniform, PJ," Jack asked. "Let's get it."

PJ led the way back to the equipment room where the lady behind the
counter, so crabby before, broke into a big smile when she saw
Jack. "Mr. Canon!"

Jack grinned and winked at her. "You got PJ here all fixed up,
Mrs. Rivera?"

She nodded, and PJ eyed her suspiciously as she went into the back,
thinking she certainly was a lot nicer with Jack around. The uniform she
brought out looked cleaner and had been pressed. PJ didn't wait to be
told. He stripped off his sweaty shorts and put the uniform on, finding it
a much better fit. He thanked Mrs. Rivera. She also gave him a new pair of
small leggings to use. He appreciated that and thanked her again.

"Now you look good!" she said. "Mr. Canon will be proud to have you hand
his bat to him."

"I'm always proud of PJ," Jack said. "Thanks, Rosie!"

He took PJ back to the locker room so he could hang up his clothes. PJ
showed him where he'd dressed the day before, in no way forgetting to tell
Jack about finding his things on the floor after the last game. Jack shook
his head in disgust. "Just put your stuff in my locker from now on. There's
enough room." After PJ put his shorts and civilian shirt on a hook in
Jack's space, they both went back into the corridor, where Jack led them
quickly through the maze of passages to the big batting cages under the
stands. One of the batting coaches was there working with a player in a
cage that had a pitching machine. He came over to greet them.

"Your own lane's all set up," he told Jack. Then he examined PJ with
interest.

"Here's the kid, Brock," Jack said. "See what you can do. I appreciate
this."

"No problem, Jack." The coach gestured to PJ. "Over here, my boy."

While Jack selected a bat and got into his cage, the coach led PJ to the
first cage and told the player in it to get out. "Take a break, Mike. Got a
hot prospect here we need to look at."

He handed PJ a small aluminum bat. "I bought this today for you to use. Get
in there and let's see what you can do."

PJ hefted the bat. His arms and shoulders were dead from Jack's workout,
but the bat still seemed a little light. "I usually use one that's bigger
than this," he told the coach.

"Yeah, kid, I know." Coach Brock gave him a wry smile. "That's what all you
young studs tell me. Just remember, it ain't how big it is, it's how you
use it that counts. Now, take that thing in there and swing."

PJ pushed through the nets into the enclosure. Taking a deep breath, he
tried to forget how tired he was and got into a right-handed stance by the
plate. The arm on the pitching machine cranked, snapped over the top, and
sent a baseball humming right past his head. He hastily backed away!

"Guess we better lower the sights for you," the coach said.

He went to the back of the machine, adjusted something, and the next pitch
screamed over the plate in PJ's strike zone. He thought he was ready for it
and swung, but only got a piece of the ball with the end of his bat,
stinging his hands so badly he almost dropped it. Jack's workout had taken
a toll. The soreness in his shoulders made him wince and he knew he had
swung late. Teeth gritted, he took up his stance again and waited.

The coach gave him another ten pitches. PJ managed to hit one solidly, but
either fouled off or missed the rest. "Okay," Mr. Brock said. "I get it
you're tired, but I'm more worried about your form. I think I see what we
need to do."

There began the most intense batting training PJ'd ever experienced! For
the next two hours, PJ and Mike, the other player, took turns in the cage
while the coach adjusted their swings and alternately barked, "No, no, no!
Damn it, my granny swings better than that!" or else encouraged them with
"There ya' go! There ya' go! Now you're getting' it! Belt that thing! Give
it a little Ted Williams!"

In addition to aching shoulders and arms, PJ discovered that everything he
thought he knew about hitting had been wrong. The coach proceeded to
dismantle his swing and put it back together in a different way. He changed
PJ's stance, his grip on the bat, the position he took at the start of the
swing, his step, and his follow-through. He was particularly critical of
the way PJ failed to keep his head down, something PJ had always thought
he'd been doing until the coach showed him otherwise.

"You keep your eyes on that ball and watch it hit your bat, Stud!" the
coach kept growling. "When the crowd starts cheering, then you can lift
your head and watch it go over the fence!"

PJ and Mike took swing after swing after swing after swing. "Thank goodness
we caught these bad habits of yours early," the coach told a sweating PJ,
who was wondering how he was ever going to be able to take even one more
swing. "You've been training your muscles in all those terrible habits!
Now you gotta unlearn 'em and retrain your muscles to do the right thing."

PJ's shoulders and arms felt like they were on fire. He watched enviously
as Jack worked out in the cage next to them, hitting ball after ball,
seemingly without effort, each hit echoing in the stark space with the loud
"Thwack-a!" sound of a wooden bat smacking a baseball. At the end of the
two hours, PJ was so tired he could hardly pick up the bat, let alone swing
it. Jack came over and talked to Coach Brock for awhile. The two men
laughed, nodding together. "We want to make it sorta like a fantasy camp
for him," Jack said. The coach looked over at PJ with a grim smile. "I'll
guarantee ya' he'll learn some things while he's here."

Jack took PJ back to the locker area where they found Mr. Harry along with
other players and coaches eating from the table that always seemed to have
food on it. After Jack grabbed a sandwich, he pushed PJ toward the young
trainer. "Kid's all yours, Harry," Jack told him. "I have to go
downtown. I'll see you before the game, PJ."

"Come on, PJ," Mr. Harry said. "Let's fix you something to eat." He made
the boy a big sandwich which PJ, discovering that he was famished, consumed
and washed down with more of the chalky protein drink. He felt much better
afterward and knew he was getting his stamina back, just like after a tough
race in a swim meet.

"Here's what Jack wants you to do, PJ," Harry explained. "They'll be
starting drills soon on the field. Go out and find someone to throw the
ball with. Run around, sort of take it easy, get some recovery time. Find
someplace to sit down and rest if you want. Coach Brock will have a video
tape he wants you to watch, and I'll come get you when he's ready. Okay?"

PJ nodded. Taking his glove, he went out into the corridor and walked down
the tunnel leading to the dugout. Ahead of him, beyond low concrete steps,
the perfectly-groomed emerald turf of Fenway Park gleamed in spring
sunshine, and once again, when PJ emerged from the gloom of the tunnel into
the dugout, he had to squint while his eyes adjusted to the light. The
great field was deserted. For over a minute, he just stood there, staring
out across the diamond to the far-off stands ringing the outfield, still
awestruck by the vast space and a sense of historic tradition that seemed
to be in the very air he was breathing. It's really true, he thought. It's
like Jack said. You can feel it. And I'm really here. It's not a dream.  He
sat in a corner of the dugout, staring out at the enormous wall of the
Green Monster looming above Fenway's short left field, and thought about
how different things looked when you were there, really there!, and not
just seeing them on TV. Erik will never believe this, he was thinking.
Wait till I tell him . . .  And then, sleepy from food and all the
exercise, he dozed.

The sound of laughter and a ball hitting a glove woke PJ with a
start. Players were on the field warming up. Blinking, PJ stared at them,
envious of the way they moved: running, catching, throwing in that
effortless way that made it all look so easy. Like Erik, he thought. Then,
remembering what Jack wanted him to do, he grabbed his glove and ran out
onto the grass, making himself useful as he had the day before, chasing
stray balls. A few of the players remembered him, and one asked him to play
catch. Eventually some coaches began hitting fungos, starting a fielding
drill. As PJ ran around, backing up plays and throwing in the balls that
were missed, he noticed that more of the players seemed to recall who he
was and were friendlier. "Come on kid, get into the rotation!" one of the
coaches yelled.

PJ took his place with the other players around the infield, and the
coaches began to hit balls to him as well. At first, they took it easy on
their young guest and the grounders were soft enough for him to field, but
then they started hitting them harder. When the balls came faster, PJ
concentrated on just getting them stopped with his glove or his body rather
than trying to make a fancy play. He saw a coach nod approvingly. "That's
the way, kid," he yelled. "Learn to stop 'em first."

The players all had fun taking turns in showing PJ different ways he could
position himself on the ball. "Whatever you do, try to maintain your
balance," the shortstop told him. "When you're first learning, like you
are, take a little time to check your balance and get set before you throw
the ball." PJ's legs and back got a good workout in the drill, but he was
used to playing wall ball with Erik for hours, so he made it through the
practice without slowing down. After helping to pick up all the loose
baseballs, he went back inside to the food room and was working on his
second glass of Gatorade when Trainer Harry spotted him.

 "Mr. Brock, the hitting coach wants you now," he said with a grin. PJ
dutifully made his way under the stands to the batting cages where the
hitting coach had set up a TV monitor and VCR. As soon as PJ arrived, he
put in a cassette. "Let's review your tapes," he told the boy. For an hour,
they both watched tapes of their practice that morning while Coach Brock
had PJ swing again as he demonstrated what he wanted him to do. By the end
of the session, PJ better knew how he was supposed to make contact because
he was hitting the fastball from the machine without stinging his hands,
and getting a satisfying "Wang" off his aluminum bat.

PJ was ready for a break after all this. Players were starting to arrive
for the evening game, so he went out to the field to chase balls and help
them warm up. He was playing pepper with a few of the infielders when he
saw Jim Wagoneer come out of the dugout in his catcher's gear. "Jack's
looking for you, PJ," he said. "He's in the clubhouse."

PJ ran inside and found Jack changing into his uniform. "I've got your
supper right here, PJ," Jack said. He handed the boy a sack of Chinese
take-out. "Chow down on this stuff, and you should drink another protein
supplement." PJ ran to get a glass of his not-so-favorite beverage, and ran
back to Jack's locker hoping he had time to tell Jack about what he'd been
learning all day--but Jack was already leaving for the field. "Eat all of
that, now," he repeated.  "There's plenty of time before the game." PJ ate
the food a little glumly. He'd had fun and learned a lot of new things all
right, but he wished there'd been more opportunity for him and Jack to
talk.  The game that night was more exciting than the one on the previous
night. The White Sox got some hits off the Red Sox starting pitcher and
knocked him out of the game in the fourth inning. They led for awhile until
Jack and some of the other Boston hitters got a rally started in the
seventh inning and took back the lead. Boston finally won the game, but PJ
missed a good part of it. Despite his very best efforts, he kept dozing off
in the corner of the dugout. In fact, he was sleepwalking by the time he
and Jack got back to Jack's apartment at midnight.

PJ was carrying his uniform, filthy dirty from its day's use. After
insisting that PJ get undressed, take a shower, and get ready for bed, Jack
threw it in the washing machine with the rest of his clothes. PJ fell
asleep that night as soon as his head hit the pillow. Wetting the bed never
even entered his mind.

* * *

The following day, Tuesday, the Red Sox and White Sox were scheduled for a
day game for the last meeting of their three-day series. Jack and PJ still
went to Fenway Park in the morning for a two-hour session, with Mr. Harry
conducting Jack's aerobic weight training. Then PJ spent another few hours
in the batting cage with the hitting coach, while Red Sox players warmed up
in the other ones.

After an early lunch, Jack put PJ on a cot in one of the assistant
trainer's offices and insisted that he take an hour nap. PJ, who hadn't
taken so many day naps since he was six-years-old, had no trouble falling
back asleep. But Jack woke him later so he could go out on the field with
him and warm him up. PJ felt proud to be out on the grass of the outfield,
this time tossing the ball with Jack in front of the big crowd.

The game that followed was a runaway for the Red Sox and gave them a sweep
of the three-game series. Jack collected two hits, including a two-run
triple! PJ helped clean up the dugout after the game and waited around for
over an hour while Jack signed autographs. On the way home that evening,
Jack told him, "Well, that takes care of the White Sox for now. The Yankees
come to town day after tomorrow. They won't be so easy."

When they got to the apartment, PJ dumped his uniform and dirty clothes in
the washer himself. Jack put in the detergent, started it for him, and
instructed him not to "forget to take this stuff out and put it in the
dryer. I won't be here to remind you."

"Where are you going?" PJ asked, dismayed. He'd been looking forward to
spending an evening talking with Jack, and maybe playing a game or watching
a movie with him.

"Some people I gotta see," Jack said vaguely. He disappeared soon after.

Jim stayed with PJ in the apartment that night. He built a charcoal fire in
the cooker out on the patio and they broiled steaks, Jim admiring the view
of Boston in the twilight while PJ tried hard not to give way to
uncomfortable thoughts the sight resurrected within him. It helped that PJ
enjoyed Jim's company, although he would have preferred to have
Jack's. After they had some ice cream for dessert, Jim handed PJ a
book. "Jack said you ought to take a look at this." PJ recognized the book
immediately: The Science of Hitting by Ted Williams. "We have this in our
school library," he said, flipping through the pages. Even though he'd
already read it, PJ figured it wouldn't hurt to go over certain parts
again.
 	He helped Jim clean up and did the dishes himself when it became
obvious that Jim intended to leave them in the sink. When the kitchen was
tidy, with everything put away, and since Jim had parked himself in a chair
in front of the TV, PJ decided to wander around the apartment. First, he
went to the laundry room and moved his uniform and clothes from the washer
to the dryer. Then he poked around in the bedrooms. In Jack's room, he
found the Palm computer he'd given Jack for Christmas. Out of curiosity, he
flipped it on and checked the e-mail file, discovering with dismay that the
last two weeks of messages he'd sent Jack had not even been opened yet! No
wonder Jack is so bad about sending me answers, he thought. He turned off
the little computer and put it away with a sigh. At first he was kind of
discouraged, but then he thought he was being pretty unfair. After all, he
was seeing for himself how busy Jack was. It's the beginning of a long
season, he thought. Jack has a lot of pressure on him. He can't check his
e-mail every day. Jack has been nice enough to make all these special
arrangements. That's plenty to be grateful for.

He went to his own room and spent the rest of the evening reading the parts
of the Ted Williams book that he didn't remember from before.

* * *

The next morning, Jack had PJ up early for breakfast. Afterwards, they
drove as usual to Fenway Park. "You won't need your uniform today," Jack
told him. "Just bring yourself."

"I thought you were off today," PJ said.

Jack grinned at him and teased, "Off just means no game, not no workout."

They did their two hours with Trainer Harry in the weight room. PJ knew the
routine well enough now so he could play games a little and started pushing
Jack deliberately on certain exercises he knew the man had trouble
with. Jack caught on right away. He gave the boy an amused look and then,
panting for breath, appealed to Mr. Harry. "Hey! When the kid starts
pushing me like that, you've gotta load more weight on him. He's gonna kill
me if you don't!"

"Competition's good for you," said Harry, calmly intoned. "Come on, let's
go. You're taking too much rest."

Jack groaned.

When they'd finished, Jack brought PJ into the clubhouse for a protein
shake, and afterwards produced a bat and a big bucket of baseballs. "Come
on, hotshot," he told PJ. "Since you're feeling so frisky this morning,
let's try a few drills." He took PJ through the dugout out onto the field,
where it was another beautiful New England spring day. "Man, it does not
get any better than this," Jack said, gazing around. "Okay, you said last
year you mostly played right field, huh?"

PJ nodded.

"Fine. Let's see how you play right field this morning. Get out there and
I'll hit you some."
       "Jack, I don't have a glove!" PJ protested.

"Welcome to the Majors, rookie," Jack said, grinning at him. "For the first
part of this, you don't use a glove. Remember, for thirty years after they
invented this game, nobody had a glove either."

Jack positioned PJ just beyond the infield, and to start with, hit him some
easy pop-ups. After suffering a few bruised fingers and a bruised hand when
a ball went through his grasp, PJ quickly learned to concentrate and use
both hands. Gradually, Jack moved him farther out until PJ was catching
full-fledged fly balls with just his bare palms.

When Jack was satisfied with the way he was catching the ball, he brought
him in and gave him a beat up old glove out of the bucket. "Okay," he told
him. "Get way out there and let's do it for real."

PJ went all the way out into Fenway Park's right field. He had put his
shirt back on after the weight-lifting, but because it was such a hot day
he stripped it off again and dropped it in the grass. Jack was just a small
figure far away at home plate. When he hit a high fly ball out to PJ, the
crack of the bat came after the ball was already on its way. The fly ball
looked impossibly high. There was no way he could catch it, and if he
missed, it would surely kill him! But the ball was coming right to him. He
only had to move a step or two to get under it, so he made the attempt. He
used both hands, both arms raised high, and the baseball hit his glove with
a resounding "Smack!" that stung his palm as he smothered the ball in his
glove with his free hand. He'd caught it! He stood and looked at the ball
with a thrill of pride! He was standing in right field at Fenway Park and
he'd just caught a high fly ball hit to him by Major League Baseball's
leading hitter!

"Erik is never gonna believe this," he whispered to himself. He threw the
ball as best he could back toward the infield and got set for another try.

It was a good thing he caught the first one because there were lots of
others later he didn't catch. Jack hit balls close to him for awhile until
he got comfortable, and then the balls started to fall farther away where
he had to run hard to get to them. PJ discovered that catching a ball hit
right to you was one thing. Catching one you had to run to get was quite
another.

He did best when Jack would wave or point in a certain direction. He would
run and Jack would hit the ball to him like a football quarterback throwing
a pass to his receiver. He had the most difficulty when he didn't know what
to expect but had to watch the ball arcing into the sky and try to judge
where it would land, particularly if the ball was going to land behind
him. PJ also discovered that right field in a Major League ballpark was a
very big piece of real estate. By the time they finished the drill, he felt
as if he'd run completely around the city of Boston. When Jack finally
waved him in, PJ jogged to home plate, his bare chest running with sweat,
moisture dripping down his sides from his armpits, his legs aching.

"Good job, PJ," Jack told him, ruffling his hair. PJ beamed up with pride.

They went and had lunch from the table of sandwiches in the clubhouse,
after which Jack told PJ to take a "Big League" shower. He did just that,
and took his time.

After PJ had gotten dried off and dressed, Jack led him down the long
corridor to the entrance. "PJ," he said as they walked along the dim
passageway, "those lawyers of yours bought all your clothes for you while
you were in New York, I guess."

"Yes, Jack." PJ was trotting to keep up with Jack's rapid strides.

"Yeah. I can guess the kind of stuff they got you," Jack growled. "Well,
I'm gonna get you some things, too." PJ was surprised to see the gray
Lincoln waiting for them at the entrance. When they got in, Jack gave the
driver an address. "I know a retired ballplayer in the sporting goods
business," Jack said as they settled back on the comfortable seats. "I
thought you might like to drop in on his store. That's where we're
going. Now, while we've got a few minutes here, tell me all about how you
and that crazy roommate of yours made the baseball team."

PJ was delighted. He had a million things he wanted to tell Jack, and now
he finally had the chance! He launched into his tale of how he and Erik had
practiced wall ball and their efforts to impress the coaches, and how tough
it had been to keep up his swim workouts, and his medal at the age-group
meet. He was still talking when they parked in front of a big warehouse
store surrounded by a huge parking lot.

"Better find a parking place," Jack told his driver. "We're gonna be a
while."

* * *

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT SIXTEEN

Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail: paulkdoctor@gmail.com



* * *

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT SIXTEEN

Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail: paulkdoctor@gmail.com