Date: Sat, 5 Mar 2016 11:17:56 -0500
From: Paul Knoke <paulkdoctor@gmail.com>
Subject: INSTALLMENT FORTY-FOUR OF "THE FATHER CONTRACT"

			    THE FATHER CONTRACT

			  By Arthur J. Arrington

			  Edited by Paul K. Scott


			  INSTALLMENT FORTY-FOUR


Please consider a donation to Nifty so that they may continue to post this
wonderful story of PJ and his friends and his adulation of Jack Canon!
Chapter Eighty: The Seventh Game

On Sunday, at exactly noon, PJ met Seth at the Dining Hall, and they
slipped away on their trip to Boston. For good luck, PJ wore his best Red
Sox shirt and his fitted Red Sox cap.

"We won't get back here until at least Monday morning," Seth cautioned as
they walked to his car. "Have you got yourself covered?"

PJ nodded. "My roommate will take care of it."

He felt guilty about not telling Erik where he was going, but he knew that
if he did, Erik would insist on going too. He had left a note on Erik's
desk which read,

"Erik - I'm going to be with Jack for the seventh game. Please cover for me
until I get
 back. I will try to be back for Monday classes. I'm sorry for not telling
you. I know you
 would want to go with me. This is something I must do myself. Please don't
be mad at
 me. You're my best friend in the world. Your brother PJ."

PJ hoped that Erik would understand.

Seth's car was a new Porsche that he'd gotten for his seventeenth
birthday. PJ settled into the leather bucket-seat on the passenger side and
looked around admiringly. "Nice wheels." He figured that compliment made
him sound like a teenager.

"Yeah, it's not bad," Seth proudly agreed as he started the engine. "Now
duck down until we get clear of the campus. I'll tell you when it's okay to
show yourself." PJ put his head down between his knees and tried to stay
invisible while they drove out of the parking lot, feeling the car bounce
as they went over the speed bumps on the access road, and the sharp turn as
they came out of the gate onto the street that led through town. "OK," Seth
eventually told him, "it should be safe now."

Cautiously, PJ straightened back up. They were on the county highway that
led to the interstate. "Try to get comfortable," the older boy told
him. "It's gonna be a long haul. See if you can find some decent rock for
us to listen to." PJ experimented with the controls on the radio-CD player
until he found something Seth seemed to like before settling back in his
seat.

"Hey, you've got the tickets, right?" Seth asked.

PJ nodded and patted his pocket. Once they were on the highway, Seth
cracked his window and lit a cigarette. PJ cracked his window too. He
already felt a little bit carsick and he prayed the smoke wouldn't put him
over the edge. He remembered all too well that experience he'd had with
those teenagers on the ride he'd hitched from Allentown.

Between Sunday traffic, stops for gas, and unfamiliarity with the route,
the trip took every bit of six hours, even in the speedy Porsche. As PJ
endured it, struggling hour-after-hour with nausea, he felt sure it was
never going to end. They got lost twice as they came into Boston's
metropolitan area. Seth had a map which PJ held opened on his knees, trying
his best to give directions, but there was so much traffic and the route
signs came up so fast that he quickly became confused. "God, what a maze,"
Seth grumbled as they tried to find their way around. "Look at this
traffic. It's Sunday, for chrissakes! What's it like on a weekday? It must
be murder!"

They found a parking garage in downtown Boston where they left the
car. "There's no way I'm leaving my baby parked on the street by the
stadium," Seth explained. "It would be ripped off before the game started."
They walked down stairs to the subway where the teen seemed far more sure
of himself. "I've used the Boston underground before," he told PJ. "It's
easy."

They got lost again when they missed their stop to change to the Green
line. But eventually they found themselves walking through the gathering
dusk in a crowd of people outside Fenway Park. Here, PJ took over. Fenway
was a place he knew like the back of his hand! His heart beat faster as he
saw the familiar walls of the grandstand above the street. Jack was
somewhere here. Close by!

The first place PJ wanted to go to was the fenced-off entrance where Jack's
car used to drop them off. He tugged on Seth's arm. "Over this way."

"Hold it," the older boy said. "The gates are the other way."

"I want to check something first," PJ insisted. When they reached the
entrance, it was surrounded by a big crowd. "We can't get in this way, PJ,"
Seth complained. But PJ shook his head. "Just let me try. And stay close."
He pushed his way to the fence and put his face against the chain links. He
saw a few cars and a bus parked inside, but no sign of Jack's gray
limousine. Inching his way along the fence to the gate, what he did see
were six stadium policemen stationed by it. He tapped the arm of the
closest one. "Do you have a list of the people who can go in?"

The guard, with an annoyed but not unkind look, said, "You can't get in
here without a pass, son."

"I'm supposed to be meeting Mr. Canon," PJ told him. "Did he leave my name
with you?"

"We don't have any names out here, sonny. You have to have a pass to get
in."  "Could you call and check for me please, Mister?" PJ begged.

By now the guard was impatient. "There's no phones out here, kid. Go check
inside."

"Okay." PJ turned away, discouraged. He took one last look to see if he
could spot anyone familiar in the enclosure, but there was no one. Over by
the door was the spot where he had said goodbye to Jack at the end of
spring vacation. He could still remember how much he had wanted to hug him
then, and how he'd hated to leave. It seemed a very long time ago.

"Come on, PJ," Seth said, pulling on his shoulder. "You can't get in here."

"Sorry, Seth. I had to try." They made their way slowly along crowded
sidewalks to the public gates. It was fully dark now, but the street lights
and colorful neon signs of stores and restaurants made it seem as bright as
day. Up above, the sky was glowing from the blaze of illumination on the
field. PJ grabbed Seth's arm. "We have to get an adult," he shouted above
the crowd noise.

"What?"

"An adult!" PJ shouted again. He pointed at a sign by the entrance. "See?
"No one under 16 admitted without an adult."

"Wait a minute," Seth told him. "I'm an adult."

PJ shook his head. "They won't believe you."

"I've got a driver's license! I can prove it!" Seth said impatiently.

"They won't go for it," PJ answered. "Kids forge drivers' licenses all the
time! You don't look old. Don't worry. I'll take care of it."

He scanned the crowd for a moment. A man wearing a leather jacket and a
rolled wool watch cap was standing off to one side. PJ went up to
him. "Want some tickets?"

The man glanced around suspiciously before answering. "You sellin' some?
How much?"

"Free. I'll give you two tickets if you'll take my friend and me through
the gate. Tell them you're our uncle."

"Let's see 'em."

PJ held two of his four tickets where the man could see them. He didn't
hand them over.

"Those are off in right field," the man complained. "They ain't that good."
"Yeah, but they're free," PJ replied, a note of sarcasm in his voice.

The man glanced around again. "Okay, kid. I'll do it. Give me the tickets."

You get 'em at the gate. "As we go through, you ask me, 'Billy, you got the
tickets?' and I'll hand 'em to you."

With a shrug the man said, "Yeah, okay, kid, if that's what ya' want."

They walked over to Seth. "This your friend?" the man asked.

PJ nodded. They got into line and played their little charade at the gate.

"Are these boys with you?" the guard asked.

"Yeah, they're with me." The man looked at PJ. "You got our tickets,
Billy?"

PJ could not resist having a little fun. Faking a tone of dismay, he said,
"Gee, Uncle Jim. I don't have the tickets! I thought you did!" The man was
clearly startled. Then, as his expression changed to anger, PJ shouted,
"Not!"  He pulled out three tickets and gave them to his "uncle." With a
baleful look at PJ, the man passed them to the guard.

"Kids!" The guard laughed, tearing the tickets in half before handing the
stubs back.

"Yeah, kids," the man said in a tight voice.

The guard waved them through. "All the way down to the right," he said with
a friendly smile. "You kids are sure lucky to have an uncle who takes you
to the World Series!"

"We sure are," PJ told him, feigning enthusiasm.

They walked into the stadium and turned right. As soon as they were away
from the gate, PJ got out the fourth ticket and held it up. "Stubs, Uncle
Jim!" he demanded.

"Think you're funny, don't you, kid." The man exchanged two stubbs for the
unused ticket and melted away into the crowd.

"Shit, PJ," Seth said as they walked up the ramp. "We could've scalped
those tickets ourselves and made some money."

"We woulda' been nailed for sure," PJ told him. "They're real strict. If
you'd tried to sell those tickets, you'd watch the game on TV down at the
cop station. There are undercover cops all around the stadium. "

"How'd you know that guy wasn't one?" Seth asked.

PJ shrugged. "I didn't. I just took a chance. Hey, I'm gonna walk around a
lot during the game. We should fix up a place to meet afterwards."

"Yeah, okay." Seth looked around. "Let's meet by this ramp. It's right
outside the section behind home plate."  "Okay it is," PJ checked around
too, getting landmarks. The bottom of the ramp was next to a snack
stand. "Listen," he said, "I may try to see Jack after the game or
something, so give me some time, all right? Don't just run off."

"Don't worry," Seth assured him. "I'll stay here until the police throw me
out, and then I'll tell them to start lookin' for you." PJ gave him one of
the ticket stubs, the two boys tapped fists, and after watching Seth
disappear into the crowd, he walked up the ramp to the center section of
the grandstand. The bright stadium lights dazzled him as he exited the
gangway. Once his eyes adjusted, he stared out at the immense sweep of
emerald green turf stretching before him. Wonderful ballpark odors filled
the air: freshly-cut grass, infield dirt, peanuts, hot dogs. Looming above
left field was the Green Monster with its famous scoreboard. There was the
Citgo sign flashing its colors in the night sky. All the familiar sights
and smells of Fenway Park engulfed him. I'm here, Jack! He thought. I came
just like you wanted me to! Now I'll find you. Together we'll break The
Curse!

Out on the field, the players from both teams were warming up. PJ walked
slowly toward the first-base side, checking out the area around the Red Sox
dugout. Various Red Sox players were visible. Stadium police lined the
railings by the dugout, while more patrolled the aisles in the box-seat
sections nearby. Jammed against the railings behind home plate and up the
right-field line were fans of all ages, calling to the players. PJ couldn't
see any way to get onto the field. In any event, he didn't see Jack, so he
ducked back down a ramp and made his way around the stadium to the
clubhouse entrance. Guards were posted everywhere. PJ pushed his way
through the people standing around and approached one of the uniformed
men. "My name is PJ Thorndyke," he told him. "I'm supposed to be on your
list to go into the clubhouse."

"Sure kid," the guard said. "Tell me another one."

"For real," PJ protested. "I'm supposed to be a guest of either Jack Canon
or Jim Wagoneer."

The guard was clearly skeptical, but with a shrug, went to a small stand by
the door that held a clipboard and a phone. After running a finger down the
list on the clipboard, he returned and said, "I don't see your name here."

"Could you check on the phone, please," PJ begged. "I really am supposed to
be here. Ask for Jack, or Jim Wagoneer. That's his roommate."

The guard eyed him again, but at last picked up the phone. He talked for
awhile. PJ could hear nothing of what was said because of all the
noise. The public address system was blaring with some sort of pre-game
ceremony. Finally the guard hung up. He came over to PJ and shouted to make
himself heard. "There's no one in the clubhouse, kid! They're all out on
the field! I left your name with one of the attendants! They'll get a
message to the dugout! Come back after the game!"

PJ wanted to ask him if he could leave a longer message, but the game was
about to get underway and the crowd around him was moving. The guard waved
him off and he reluctantly left.

He went back to the stands and watched the players being introduced. There
had to be some way of getting close to Jack! The Red Sox were going with
Pete Montoya, their Cy Young award-winning pitcher. PJ waved to him as he
took the mound, but his small gesture was lost amid the sea of people. The
opposing Atlanta pitcher was another big star, said to be one of the best
pitchers in the game since the legendary Grover Cleveland Alexander.

A huge roar went up as Jack was announced. This was the first time PJ had
been able to see his hero. He watched the familiar figure trot out to right
field. Figuring that he might be able to wave to Jack from a railing and
better attract his attention, he decided to find his seat, which was on
that side of the stadium. It took him some time to get there. The National
Anthem had played and the game had started before he found it, about ten
rows up from the front, midway between first base and the right-field foul
marker known as the "Pesky Pole." There was no sign of Seth. He went down
the steps to the railing and looked out. Jack seemed far away, crouched
over, focused on the game. PJ waved in between pitches and tried calling to
him, but his voice was lost in the noise. Jack never looked his way.

An Atlanta batter sent a towering fly ball out by the right-field foul
line. Jack moved over and made the catch not far from PJ's section. When he
crowd chanted "Jack! . . . Jack! . . . Jack!," PJ waved and called
frantically. Jack grinned up at the crowd, threw the ball to the infield,
and trotted away back to his position. PJ could remember standing in
exactly that same spot in the field the previous spring on a warm sunny day
while Jack hit fly balls to him. "Jack!" he desperately screamed out. But
the distant figure never turned his head.

When the Red Sox came to bat, PJ tried to get as close as he could to the
on-deck circle. Unfortunately, dozens of others had the same idea, and
bunches of stadium police roamed the aisles, keeping them clear and moving
people away from the railings. He finally managed to get to one when Jack
came to the plate. He waved and called, but Jack didn't look over.

PJ was still standing in that spot, just a few rows from the field, when
Jack hit his first home run. He'd stopped trying to get Jack's attention,
knowing that once he was in the batter's box, he wasn't aware of anything
except the pitcher. The ball he sent flying over the Green Monster came in
as a fastball on the inside of the plate. The moment Jack turned on it, PJ
could tell that it was gone! The ball arced up into the lights, a tiny dot
sailing out of sight into the night sky. The stadium crowd erupted with
cheers and chanted Jack's name as he circled the bases. PJ danced, waving
at Jack when he crossed the plate and trotted toward the dugout. But it was
hopeless trying to get his attention. He was just another small figure amid
thousands.

There had to be some way of letting Jack know he was there. PJ racked his
brains. Then he remembered that Jim Wagoneer's job as a reserve catcher was
to warm up the pitchers in the bullpen. I'll go there, he thought. I'll try
to get his attention instead! He picked his way through the crowd all the
way around to the far end of the field where the bullpens lay behind the
right-outfield fence.  There were railings above them, but when he tried to
get near one, his effort was thwarted by more stadium police who were
keeping people away. Circling around, he slowly pushed his way down until
he was at another railing on the edge of the field at ground level, not too
far away. He leaned out as far as he dared and tried to look inside the
bullpen opening. He couldn't see a thing. "Jim, Jim Wagoneer!" he shouted
as loud as he could. He succeeded only in having a few fans turn their
heads to look curiously at him. His shouting also got the attention of a
nearby stadium cop, who came over and told him to move along.

The game, meanwhile, was settling into a pitchers' duel. Except for Jack's
home run, neither team was doing much hitting, and the score remained
1-0. PJ kept moving between right field and the seats by the Red Sox
dugout, hoping against hope for an opportunity to somehow get Jack to
notice him. At one point, he realized that he was ravenously hungry. On the
trip from Gordonsville, he'd given almost all his money to Seth for gas and
parking. He had just enough left to buy a small order of nachos. The snack
took the edge off his hunger, but did little to satisfy it. It only left
him feeling thirsty.

While he'd been searching for something affordable to eat, the Braves had
scored two runs of their own. He'd heard the cheering and commotion, but
since he'd been standing in a long line in front of the snack counter, he
didn't find out what had happened until he emerged from underneath the
stands and saw the change on the scoreboard. By that time, the Red Sox were
at bat again and there was more cheering and chants of "Jack . . . Jack
. . . Jack. . ." The Red Sox star stepped up from the dugout and walked to
the on-deck circle. On his way, he went to the railing and said something
to the fans leaning over it. PJ lost some of his precious nachos trying to
push closer, but when he'd finally wedged himself through the press of
bodies, Jack had already gone to the plate. He could only stare longingly
at the figure who was so close, yet so far away. Jack hit a line drive over
the pitcher's head for a single, but the batters that came after him failed
to bring him around. The bottom of the inning ended with the Sox behind,
1-2.

Glumly, PJ went back to his section by right field. Rather than push his
way through the aisles where some stadium guards had already noticed him,
he ducked down a ramp and trotted around beneath the stands. By coming back
up the ramp near his seat, holding a little plate with the last of his
nachos on it, he made it look like he was just returning from the snack
bar. He found a place on the railing and finished eating. But by now, Jack
was far away, shifted over across the outfield for a right-handed hitter,
so PJ decided that his best strategy would be to go back to the seating
section by the dugout and patiently make his way to a spot as close to the
on-deck circle and the dugout as he could get. Jack had come to those seats
once already to talk to a fan and he was bound to do it again. That would
be the best chance of letting Jack know he was there. Cautiously, PJ
checked around. Fenway Park security would be on the lookout for kids like
himself roaming about, but his friend Xavier at Yankie Stadium had taught
him what to do. Avoiding the main grandstand aisles, he retraced his route
to the home-plate area, first descending by ramp from the right-field
section to the open concourse below. There he walked back toward the main
entrance and went up another ramp to emerge by the box seats behind the Red
Sox dugout. On the way, his little nacho plate, which he still carried,
continued to disguise him as a kid returning to his seat after a trip to
the snack bar.

The aisles and railings by the field between home plate and the dugout
remained crowded with people. After surveying the situation, PJ finished
the very last of his nacho chips, tossed the paper plate into a big trash
bin, and started worming his way down the steps to where he would be close
to the on-deck circle.

An Atlanta batter hit a high fly ball deep to right field. As PJ watched,
it drifted further and further right. Jack came running over and caught it,
just below where PJ had been only minutes before. It was the third
out. Jack stood and looked directly at some people leaning over, begging
him for the ball. Darn! If he'd stayed out there, he'd have been one of
them! Jack waved and tossed the baseball up to a young boy. PJ's heart sank
into his shoes. His stomach cramped painfully. Grimly, he continued his
efforts to get to the edge of the field in front of him. It took what
seemed forever. He was in the second row of people when Jack came out from
the dugout in the fifth inning. This time, he didn't go directly to the
on-deck circle, but stood talking to the Red Sox manager for awhile as they
watched the pitcher. Eventually, he came walking over, passing right by the
spot where PJ was desperately squeezing himself forward on the railing
between the tightly-packed bodies.

"Jack!" PJ screamed. He got one arm free and waved it. "Jack! Jack, over
here!" But there were hundreds of people screaming and waving along with
him. PJ's high, little voice was lost in the noise. Jack grinned and went
to the edge of the seats just a few yards away. Squirming frantically, PJ
managed to get his head out over the railing.

"Jack!"

But the roar of the crowd was deafening, like a thundering surf. His
frantic cries went unheard. Jack touched a few hands and walked to the
on-deck circle, where he took a few swings and knelt, studying the
pitcher. PJ struggled to get past the first line of people so he could
climb over the railing.

He would get to Jack before anyone could stop him. He would run to him and
Jack would turn in surprise and then, when he saw who it was, he would
smile the big, warm comfortable smile that he saved just for PJ, and his
eyes would twinkle and he would sweep PJ to him with his big arm and hold
him close and say, "Hey, Little Champ. You made it. I've been waiting for
you. I'm glad you're here." And PJ would be safe--safe at long last!

"Jack!" he sobbed desperately.

"Hey, stop pushing, kid!" A big hand shoved PJ back and he fell to the
concrete amid discarded peanut shells and spilled soda. He was nearly
trampled before he could scramble, panic-stricken, to his feet. In the
struggle, he nearly lost his fitted cap. He brushed his tear-streaked face
and tried to see what was happening.

Jack had gone to the plate. The crowd screamed out cheers, chanting his
name. On the first pitch, Jack uncoiled in a tremendous swing that launched
the ball toward the right-field stands. Every person in the stadium knew
immediately that it was gone. There was a huge roar as the fans
responded. Then the chanting began again while Jack trotted around the
bases. "Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack . . . "

PJ's heart turned over within him as he watched the ball disappear. Tears
streamed down his face. "Jack," he whispered. "Jack..."

Tipping his hat to the crowd, waving it, Jack crossed home plate and was
escorted by his teammates to the dugout. PJ tried to wave again when Jack
looked over at the stands, but a wall of other people stood in front of
him.

For awhile, PJ stayed where he was, patiently aiming for a spot right up on
the railing. But bigger kids and adults kept pushing him out of the
way. Finally, a group of stadium police came along and politely requested
the fans to move back up into the aisles. The guards then stationed
themselves all along the railings. PJ knew they were preparing for the
final innings to keep the crowd off the field until the game had
ended. Jack would probably be up one or two more times, but there wouldn't
be any more opportunity to get close to him.

The score was now tied, 2-2.

PJ conceived the idea that if Jack hit another home run, he should try to
get it.

He pictured himself taking the ball to the dugout or clubhouse door after
the game and asking if Jack would sign it. Certainly Jack would do that. He
was nice about signing things. He would come out and find PJ with the ball,
and that delighted grin would light up his face. He would pick PJ up and
hug him and say, "Little Champ! Where have you been? It's so perfect that
you caught that ball. I hit that home run for you!" The picture formed
itself so clearly in PJ's mind that he could see it in every detail. He
could even smell the sweat and dirt stains on Jack's uniform.

He decided that Jack would not hit another homer to right. He was more
likely to pull one into the left -field seats in the corner by the
Monster. He made his way out there and stood in the aisle, waiting
hopefully through several innings.

Jack came up in the seventh. There were people all around PJ with radios,
and he heard the commentators talking about the possibility of Jack hitting
a third dinger.

	". . . hasn't been done in a World Series game since Reggie Jackson
did it in 1977," one was saying.

PJ hadn't thought of that. He'd been so focused on getting the ball that it
hadn't occurred to him that if Jack hit a third homer, it would be tying a
record. He crossed his fingers. Come on, Jack, he thought. Hit it to me!

When the count was 2-2, Jack belted a long shot that drifted foul off to
PJ's right, landing in the seats beyond the foul pole. PJ watched the fans
scramble for the ball. His heart pounded rapidly. It was going to happen!
For sure Jack was going to hit another one! An' I'm in just the right spot
to get it! He readied himself to sprint to the ball. If it dropped anywhere
nearby, he was going to catch it bare-handed. He didn't care how much it
hurt!

When the count went to 3-2, Jack hit a double to the right-centerfield
wall. The stadium rocked with cheers! PJ's heart, however, sank. Why
couldn't it have been a home run? After watching Jack make it to second
base standing up, PJ wandered back slowly toward the home-plate area. But
on his way, it occurred to him that he didn't have to have a home run ball
to carry out his plan. Any baseball would do! Even a foul ball. He tried
positioning himself around third base, and then for a time behind first,
hoping a foul tip would come his way. Yet none did.

He could see that there was activity now in the Red Sox bullpen. The score
was still tied, Pete Montoya was doing fine, but apparently the manager was
getting some relievers ready just in case. PJ thought he might have a
chance now to find Jim Wagoneer. He hurried out to the far end of the field
and wormed his way over to the railing by the bullpen. At last he was in
luck! The stadium guard was over in another part of the aisle and the
railing was momentarily clear. He climbed up on it and looked down. Two
pitcher-catcher combinations were at work. He couldn't tell if either of
the catchers was Jim, but he had nothing to lose by trying. "Jim!" he
called as loudly as he could. "Jim! Jim Wagoneer! Jim! Up here!"

He was sure that one of the catchers looked up. PJ waved frantically."Jim!
Jim!" he called. "It's PJ!"

Just then the stadium cop came over and pulled him down off the edge of the
railing. "Come on now, son," the guard said politely but firmly. We can't
have you up there." He moved the boy away from the area and told him to
stay in the aisle. PJ attempted to find another place to see into the
bullpen, but all the spots were blocked by fans or other security guards.
Meanwhile, the game was going on. The Atlanta Braves scored a run and
regained the lead in the eighth inning. The Red Sox manager brought in one
of the relievers that had been warming up in the bullpen, and he got two
outs to end the inning. When the Sox came to bat, they got another base
runner to second, but couldn't drive him home. With time running out, they
were losing 2-3.

It was the top of the ninth. The Red Sox faithful groaned as one of
Atlanta's stars took a low pitch and stroked it into right field. While
Jack stood below, watching helplessly, the ball bounced off the tall,
yellow foul pole and fell into the seats in fair territory for a home
run. Atlanta took a two-run lead.

The Red Sox changed pitchers again, but the Braves got two more base
runners and another run before Jack caught a long fly ball to end the
inning. The Red Sox came up in the bottom of the ninth down by three runs,
2-5.

PJ had given up trying to get close to the bullpen. He'd stayed in back of
first base for awhile, hoping for a foul ball. Now he moved as close to the
home-plate area as he could. He was so preoccupied with trying to think of
things to do that would get him close to Jack that he'd almost forgotten
about the loss his team was facing. But the radios he could hear all around
him brought his mind back to the game.

	". . . team has ever come back from a three-run deficit going into
the ninth inning of a World Series game," the announcer was saying. PJ had
trouble catching the rest because of the noise. ". . . the Atlanta defense
. . ." he heard, and ". . .  awesome pitching of Atlanta's bullpen . . ."

	 Then he clearly heard, ". . . the Curse of the Bambino . . ."

The words made him angry. He was tired of hearing them. He was pissed off!
There is no such thing! And even if there is, Jack and I are here to break
it! It's an excuse invented by people to cover up failure. The hell with
all that Curse stuff! Right here . . . right now . . . the Red Sox,
greatest team in baseball, are coming to bat! Coming to bat on their own
home field, storied Fenway Park! The World Series on the line! How many,
many times have we seen them battle back and come from behind to win!

But then, of course, he remembered that even last night he had wondered if
there might be something to that Curse legend. . .

No way! It was a damn lie! The Red Sox can beat any odds!  And how many
times had Jack taught him to "Stand in there. Never give in. What you can
achieve is limited only by your own courage, your own determination, and
your own imagination. Never, never say die!"

PJ jumped onto an aisle railing. Now! Now! This was what Jack had been
talking about! What better finish to a championship game could there be? He
took off his Red Sox cap, waved it, and cried out shrilly, "Let's go, Sox!
You can do it! Never say die! Rally!"

He began to chant in his high, boyish voice, "Ral-ly! Ral-ly! Ral-ly!
Ral-ly! Ral-ly!"

PJ put his cap on backwards and stood up tall on his railing, yelling as
loudly as he could. People nearby turned to look at him. A few laughed, but
others took up the cheer and soon the entire section was chanting with
him. "Ral-ly!  Ral-ly!  Red Sox, Ral-ly!"  Fans began standing up, and then
the whole stadium was chanting until the great historic old ballpark was
shaking with the noise of it.

When the first Red Sox hitter slammed a double, the stands exploded in
cheers. There were more of them as the next batter walked. Suddenly the Sox
had two men on and nobody out.

"All right!" yelled PJ, waving his cap. "Here we go!" He began to chant
again, "Here we go, Red Sox, here we go!  Here we go, Red Sox, here we
go. . ."

Everyone around him took up the cheer, even the whole section, then the
entire stadium. "Here we go, Red Sox, here we go! Here we go, Red Sox, here
we go! Here we go, Red Sox here we go. . ." The thundering noise rocked the
seats.

In the radios around him, PJ heard the announcers talking excitedly,
although he couldn't make out their words. When the Braves changed
pitchers, the delay momentarily silenced the crowd, but the excited
chanting began again when the next Red Sox batter stepped in. There was a
huge roar as he hit a towering fly ball to left--followed by a groan as the
Atlanta fielder caught it on the warning track. The runners returned to
their bases.

The next Boston hitter bounced a weak grounder to the left side. It was in
an awkward spot, right between the Atlanta third baseman and the shortstop,
who was playing back on the outfield grass. The third baseman stumbled
getting to it before scooping it up, so his only play was to first, where
he threw the batter out while the other runners ran to second and
third. The Red Sox had gotten a break. There was no double play. But now
there were two outs. Atlanta was only one run away from an historic
comeback and the World Championship!

PJ wasn't discouraged. He wasn't giving up. The game isn't over until the
third out! He stood up on his railing, waving his cap, cheering away with
the rest of his section. A huge roar from the crowd shook the old stadium
as the next Red Sox batter stood in at the plate, because behind him, tall
and confident Jack Canon was on his way to the on-deck circle. PJ was so
tense from excitement, he found it difficult to keep his balance, though he
managed to yell out Jack! But it was no use. His voice was lost in the sea
of noise. So he joined the others around him, shouting encouragement to the
hitter at the plate. "Come on! You can do it!"

This hitter refused to give up either. In a long at-bat, he battled away,
fouling of pitch after close pitch. With Jack coming up, the pitcher wanted
to get a strikeout to end the game. But now, again and again, his pitches
rocketed to the plate either too far inside or too far outside until--Ball
four! The umpire signaled the walk with an animated pointing at first. The
crowd roared again! The bases were loaded! The Red Sox hopes were very much
alive! The fans went wild!

The bases were loaded!

PJ saw Jack stand up. He'd been kneeling, studying the pitcher. PJ knew
that Jack could not possibly hear him with all the noise, but he shouted
anyway, "Jack! Jack! . . . I believe in you! Anything's possible! Never say
die!"

By chance, at just that instant, there was a momentary lull in the crowd's
fervor, and PJ's high, boyish voice cut through it. Jack's head lifted. He
scanned the sea of faces behind him. To PJ, it seemed as if Jack were
staring right at him. He waved frantically. "Jack!" he screamed.  But Jack
had already turned away and was on his way to the plate. All around PJ the
chanting began, "Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack . . ." The noise was
terrific. It was almost a physical pressure on PJ's body. The vibrations
from it made the railing he was trying to stand on tremble. The metal
tubing shook even harder as fans began pounding on it. "Jack . . . Jack
. . . Jack . . ."

 		 Fenway Park was a raging ocean of noise.

The Atlanta pitcher clearly intended to give Jack nothing in the strike
zone. He was willing to see Jack walk and give up a run rather than let
Jack have a big hit. He threw two pitches outside that Jack let go for
balls.

"Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack. . ."

The chanting went on and on, so loud PJ almost couldn't hear himself
think. He closed his eyes and tightened his fists on the railing. I believe
in you, Jack Canon," he thought as hard as he could. I believe in you with
all my heart--in everything you've ever said and everything you've ever
taught me. I'll never, never stop believing. You're the greatest baseball
player in the world!  When he opened his eyes, he saw that Jack had stepped
out of the batter's box. Once again, he seemed to be looking into the
crowd, and right at PJ! This time PJ didn't try to wave. He simply stood up
straight on the railing, silently watching.

The chanting thundered around him. Jack stood back in. Once more the
pitcher tried to throw his pitch just outside the strike zone. Perhaps he
was nervous. Perhaps the tension and pressure of the World Series affected
him. Or his grip might have slipped. Or perhaps it was just meant to
be. Perhaps destiny herself took a hand. Instead of being outside, the
pitch came in on the edge of the plate, just barely in the strike zone. . .

It was enough. Jack turned on it, unleashing the full power of the swing
that had so awed PJ when he had seen it close-up. It awed him again
now. There was a loud "CRACK" and then a deafening roar as every spectator
in the great stadium came to his feet.

Barely audible over the terrific din, PJ heard the transistor radios around
him blaring,

	"It's a tremendous shot! Canon's hit a terrific shot! It's deep to
center field! It could be .  . . !

Heart in his throat, PJ followed the flight of the ball arcing out over the
field in the lights. Any other direction would've given Jack a home
run. Even a slight curve to the right or left would have done it. But this
ball was heading for the very deepest part of Fenway Park, the infamous
centerfield "Triangle," the pocket created by the extension wall for the
bullpen area and the centerfield wall itself below the "Batter's Eye." It
was going to be close! The ball still might make it out! Atlanta's
centerfielder went racing back, looking over his shoulder, glove extended!
But this was the Fenway "Triangle," not one of those modern
smooth-boundried parks this National League player was accustomed to. It
wasn't easy to judge where the wall was! At the last second, the Atlanta
fielder risked taking his eye off the ball for a quick look--and discovered
he was a lot closer to a wall than he'd realized! It made him hesitate,
stumble--and Jack's ball, missing homerun distance by mere inches,
ricocheted off the Triangle's right side, bouncing out of the reach of the
confused player!

The crowd noise in Fenway Park rose to such frenzied level that PJ felt it
buffeting him. So many people were pounding on his railing he was nearly
thrown off. Everyone, PJ included, was screaming with excitement, "Go!  Go
Jack!  Go!"

Out in centerfield the Atlanta player was scrambling, completely fooled by
the unfamiliar angle the ball had taken on its carom. The Boston runners,
with two outs, had started sprinting the moment Jack had made contact, and
now they were circling the bases like a merry-go-round! The runner from
third scored. The one from second scored. The runner coming all the way
from first rounded third, bearing down toward home plate right behind them!

And Jack was running too! Knowing that he'd hit the ball off the end of his
bat--that it might not make it over the wall--Jack had rocketed out of the
batter's box, afterburners on! He'd rounded first, was nearly at second! PJ
saw him take a quick look at the outfield. Both the center and the left
fielder who'd sprinted over to help him were fumbling around with the
ball. Without hesitation, Jack touched second, left it behind, and streaked
for third!

The Fenway faithful were going crazy--and PJ was screaming along with them,
jumping up and down, pounding the railing with his fist. It was a close
play! The centerfielder, corralling the ball at last, fired it to third
. . . and Jack slid in safe under the tag!

	"SAFE! SAFE! He's tied the game! He's tied the game! JACK CANON HAS
TIED
	 THIS GAME!!"

Every transistor radio around PJ had the play-by-play announcer's voice
screaming into the microphone.

	"Ladies and gentlemen, this game is tied! Jack Canon! Jack Canon
has cleared
	the bases with an off-the-wall double! Somehow he stretched it to a
triple! Oh, my! This game is tied and Jack Canon, the winning run, is
ninety feet away on third base! This crowd is going crazy!"

"Yee-eoo-ooo-ww-ww!" PJ yelled, lifting his face to the night sky. He
pumped his fist and began to chant, "Here we go Red Sox, here we go! Here
we go Red Sox, here we go!"

Everyone around him took it up. Then the entire stadium. Fenway Park rocked
with sound. Coming to the plate was the Red Sox rookie centerfielder, the
young phenom, Lonelle Price, who along with Jack had done so much to get
the Red Sox into the Series. Fans screamed for a hit. The Atlanta manager
went out for a conference on the mound and the chanting died for a bit,
then started again at earsplitting volume the moment the umpire signaled
for play to resume. "HERE WE GO, RED SOX, HERE WE GO!"

PJ was yelling himself hoarse. He jumped off the railing and stared out at
the pitcher. What would he throw? Fastball? Curve? Change? Maybe walk the
batter?

	"Here's the pitch!"

PJ heard the commentators say it on the radio as the Atlanta hurler wound
up . . .

The pitch hurtled toward the plate. The young Red Sox batter stepped up. He
was going to swing!

"Wham!"

A solid line drive up the middle, just missing the pitcher's head!

For one instant everyone held their breaths. Then, in a crescendo of noise
louder than anything before, Fenway Park exploded in pandemonium!!

	"It's through to centerfield!! It's a base hit! Canon is going to
score! Jack Canon will score!" The radio announcer was now screaming
hysterically into his
	 microphone: "THE RED SOX HAVE BROKEN THE BAMBINO'S CURSE!!!"

There was total chaos. Fans leaped into the air, shouting and cheering at
the historic 6-5 win and the breaking of the "Curse"! When PJ saw Jack
touch home plate, scoring the winning run, he felt a release of emotion
that was like a dam bursting. He thought of Colin in The Secret Garden
shouting, "I will live forever!"

Noise. Noise so loud it buffeted PJ like gusting wind. Fenway was erupting
with noise! Filled with awe, PJ watched living history transform itself
into the stuff of legend. He had the sense of being lifted out of
himself. Yet with the awe came something else. In that moment came the
instinctive realization that just as the Red Sox were passing into myth, so
Jack Canon, the heroic figure he so wanted for a father, was myth as well,
and like all myths, he could only be approached in dreams. Surrounded by
celebration, despite all the wonder and happiness, he felt for the Red Sox
victory and Jack's triumph, PJ began to cry. Through a blur of tears, tears
that spilled over and ran down his cheeks, he could only sob, "Jack! Oh,
Jack!"

 Out by the pitcher's mound the entire Red Sox team was jumping into a dog
pile. Jack had the young centerfielder in a bear hug. He was pounding his
back. Streamers of fireworks rocketed up from the grandstand, exploding in
the sky. Historic Fenway Park, that legendary venue of dreams, was
witnessing a moment of baseball magic not seen there since a time so
distant it was beyond the memory of most of the deliriously excited fans
breaking through the barriers onto the grass.

A great rush of Sox fans carried PJ along the aisle. He was nearly thrown
down and trampled before steadying his feet and moving with the flow. The
crowd was taking him onto the field! Toward Jack! He had to make contact
with him! Somehow he had to talk to him!  Chapter Eighty-One: Love Abideth
All Things

"Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack . . ." The crowd's thunderous chanting of their
idol's name dissolved into an ocean of roaring sound. A mob of rapturous
fans surged around PJ, shoved him to the concrete, and nearly trampled
him. He rolled to the side, grabbing onto the railing, and at last
struggled to his feet amid such a press of bodies that he couldn't see a
thing! Nearby transistor radios were blaring,

"THE RED SOX WIN THE SERIES! The Red Sox have won the World Series! They've
  broken the Curse! Jack Canon! I don't believe it!  Ladies and gentlemen,
this crowd at
  Fenway Park is going crazy. They're going crazy! People are tearing out
the seats!
  They're pouring onto the field. They're taking the bases. There are
people taking up the
  grass! Ladies and gentlemen, with two outs in the bottom of the ninth
inning, rookie
  sensation Lonelle Price has singled in Jack Canon to win the World
Championship of
  Baseball for the Boston Red Sox! Ladies and gentlemen, ladies and
gentlemen, Jack
  Canon was right, Anything's Possible! He's made it true. And our own Jack
has just
  been announced as the World Series Most Valuable Player!"

PJ fought to remain on his feet. The cheering around him was deafening!
Jack! He had to get to him! He had to talk to him!

That was to prove difficult. He was jostled, pushed, buffeted by shrieking
Red Sox fans. He fell again, was kicked once or twice, was drenched with a
cup of beer. When he got back up, someone else grabbed the sleeve of his
shirt and tore it. He tried to squeeze his way out to the exit, shuffling
along, terrified of falling again, the surrounding bodies almost crushing
him. Jostled and pushed forward without any idea where he might end up, he
found himself being shoved down steps. He had to watch carefully to avoid
stumbling. Suddenly, he was out on the field, feeling lucky because that's
where he'd intended to go in the first place.

When the crowd pressure around him eased, he was able to work his way to a
clear spot where it was possible to stand and look around. Bright
television lights seemed everywhere, and some distance away he heard
excited cries of "Jack!, Jack!" He moved in that direction, but there were
mobs of people in the way. After what seemed like hours trying to push his
way through, he got to where he thought the yelling had originated, but the
crowd had moved to another part of the field. Next, he tried to get to the
Red Sox dugout, but it was surrounded by stadium police. When he looked for
any player or official that he knew, he recognized no one. Suddenly, he
heard more cries of "Jack!, Jack!" Through a gap he caught sight of Jack's
tall figure standing by the seats, signing autographs for a crowd of
children along the field railing. PJ wiggled through the crush of people
and was nearly thrown off his feet a third time. "Jack!" he frantically
shouted. "Jack! Jack, it's PJ!" Yet Jack didn't notice him, and obviously
couldn't hear him. He caught only one more glimpse of his hero giving a
final wave just before disappearing into the dugout.

"Jack," PJ whispered. He found that he was crying again.

Exhausted and still frightened by his battle for survival with hordes of
frenzied fans, so sore and tired his legs were trembling, he wandered to
the side of the field, found a gate, and climbed wearily into the
stands. Looking down at himself, he saw that where his shirt had been
ripped, half his chest was bare. He straightened out the front as best he
could and tucked it into his pants, glad that Jack hadn't seen him looking
so crappy! Sinking into the nearest seat, he rested for awhile with his
face in his hands. It was only then that he realized that his fitted Red
Sox cap, the one Jack had signed for him, was missing. All he could do was
curl into a ball, softy whimpering. But it was the thought of Jack that
again got him to feet. What would Jack think if he saw him like this? PJ
slowly made his way down a ramp into the cavernous spaces under the
stands. He descended one more level by another ramp. A mob of fans were
there, yelling, pushing, shoving, all trying to get in close to the
clubhouse entrance. PJ wormed his way in until he could see the guards, but
couldn't find the one he had talked to earlier. He kept pushing forward
until he got close to a security man and tugged at his arm. "Excuse me,
Sir!" PJ yelled over the noise. "Excuse me."

The man looked down at him in annoyance. "Stay back, kid," he yelled. "You
can't go in here."

"Excuse me," PJ repeated. "I have to go in. My name's on the list."

Just as the other guard had done, this one gave PJ a skeptical look before
saying, "Okay, give me your name."

When PJ told him, the man went to check. He came back and leaned over so PJ
could hear him. "Your name's not on there! Now move back. There are TV
crews that have to get by!"

"My name's on a special list!" PJ yelled desperately. "You have to call
inside. Ask for Jack Canon or Jim Wagoneer. Tell them PJ is here."

The man took a long look at him, and went to the phone by the door. When he
came back, he was angry. "Look, kid!" he shouted, "there's no special list
and nobody in there has ever heard of you. Now beat it! Don't make me give
you more trouble than you can handle!"

"Please!" PJ begged frantically. "Please! Who did you talk to? Did you talk
to Jack?"

"Are you kidding? That locker room is a madhouse right now! I don't know
who the hell I talked to. Now move along!"

"Please!" PJ was almost sobbing. "Please! You've got to let me in." Close
to tears now, he gave a heartfelt cry. "I'm Jack's son!"

The security guard's eyes narrowed. "Kid, you're crazy!" He made a grab at
PJ's arm, but the boy shrank back into the crowd. He wiggled free of the
press of bodies and bolted away, frightened that the guard might chase
after him. Darting up the ramp to the next level, he hid by a massive
pillar until he was certain no one had followed.  Only then did he brush at
his eyes, eventually regaining control of himself. He knew now that there
was no way he was going to be able to see Jack. Even if he went to Jack's
apartment, he couldn't get in. Jack might not go there that night anyway.

Listlessly, he made his way to the spot where he'd agreed to meet Seth. He
had trouble finding it. Everything looked different. At last, once he did
get to where he was sure was the right place, there was no sign of the
older boy. After casting about several times, with Seth nowhere in sight,
PJ settled in to wait. It was all he could do. Yet hardly any time had
passed before his attention was diverted to the blaring of a TV set behind
the counter of a hot dog stand not far away. He walked over. The set was
tuned to the network doing the World Series coverage, and was showing the
scene in the Red Sox locker room. PJ tried to hear what was being said, but
there was too much noise around him. So he got the notice of the stand
attendant and asked if he could get behind the counter and listen. "Sure,"
the young man said, with a friendly smile. "Just stay out of the way."

PJ slipped under the chain and got next to the TV. On its screen a crowd of
people milled about, many carrying champagne bottles, all of them happy and
smiling. He saw several Red Sox players that he knew, including Jack, who
was standing in the background. The TV announcer said something about the
presentation of the World Series Trophies.

A well-dressed man in suit and tie whom PJ didn't recognize stepped in
front of the camera, accompanied by one of the TV commentators holding a
microphone. The commentator introduced the man as the Commissioner of
Baseball, a "Mr.-" (PJ missed his name and asked the hot-dog man to turn up
the volume).

	The Commissioner took the mike and said, "Before we present the
World Championship Trophy, I have another award to present first."

Someone handed him a huge trophy which the TV commentator had to help him
hold. It gleamed with silver and crystal. PJ couldn't believe the size of
it.

 	The Commissioner continued, "This trophy, which is given every year
to the player judged to be the most valuable ballplayer in the World
Series, is awarded by a vote of distinguished judges, sportswriters, and
fans, all of whom love and revere the game of baseball. The choice this
year was unanimous. I am happy to award the Series MVP trophy to Jack
Canon!"

There was cheering and applause. Jack came forward to accept the big
trophy. He looked more serious that PJ had ever seen him.

	"Jack," the Commissioners said, "I want you to know how happy I am
to see you win this. I can't think of anyone who has done more for baseball
in the last few years than you have. After coming back from what many
thought would be a career-ending injury, you have led your team to this
Series where you played game-winning defense (more cheers), batted .375,
and hit six home runs including two tonight (this time a crescendo of
applause and cheering). I can't think of anyone who deserves this as much
as you do, and I'm proud to be here so I can present it to you."

Jack took the huge trophy and held it up so everyone could see it.

	"Mr. Commissioner," he said once the cheering had died down, "I
accept this trophy in the spirit in which it is given. It is a great and
wonderful honor. I appreciate it most humbly. But I would like to say that
I also feel I am accepting this award on behalf of all my teammates and
coaches on the Red Sox, and all our terrific fans who stood by us all
year. The Red Sox are a very great team.
	 Everyone on it is a most valuable player! I wouldn't be here today
without their efforts, and I humbly thank them for it, and all of you, and
all the fans. Thank you very much."

	There was more loud applause and cheering.

	Then the Commissioner held up his hand and said, "And now, now, it
is my duty and great pleasure to present, on behalf of Major League
baseball, the World Championship Trophy to the Boston Red Sox!"

An enormous trophy was brought in on another table. This one was even
bigger than Jack's, all gold, and crystal. It reminded PJ of a tall narrow
bird cage with bars, or even a harp. It was beautiful!

	The TV commentator again stepped forward. "Accepting on behalf of
the Red Sox ownership will be the General Manager of their team, Mr. . ."

PJ didn't hear that name either because he'd suddenly realized how bad he
had to go to the bathroom. Really bad! He left the stand, shoved his way
back through the crowd, and frantically searched for a "Men's Rest Room"
sign. Thank goodness there was a facility nearby which he practically ran
into, bumping past several adults at the entrance. By this time his need
was acute, so he pinched the tip of penis from the outside of his pants to
hold back his pee! Embarrassed that people would see him, he made for a
toilet stall instead of a urinal, yanked down the zipper to his fly, and
let loose. The relief was unbelievably gratifying. He had to smile because
all he could think of was an old Alka-Seltzer commercial.

By the time PJ returned to the TV, the speeches were all over. The screen
showed people cheering. Indian war whoops sounded in the
background. Someone reached in and poured champagne over everyone,
including the TV announcer, who cheerfully grinned through his liquid
bath. The General Manager, the Commissioner, and even Jack all posed by the
World Series trophy. There were small camera flashes. The TV crew pulled
back, expanding the picture, which revealed a big group of reporters
crowded in front of the VIP's.

PJ recognized some of them. One was Mr. Gerstein, the sportswriter for the
Associated Press. "Jack!" the elderly man called. "Jack! Where's the owner
of the Red Sox? Why isn't he here?"

Jack grinned, but didn't say anything.

	The General Manager quickly stepped forward. "As you know, the Red
Sox are owned by a group. I am here tonight to represent them."

	But Mr. Gerstein persisted. "Isn't it true that the real owner of
the Red Sox is a
	little boy who forced you to sign Jack Canon at the beginning of
the season? If he
	hadn't done that, you wouldn't have even been in the Series, would
you? Don't you think he should be here? Jack, you know him. Where is he?"

	The General Manager held up his hand as he stepped forward
again. "I'm sure that all the shareholders in the Red Sox are very pleased
by their appearance in this Series. Unfortunately, none of them could be
here with us tonight, but I know they're watching, and I'm sure they're
just as happy as we are here. . ."

	"Jack!" The old sportswriter kept trying to interrupt. "Jack,
where's the real
	 owner of the Red Sox?"

But all the other reporters were shouting their own questions too. With
smiles and vague responses, the General Manager waved them off. The TV crew
ended their coverage.

PJ thanked his young host and quietly left the snack stand. I was right
here, Jack, he kept thinking. I was right here, just like you wanted me to
be. I tried to find you, but you never came to find me!

He felt strangely numb, there was a ringing in his ears, and when he
noticed a faint shimmer at the edges of things he was trying to focus on,
it came to him that he was having one of his "weirds." Where was Seth? PJ
waited by the pillar that was their meeting spot, watching the people who
were still filing out of the stadium. Seth did not appear, but PJ was not
alone. The other PJ was in his head, whispering, whispering . . .

("It was all fake. You made it up. Jack never sent for you. You'll never
see Jack again. I told you nothing mattered. Your parents didn't want
you. Jack doesn't either. He told you that you're weird. There's something
wrong with you. The darkness is coming. It's close . . . getting closer
. . . ")

PJ wanted the thoughts to go away, yet he no longer had the strength to
resist them. Gradually, however, they faded as the weird spell passed, only
to be replaced by a growing fear of abandonment when minutes kept ticking
away with no sign of Seth. Frantically he began searching in his pockets
for change he might have missed before. How was he going to get home? Would
he find enough for a phone call to Walter?

"PJ!"

Looking up, and to his great relief, PJ saw Seth approaching. "PJ!" Seth
shouted, waving. "I came by here a couple of times and you weren't here
. . . "Geez!" The plder boy appraised him in astonishment. " What happened
to you?"

PJ looked down at himself, realizing for the second time how he must
appear. Not only was his shirt ripped, but he now saw there were stains on
his clothes from where he'd rolled in the aisles in spilled food and
soda. Even worse, he reeked of beer. "Uh, I guess I've been celebrating
Jack's MVP a little too much," he said with a sheepish grin.

"I guess so!" Seth nudged his arm. "Hey, we need to get going. We got a
long ride back. Geez, how 'bout that game! Wasn't that unbelievable? Say,
did you ever get a chance to talk to Jack?"

PJ quickly concocted a lie. "I did, but only a little bit," he lied. "He
was just real busy."

"Wow! No shit! Well, at least you had a chance to congratulate him. Come
on! I got transportation lined up."

They left the park, and Seth led the way down a side street where a girl
stood waiting beside a nice-looking car parked by the curb. "It's about
time!" she told Seth indignantly. "I was ready to leave. Is this who you
had to go get? Yuck! What is he, your baby brother or something? God! Put
something down to protect the seat. He's filthy and he stinks!"

Seth whispered something to her and she snickered. They found an old towel
in the trunk that PJ could sit on so he wouldn't get the seat dirty, and
the girl drove them to the downtown parking garage where they'd left the
Porsche. Upon arrival, there was another delay while Seth and the girl
whispered and talked. PJ got out of the car to give them some privacy. He
waited patiently at the entrance to the garage until Seth joined him,
grinning slyly. "Sorry 'bout that, PJ. You know how it is."

They took the elevator to the upper floor where the Porsche sat, its green
paint glittering in the overhead lights. It was almost the only car left on
that level. Before they got in, Seth placed the towel which he'd borrowed
from his girlfriend on the shotgun seat, and PJ, so that he could avoid
soiling the seatback, removed his shirt and placed it on the floormat. Once
they were settled in with seatbelts fastened, Seth drove down the ramps to
the exit, where they paid their fee and turned onto the street. PJ got the
map out and navigated them onto the expressway. There they followed the
signs to the interstate. The after-midnight traffic was light, and when PJ
was satisfied that they were going in the right direction, he put the map
away and relaxed. He felt very tired.

"Man, I am so glad we were at that game," Seth remarked. "That one has to
go down in the history books. The Red Sox win the Series for the first time
since the Ice Age, and they do it with Jack Canon tying the game in the
ninth and scoring the winning run! Geez, unbelievable! He's awesome!"

"Yes," PJ said. "He is." It took an effort to control his voice. Jack! Why
didn't you try to find me? He felt like crying.

Seth gestured toward the glove compartment. "Hey, get me one of the little
white pills from that plastic case in there, will you?" PJ found the case
he was talking about, shook out a pill from the dozen or so that were
there, and handed it over.

"Benzedrine," Seth explained, popping it into his mouth. "Keeps me
awake. We don't want me going to sleep at the wheel."

"No way," PJ agreed. Despite all of his efforts, tears leaked from his
eyes. He sniffed several times, swallowed the snot, and brushed his eyes
with his fist.

Seth pushed a CD into the dashboard player. "Hope you like classic metal,"
he said. "The stations around here don't play shit this late at night."

Heavy rock music blasted from the Porsche's sound system, sounding as loud
to PJ as the hordes of cheering fans had been at the stadium. Curling up in
his seat, he felt immersed in sound, drowning in it. He was tired . . .so
tired. He closed his eyes. Sleep came almost immediately.

The dreams he had were strange and vaguely terrifying. He was back in
Fenway Park, surrounded on all sides by huge crowds. Over and over, he
would see Jack in the distance and call to him. And Jack would answer and
beckon to him, but PJ could never make it through the crowd to where Jack
had been. There were always too many people in the way and he would end up
being diverted into long concrete corridors beneath the stands. Sometimes
the people would all be cheering and the roar of the crowd would be as loud
as the ocean. Then, suddenly, there would be silence and everyone would
stare at him and whisper. He could hear the rustling noise of their hushed
voices, like snakes slithering in dry leaves.

"Jack's son is dead," they were saying.  PJ woke up shaking with fear, his
heart pounding. Rock music still enveloped him, but somehow during his
sleep he'd become indifferent and barely noticed it. Nearby, behind the
wheel, Seth was a dim weird-looking figure, mysteriously lit by the
greenish dashboard glow as if he were some ancient idol. Momentarily
disoriented, PJ felt alone and lost in the dark. He fought to collect his
wits. The flash of headlights from a car traveling the other way gave the
scene a flickering appearance of an old-time movie.

On my way to Gordonsville, he suddenly remembered. I was in Boston.

The recall brought no reassurance. He remained lost and alone, just as lost
and alone as he'd been long before, when he'd lived in a penthouse high
above a city.

* * *

At Fenway, far behind the green Porsche taking PJ back to Gordonsville,
Jack Canon sat on a bench in front of his locker. He was dressed in street
clothes. A sport jacket and tie hung in the locker waiting for him to put
them on.

Jack was staring at the tie. It was dark blue with small red and white Red
Sox logos on it like polka dots. He reached for it and ran the tie through
his fingers. He hadn't worn that tie since the previous summer, but for
some reason he'd picked it that morning--yesterday morning, he corrected
himself--when he'd been in a hurry. He didn't need to wear a tie now. There
wasn't anyone around to see him, or take pictures. But he put it on anyway,
knotting it carefully in the mirror. He smoothed it down on his shirt with
his hand.

The locker room was a shambles. Litter was everywhere, mostly in the form
of disposable paper cups. The carpet stank of champagne, beer, and whatever
else had been spilled on it. A table by the door held trays of crumbs and
half-eaten canap?s--and his huge MVP trophy. The thing was so big there was
barely room for it.

From the manager's office where he'd been on the phone, Jim Wagoneer called
out, "Looks like those reporters and everybody are probably gone,
Jack. It's probably OK to slip out of here now."

Jack nodded wearily. He and Jim were the only ones left in the
clubhouse. "The tumult and the shouting die," Jack softly quoted. Kipling's
sonorous phrases rolled slowly off his tongue. "The Captains and the Kings
depart. . ."

". . . Lo, all our pomp of yesterday is one with Nineveh and Tyre. . . ."
Jim finished for him. He looked at the enormous trophy on the table. "What
are you going to do with that beauty, Jack?"

His friend smiled and shrugged. "Lug it down to Florida and put it with all
the rest of 'em, I guess. Top center shelf, probably. What the hell else do
you think I'd do with it?"

"When you go, you'll have to buy a second seat on the plane for the damn
thing to sit in," Jim said, grinning. "It's way too big to claim as a
carry-on. I'll help you get it out to the car." He bustled around, tossed
items from his locker into a duffel bag, and headed back toward the
toilets. "I'm gonna see a man about a horse. Give me a minute and I'll be
ready."

Jack nodded, glanced around the locker room again, and sighed. It just
didn't seem possible that the season was actually over and that tomorrow he
wouldn't be getting up to get ready to play another game. Even more
incredible to him was the fact that at least one goal he had spent the last
ten years of his life striving for had been achieved and was already in the
past.

He got up and walked around restlessly. It all felt like such an
anticlimax. He had the awful suspicion that he'd invested years of his life
and effort into something that in the final analysis had turned out to be
less than he'd expected. "Winning the World Series and an MVP isn't
supposed to make you feel like this," he whispered.

It was something that he'd once talked about with PJ.

PJ!  Why had that damn reporter brought him up with his damn questions? He
hadn't thought about the kid for weeks, and the kid probably hadn't thought
about him either.

He looked over at the MVP trophy. Well, like Jim said, it was sure big. But
it was hard to avoid thinking that it, like all his other awards, would
become just another big dust collector sitting in his big empty house year
after year. Ten years from now nobody would even remember it--or his name.

He sat down by Jim's locker.

There's no one to share it with. That was the problem. Who was there to
talk with about it?  Who was he doing it all for? And why? The money? He
had more now that he would ever need--provided he wasn't a fool and wasted
it as he had in the past. But for what? To do what? To rot on a beach in
Florida when he was too old to play baseball anymore and point to his
ancient trophies and say, "Once I was a good ballplayer." Who the heck
remembers old ballplayers except Trivial Pursuit freaks?

So he had been the MVP of a World Series. Now what? What would he do
tomorrow? Next April, when the new season began, no one would even care
what he'd done this year. They'd only care about whether he could do the
same thing all over again. Because in sports, it's "What can you do for me
today, baby?" and no excuses. And in the end, what did you have? An empty
house and a dark room full of dusty trophies nobody ever saw.

Shit! He could remember talking about that with PJ, too. PJ and that
roommate of his, Erik. The two of them staring up at him, intent on his
every word.

He looked into Jim's locker. His friend had a quote from the Bible stuck on
one wall. It read, "Love Abideth All Things." Jack stared at it.

There was the sound of a toilet flushing and Jim came back in. "You ready?"
he asked.

"Hey, Jim." Jack pointed at the quote. "What's with this sticker thing
you've got on the inside of your locker?"

Jim walked over to him. "You mean this? He reached in, carefully peeled off
the sticker, and handed it to Jack. "That was something I got from a
counselor. I don't know. After I got back with the wife and kids, I sorta
left it up there to remind me of a few things."

Jack looked at the sticker for a few moments. Then he said thoughtfully,
"You ever think about what you're going to do when you can't play ball
anymore, Jim?"

"Sure," Jim nodded. "All the time."

"So what did you come up with?"

"I'll spend a lot more time with the family. I'm really looking forward to
that. And I guess I'll do some coaching. Maybe do some scouting on the
side."

"Time with the family, huh." Jack had been about to hand the sticker
back. Instead, he examined it again.

"You know kids, Jack. They kind of make anything else we do look pretty
unimportant. . . Oh, fuck! Jim's face turned bright red. "I'm sorry, Jack!
That was an incredibly stupid thing for me to say. I'm really sorry."

"It's OK. I'm all over that."

"No you're not," Jim put a hand on his friend's shoulder. "And you know
it. No man can really ever get over something like that. All he can do is
go on as best he can. And you've done that as bravely as anyone could."

Jack didn't say anything.

"It was that reporter tonight," Jim said, studying him. "He upset you,
didn't he." After a pause, he softly asked, "Jack, whatever happened to
PJ?"

Jack shrugged. "Who knows?"

"It's a funny thing," Jim said. "I could've sworn I saw him tonight. Or at
least a kid that looked just like him."

At those words, Jack lifted his head and looked up sharply at him. "What do
you mean?"

"When I was warming up my right-hander, I heard a kid calling to me. I
looked around and I swear it was PJ on that railing above the bullpen. I
checked again after the next pitch. He was gone, but I could swear it was
him! You think he could've been here tonight?"

There was an awkward silence. Jack stared into space without answering.

"What," Jim asked, "You think he was?"

"That last time I was at bat . . . " Jack murmured the words as if talking
to himself. "For just a second, I thought . . . Abruptly he stood back
up. He shook his head. "Nah. It wasn't. It couldn't be. You know how kids
are. He's probably lost interest in baseball. It's probably something else
now . . .

"Let's get this damn trophy to your car." But as they left, he took one
last look at the quote which Jim had replaced in his locker. The words kept
repeating themselves in his head.

Love Abideth All Things . . .

* * *

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT FORTY-FOUR

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