Screw you, Allahs, you didn’t bury us.
Except these caravans weren’t confined to the cars on the roads. People waited patiently on long lines at bus stops and train stations. No airports; that was for those who had money to spare. And the siblings trekking across the country had only so much money. For many, only so much savings. For gas and sandwiches and drinks.
And their colors.
There were no first reports because they came at once, like the ground opened. In a way, it had. They met at the rubble of Wrigley Field, Fenway Park, Braves Field, Forbes Stadium, Phillies Field and the Houston Aerodome. And every other stadium razed after 10/12.
No one coordinated this. The news about the night game was announced on Grandma’s Wake Up My Darlings. There were important announcements where Grandma actually spoke and then there were the announcements where you saw Grandma smiling and her words floated out. Except these didn’t even float out of the screen on an HG carpet, they weren’t repeated in crawls on the screen, all you saw was the battered front of Yankee Stadium, Puppy striking out a batter, Mick hobbling around the bases and Dara blasting a song. If you rubbed some dirt out of your eye, you might’ve missed Saturday, August 11 at six-thirty PM. Live on vidsports 2.
Yet somehow everyone in America knew and they all headed toward the Bronx for the first baseball night game in thirty-three years.
Colors everywhere. Factories had started churning out Yankees and Cubs caps and t-shirts with the special FORGIVENESS on the back. But these colors weren’t those colors. Those were approved. These were reds and golds and light blues and deep red and light reds and blacks and grays. Caps and t-shirts and full jerseys and banners and sweatshirts and warm-up jackets. How old were some of them? Thirty, forty, fifty years old, hidden in basements and hidden in closets and hidden in holes in the ground. Hidden in a crazy belief that someday a baseball fan could wear his Red Sox and Phillies and Dodgers and Cardinals and Braves and Tigers colors and any team he loved or his parents loved or his grandparents loved.
It didn’t matter who you rooted for. They were all baseball fans today.
They drove and hitchhiked and used the last of their spare money for a bus or train ticket, devouring the food in their wake, cleaning out grocery stores of all the goods; some owners closed up shop since they had nothing left to sell anyway, and joined them.
From the northern part of California, Nevada, Minnesota, Texas, Florida, New England, if you’d put the country on a scale, she would’ve tipped over from the massive population quietly, almost warily making their way to the Bronx. In their expressions you could read, well, what if it’s a trap? What if they’re really going to finish off all the baseball fans? Not just banning merchandise and memorabilia, not just burning gloves, breaking bats and blowing up stadiums, but gunning everyone down.
But hadn’t Grandma preached FORGIVENESS? Didn’t they see the billboards of Grandma, Puppy and Dara? So they came. Tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands, more than a few million by the time they poured onto the Cross-Bronx Expressway, traffic stalled for hours, miles, until it couldn’t be called traffic anymore.
America had overwhelmed itself in hope on the doorstep of the Bronx.
It’d taken Puppy over an hour through clogged streets and makeshift barbecues to find the cemetery. There was no street movement by wheels anymore. Trying to rush past the shouts of recognition, he’d moved from little bubbles of groups, shaking hands until he realized he’d probably miss the game tomorrow night if he talked to everyone, so he draped his hoodie over his forehead, shrunk his shoulders and hurried, eyes down, hands deep in his pockets, like a fugitive.
He fit in. This part of the borough was more forbidding. He got lost a couple times, backtracking and ducking into alleys as lines of bat-waving fans crept past like a polite, conquering army.
Beth squatted by a small mound. She smiled as he knelt.
“You done praying?” Puppy apologized.
“Some would say you never stop. But aloud, yes. How’s it going out there?”
He couldn’t answer; it was overwhelming. For a quiet moment, they stared in the forbidden churchyard at the faint moon and the hint of stars; maybe it was real. Beth reached up as if to touch the sky.
“It’s like a great cathedral’s overhead. One of those wonderful old churches with wonderful arches, golden lights, stained glass, paintings, statues.”
“Like when I could imagine what Yankee Stadium once was. Or is that offensive to compare baseball to your God?”
“No. Faith is faith.”
They listened to the rumble of the fans walking slowly on the street below.
“You’re sure about tomorrow?” Puppy suddenly asked.
“Did you come to talk me out of it?” she scowled.
“Yes.”
“We already went through that, Puppy.” For three hours last night.
“It’s my fault, my responsibility.”
Beth draped her arm around his shoulder. “It’s your fault you married a crazy person and it’s your fault for getting engaged to Dara to make it easier for that crazy person to find someone?”
“I did it for myself.”
“It’s okay to be a little selfish, Puppy.” Beth gently smacked his forehead.
“Good thing psychiatry’s banned.”
“We don’t need it. People can figure things out for themselves. The trick’s listening.” She smacked him again. “I can handle tomorrow.”
He thought of Beth scampering up and down the brocades and smiled wearily. “But I’m insisting on a driver. I’m sure two person missions were taught in vets summer camp.”
She ignored him with a meaningful smile. “Just keep Ruben out of this.”
Puppy made a tiny space between his forefinger and thumb.
“Because only you know it all.”
He shrugged. “Someone has to be the mastermind.”
This afternoon, the Brown Hats had interrupted infield practice; Ty chased them down the third base line
