Gil pointed to the kids packed around the Sox dugout on the first-base side.
“I can go down there?”
“Why not?”
Gil bought Richie a program, gave him a pen, watched him make his way to the dugout. The players began coming off the field. The kids surged forward, hanging over the railing, waving programs, baseball cards, scraps of paper, shouting the players’ names. Richie tried to push through, was forced back, sat down hard on the steps.
“Don’t cry,” Gil said, but Richie was crying, Gil could see that even from where he was, two or three sections away. He hurried through the almost-empty rows of seats and down the aisle to Richie.
“Stop crying,” he said, raising Richie to his feet, feeling again how bony the boy was; lifting him was effortless.
Richie wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t want any autographs.”
“Sure you do.” Gil took Richie’s hand, pushed through the shouting kids to the rail, towing Richie behind him.
And there was Rayburn, so close he could have touched him. He was big, but not as big as Gil. His white home uniform shone in the sun. Rayburn was signing autographs; he looked at no one and didn’t say a word, just wrote rapidly, while his body leaned almost imperceptibly toward the dugout, as though drawn by gravity. He had a fresh tan, except for pale semicircles under his eyes; but hadn’t shaved that day, and there was a blackhead on the side of his nose. Gil could smell that coconut shampoo he used in the ads, and a faint odor of sweat, although there wasn’t a bead of it on his face.
Gil squeezed Richie forward, against the rail. Richie stood there, hands at his sides, eyes open wide. “Ask him,” Gil said.
“Autograph,” said Richie, the word barely audible even to Gil.
Rayburn signed someone’s scorecard, took a step or two toward the dugout.
“Not like that,” Gil said. “Louder. ‘Can I have your autograph, please?’ ”
Richie raised his voice. “Can I have your autograph, please?”
“ ‘Mr. Rayburn.’ ”
“Mr. Rayburn?”
Rayburn spoke. “That’s it,” he said, and ignoring the pens, pencils, and programs waving in his face, and the cries of “Please!” began moving away.
Gil leaned over the rail. “Hey, come on, Bobby,” he said, perhaps too loudly. “Sign one for the kid.”
Rayburn paused on the top step. His eyes met Gil’s. “You don’t look like a kid to me, Slugger,” he said, and ducked into the dugout.
Gil felt his face go hot. At first, he was aware of nothing else. Then he heard the stadium buzzing all around him. And finally felt the damp little hand in his. He looked down.
“Dad?”
“What is it?”
“How come he’s so mean?”
He let go of Richie’s hand. “When are you going to grow up?”
Richie’s eyes filled with tears.
“Don’t cry, for Christ’s sake,” Gil said. “He has to get ready, that’s all.”
“But he’s got all his stuff on.”
“Mentally.”
“Mentally?”
“The game’s ninety percent mental. Don’t you know that yet?”
“Then I’m going to be good,” Richie said. “I’m getting straight A’s.”
They bought food-hot dogs, onion rings, Coke for Richie, beer for Gil-and took their seats. The ballpark, hung with bunting, soon filled to capacity, kept buzzing. The players were introduced one by one. The marine color guard played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Then the president of the United States came out and threw the first ball into the dirt. Odell backhanded it smoothly, ran out to the mound, shook the president’s hand. The president laughed at something Odell said, and walked off the field, waving and smiling, to cheers and boos; and all the time that buzz in the background never went away.
The starters ran onto the field; even Boyle, the pitcher, couldn’t quite slow himself down to a walk. He took his warm-ups. Odell threw the last one down to Primo, covering second. The umpire called, “Play,” in a voice that surprised Gil by how high it was, almost female. The batter stepped in. Socko the mascot danced madly on the home-team dugout. Buzzing turned to roaring.
The first pitch was a ball, low. Gil checked his watch. 1:14. Running late already. He went over the calculations one more time: five minutes to the car, fifteen minutes to Everest and Co., five minutes for parking. It meant leaving at 2:05 at the latest.
Ball two, high and inside.
Then half an hour, tops, with the VP, and twenty-five minutes of driving and parking in order to be back in his seat before 3:30, to catch the last two innings-maybe even more, the way they played these days.
Ball three.
“Did you see that curve?” Richie said.
“Just missed.”
“I could really see it.”
Gil wasn’t sure what Richie meant. Was he referring to his eyesight? He gazed down at the boy.
“These seats are great, Dad.”
“Oh,” said Gil. He tried putting his arm around Richie. A white-haired woman in the next seat smiled at them. She wore pearls and a Harvard baseball cap. Opening Day, a beauty, and the Sox were back.
Strike one.
It was 1:36 when Primo led off the home half of the first. He lined the first pitch over the second baseman’s head; clean single. But Primo took the turn at first and kept going. The crowd rose, Gil and Richie too. The throw from right field was on the money. Primo slid headfirst, reaching for the bag. Cloud of dust. Safe. The crowd roared, Gil and Richie too; Richie even jumped up and down a little. He had mustard on his nose. Gil wiped it off with his hand.
“Don’t,” Richie said.
Lanz flied to left, not advancing the runner. Rayburn came to the plate. The crowd rose in welcome, Gil too, but not Richie.
“Why are you clapping?” Richie said. “He’s mean.”
“I explained all that.” Gil stayed on his feet, but he stopped clapping. Still, he thought: bang one, Bobby, bang one. He could stop clapping, but he couldn’t stop his mind from thinking that. Rayburn took his sweet swing and popped to the catcher in foul territory.
1:47.
At the end of the inning, Richie said, “Where are the souvenirs?”
“Like what?”
“Those little bats.”
“Down below.”
“Can I go? Mom gave me some money.”
“Forget that,” said Gil. “You’re with me.”
He went down the ramp, first to the urinals, then to the souvenir stand for the bat. They sold posters too. Gil put his hand on Odell’s, on Boyle’s, on Zamora’s. Someone in the line behind him grew restless. Gil bought the poster of Bobby Rayburn. Quick stop for beers, and back to his seat. Richie was helping himself to peanuts offered by the woman in the Harvard cap and the Sox were batting again.
“What a nice boy you’ve got,” said the woman.
“What happened?”
“Happened?” said the woman.
Gil gestured toward the field, spilling a little beer.
“Quick inning,” she said. She handed the bag of peanuts to Richie. “You keep these,” she said, and turned to
