46

Baseball is a game that should be played in the summertime. This seemed especially true on this early April afternoon in Boston when the game-time temperature was in the forties and the wind swirling in from the harbor smelled of salt with a hint of sewage.

We’d caught a late-morning Amtrak train at Providence Station, Rosie in a new, hooded sweatshirt with Ramirez’s name and number stitched across the back, and I in an old Red Sox warm-up jacket that had belonged to my father. We talked baseball, arson, and Veronica all the way up.

“Buy her that present yet?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. It seems like …”

“Like a step.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Baby, you’re way past that point already.”

“I am?”

“Let me ask you a few questions, okay?”

“Sure.”

“Do you think about Veronica a lot when she’s not around?”

“Uh … yeah.”

“When Annie flashed that butterfly the other night, did it take your mind off her?”

“You saw that, huh?”

“Quit stalling and answer the question.”

“No. It didn’t take my mind off her.”

“If her fingers brush your arm, do you tingle?”

“Do I tingle?”

She just looked at me.

“Yeah, I guess I tingle. It’s not always my arm, though.”

“Are you up in the middle of the night, just watching her sleep?”

How in the hell did she know that? “Sometimes.”

She stretched out her hand and pinched my cheek. “Aw. My little Liam is in love.”

My first instinct was to argue with her, but losing would just confuse me.

We took a cab from South Station, arriving at Fenway in time for the hour-long celebration. The Boston Pops played the theme from Jurassic Park as a huge 2007 world-championship banner unfurled to cover the Green Monster. Tedy Bruschi, Bobby Orr, Bill Russell, and a host of other Boston sports heroes were trotted out. David Ortiz helped ancient Johnny Pesky raise the championship pennant on the center-field flagpole. Rosie and I were both hoarse from cheering by the time Bill Buckner stepped to the mound, wiped a tear from his eye, and threw the ceremonial first pitch to Dwight Evans.

Oh, yeah. They also played a baseball game. Matsuzaka toyed with the Tigers’ sluggers, Kevin Youkilis slammed three hits, Ramirez tripled, and the Sox won 5–0.

Afterward I was ready for an ice-cold Killian’s, but Rosie had other ideas.

“Let’s go around to the players’ parking lot and wave to them when they come out.”

Ugh. Bad idea. I loved watching them play, but I wasn’t into hero worship.

“Come on,” she said. “It’ll be fun.”

Not as much fun as that beer. I trudged along behind her.

A manic sea of red and white pressed against the chain-link fence, going absolutely nuts every time a player came out, ignored them completely, and climbed into an obscenely expensive gas-guzzler.

“Marry me, Dustin!”

“Hey, Youk! How ’bout an autograph?”

“Josh! I wanna have your baby!”

Rosie waded into the crowed and shoved her way to the front. A couple of guys started to object, then craned their necks for a look at her and thought better of it. That’s when Manny Ramirez bounded through the door like a schoolboy. He grinned and swung an imaginary bat as digital cameras clicked. Rosie let loose a shriek I’d heard only from smitten teenage girls at rock concerts.

Manny turned toward the sound and, as all men must, he noticed Rosie towering over the throng. Above the dozens of maniacs screeching his name, I clearly heard him say, “Wow.”

As he approached the fence, she stuck her fingers through it. He grinned, grabbed them, and squeezed. Chief Rosella Morelli, the hero of Mount Hope, turned to mush. Then Manny turned and walked to his restored 1966 Lincoln Continental. He looked back, marveled at Rosie again, climbed in behind the wheel, and was gone.

She stared until the taillights disappeared around a corner. Then she turned toward me.

“If you ever …

tell anyone …

about this …”

“About what?”

We followed the crowd to the Cask’n Flagon at the corner of Lansdowne Street and Brookline Avenue for beer and pizza, then wandered down the street to shoot some pool at the Boston Billiard Club. Much later, we had last call at Bill’s Bar around the corner. By then, it was too late to catch the last train to Providence, so the bartender pointed us to an after-hours joint that offered a choice of Budweiser or Miller straight from the can, Jim Beam or Rebel Yell in chipped shot glasses, and a lot of backslapping from blitzed Sox fans. We caught the first morning train, a 6:10 local, and tried to sleep it off on the way home. By the time we were deposited, happy and rumpled, at Providence Station, it was 6:55 A.M. Bedtime.

A Mr. Potato Head statue greeted us in the lobby. On its flank, someone had scrawled “Yankees Suck!” in red spray paint. I thanked Rosie again for the ticket, gave her a hug, begged her to be careful, and staggered out of the station. I walked up Atwells Avenue toward home, poured some Maalox on my screaming ulcer, and collapsed on my mattress.

It was nearly noon by the time I made it in to work. As I stepped into the city room, Lomax grabbed my arm.

“Mulligan! Hear what happened to Gloria Costa?”