On the way back to Vermont, as Sam rode up front next to Richard, and with most of the boys in the rear seats, slumbering, he said, “Dad?”
“Yeah, Sam,” he said, feeling a bit juiced after driving through real city streets for a change. Here was real traffic, intersections, lights, people moving in and out. Where they now lived, in Vermont, there were two traffic lights, and only a few hundred feet of sidewalk in the downtown. He liked driving in the city and rolled down his window as he drove, to hear the noises, smell the scents out there.
But now they were on a featureless stretch of asphalt, making the long drive back to Vermont.
“About the game,” Sam said.
“Go on.”
“When the Red Sox hitter got beaned by the pitcher, I was just surprised at how fast the other players came out of the dugout to go after the pitcher. And then, the other team... well, man, Dad, that fight started quick. Why do they fight like that? Couldn’t it have been just an accident?”
“Maybe,” he said, glancing at both sides of the narrow highway as they headed home, keeping an eye open for deer or moose on the side of the road, ready to trot across and wreck several thousand dollars’ worth of vehicle parts. “But players like that, it’s more than just that. It’s a team thing. You stick up for a member of your team, no matter what. And when one of your team members gets hit, or gets in trouble, you help out. That’s what happens.”
“Oh,” Sam said. “Like a family, right? Like you’ve said before, about me and Olivia helping each other out? Like a family?”
“Sure,” he said. “Like a family.”
He drove on a few more miles, and looked over at the drowsy face of his boy, remembered a time when he was much younger, and when they all lived in a neighborhood not unlike some of the streets they had passed through on the way to the ballpark.
“Sam?”
“Yeah, Dad.”
“Besides the game, how did you like it?”
His son moved in his seat, like he was seeking a comfortable position to fall asleep in. “I dunno, what do you mean, how did I like it...”
“I mean the city. How did you like being in the city? You know, all those buildings, all those people. What did you think?”
Sam yawned. “It was too noisy, too dirty. I like it better back home.”
“Oh.”
He kept on driving, wondering if he should feel angry or glad that his son — his own boy, raised in New York! — should now hate big cities.
A few days later, the next to the last game of the season. Pine Tree Rotary was playing Greg’s Small Engine Repair, and Richard was tired and hot and thirsty. The other team had jumped on the boys right away in the first inning, and the score was now 10 to 0. Even his boy, Sam, as good as he was, grounded out twice and struck out once. About the only bright spot in the lineup was poor little Leo, who was so small that he confused the opposing team’s pitcher and managed to get on base twice through walks. Even though they were walks, Leo acted like Pete “Charlie Hustle” Rose himself — of course, before getting caught up in that gambling fiasco — and raced to first base, just so damn pleased to be there, out on the bases.
Last inning, and here was Leo. Richard checked his watch and was going to call out to the boy when somebody with a louder voice beat him to it.
“Leo!” the man bellowed. “You better get a hit or I’ll be after you! That you can bet on!”
He shaded his eyes from the glare, knew who had shown up, like a shambling bear wandering into someplace he wasn’t welcome. George Winn was at the fence, his fat fingers protruding through the open metal, shouting again. “Leo! You worthless player, you! Get a hit or you’ll get one from me!”
Richard yelled out, “Leo, wait for a good pitch, guy, wait for a good one!”
But Leo, his legs trembling, his face red, swung at the first three pitches that came across the plate, and promptly struck out.
He ignored Olivia. He ignored Sam. He ignored the other coaches and players and strode right out to the parking lot again, where George was hauling his kid to his truck, the clothing of the boy’s shirt clenched up in his fist. Richard called out, “George, you hold on!”
George spun around, moving surprisingly fast for such a large man. He propelled Leo forward with one hand and said, “Wait in the truck! Now!”
Leo ran ahead, and Richard came up to him, saying, “George, you can’t yell at your boy like that. He’s doing the best he can, and yelling like that—”
And George stepped forward and punched him in the chest. Richard staggered back, the force of the blow bringing back hordes of muscle memories from times past, when he had faced down and put down bigger and badder guys than this, and his fists clenched up and he was spotting his move, what he should do to put this bullying jerk down, but thinking, now, he was thinking about Carla and the kids and—
The next punch struck his jaw, and then George grabbed him and he fell to the ground, and the kicks began, one after another, and Richard curled up and protected his kidneys and groin and face as much as possible, until there were other voices, other shouts, and the kicking and punching stopped.
Later that night, in bed, Carla was next to him, gingerly wiping down his face again with a wet cloth. Her face was hard and set, and he couldn’t tell from one moment to the next whom she was most angry with, and he just kept his hands still and let her work and talk.
“You think I like having the children see you, their father, in a brawl right in their own school parking lot?”
It hurt to talk, so he kept his words to a minimum. “Wasn’t a brawl. I didn’t touch the guy.”
“Well, he sure as hell touched you,” she said. “Poor Olivia and Sam were crying so much, I thought they’d never stop.”
“They’re okay.”
“Yeah, but you’re not. And remember what those feds told you, about keeping your nose clean? Is this how you’re doing that?”
“Didn’t file a complaint,” he said. “No cops.”
She wiped him down again, and he winced. Even with the painkillers, it was going to be a long night.
“Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Word gets out. And poor Sam... he thinks the whole team should get together and go on over and burn down George Winn’s house. He thinks they should stick up for you. Is that right?”
“Nope.”
“You’re damn right,” she said, getting up from the bed, walking into the bathroom and back out again with a fresh washcloth. “But our family... that’s something else. I don’t like what happened, not one bit. Are you going to do something about it?”
He thought for a moment. “Yeah.”
She wrung out the cloth over a small metal bowl. “Are you going to tell me?”
“Not yet,” he said. “Not yet.”
“When?” she asked.
“Soon,” he said.
The next day, in his office, playing computer solitaire and wincing in pain as he moved the fingers on his right hand, the phone rang.
“Is this Richard?” came the vaguely familiar voice.
“It is,” he said. “Who’s this?”
There came a slight chuckle. “Let’s just say it’s one of the two gentlemen you spoke with the other night.”
He sat up straighter in his chair. “You shouldn’t be calling. It’s not part of the agreement. It’s not part—”
“Look, pal, here’s the only agreement I care about, and that’s that you testify in August, and that you stay out of trouble. Right now, you’re batting five hundred, and I don’t like it.”