hawks. Fine, thought Stats, but how?
Then an idea hit. As he and Mark rode the Route 8 bus home that night, he announced, “When I see Billee tomorrow, I’m going to suggest that we get boxes of rats and frogs and dump them all around Fenway Park. What do you think?”
“What, you think that’s gonna attract some hawks?” said Mark. “Balance things out?”
Stats shrugged. “I guess. Gotta think of something.”
“If the hawks were so important to the winning energy at Fenway, why haven’t we heard about them before? Wouldn’t you think that they would’ve noticed big imbalances at least a few times in the past? I’ve read all about 1967 and ’78 and ’86—all those heartbreak years—but nobody ever said, ‘Hey,guys, look at all these rats running around. Better get some hawks over here, pronto.’”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s because they used poisons instead, the way they always did. But Red Gruffin did complain about the rats in ’86. It’s just that nobody ever thought of using the natural approach.”
The bus jerked to a stop. Mark rose and grabbed his bag. “You mean, until 2004?”
“Well, even that wasn’t on purpose, but, yeah, that’s what me and Red think. That year, with all the construction, the hawks were left alone to do their job.” Stats pushed himself up. “And in 2007, Ol’ Red actually saw a nest.”
As they headed to the exit, Mark thanked John Dog, the Route 8 driver, as he always did.
“Yeah,” Stats added, “thanks, Mr. Daemon. See ya next time.”
The driver casually tucked a hank of long loose hair behind his ear. “You cowboys take care.”
Stats followed his brother off the bus. They walked quietly for a while, approaching their block.
“Well, in a, you know, ecological kind of way,” said Mark, “it sorta makes sense, what you guys are thinking. But on the other hand, Freddy, remember, Billee is pretty well known for being about six outs shy of a complete game. So, you know …”
“Don’t worry. I know it sounds loopy. But at least it feels like I’m doing something. I mean, what if it turns out we could’ve done something to help the Sox, and we didn’t?”
“I hear you. I’m just saying, don’t go too overboard on all this, okay? They don’t call him Spacebird for nothing.”
Stats let that comment stew as they arrived home. Silently, they climbed the stairs. Creaking open the front door, Stats saw that Pops was still up. He had several manila folders and sheets of paper spread out all over their big mahogany table.
He did not greet them with his usual exuberance.
“How did it go, boys?”
That question alone was surprising. Didn’t he know?
“They lost,” said Stats.
“Ah, geez.” In what appeared to be a bit of guarded stealth, Pops cleared the table with quick hands, not bothering to sort, and slid the papers together, placing them inside a single folder. Then he set all the folders on a shelf in the alcove facedown. Turning back, his mood seemed to have brightened.
“Had a little success with my chili dog buns today. Added some rye flour, and they held together a lot better. Think I’m getting closer.”
Mark joined Pops in his elevated mood. “Hey, that’s good to hear. No more soggy middles.” Playfully, he slapped his father on his rather abundant middle and pulled back, in a boxing pose.
Pops only grinned while tapping his knuckles against his head. “Knock on wood.”
“Let us try it out next,” said Stats.
“You bet,” said Pops. “I’ll have a new batch ready tomorrow. Oh, and Alfredo, don’t forget. We have that doctor’s appointment in the morning.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, although he had, until then, forgotten.
They each exchanged tired good nights and headed to their rooms. On the way, Stats sneaked a glance at the upside-down folders on the shelf, though they remained a mystery. Was Pops working on another plan to raise money? he wondered. What would he think of selling this
Then an idea hit. As he and Mark rode the Route 8 bus home that night, he announced, “When I see Billee tomorrow, I’m going to suggest that we get boxes of rats and frogs and dump them all around Fenway Park. What do you think?”
“What, you think that’s gonna attract some hawks?” said Mark. “Balance things out?”
Stats shrugged. “I guess. Gotta think of something.”
“If the hawks were so important to the winning energy at Fenway, why haven’t we heard about them before? Wouldn’t you think that they would’ve noticed big imbalances at least a few times in the past? I’ve read all about 1967 and ’78 and ’86—all those heartbreak years—but nobody ever said, ‘Hey,guys, look at all these rats running around. Better get some hawks over here, pronto.’”
“Yeah, well, maybe that’s because they used poisons instead, the way they always did. But Red Gruffin did complain about the rats in ’86. It’s just that nobody ever thought of using the natural approach.”
The bus jerked to a stop. Mark rose and grabbed his bag. “You mean, until 2004?”
“Well, even that wasn’t on purpose, but, yeah, that’s what me and Red think. That year, with all the construction, the hawks were left alone to do their job.” Stats pushed himself up. “And in 2007, Ol’ Red actually saw a nest.”
As they headed to the exit, Mark thanked John Dog, the Route 8 driver, as he always did.
“Yeah,” Stats added, “thanks, Mr. Daemon. See ya next time.”
The driver casually tucked a hank of long loose hair behind his ear. “You cowboys take care.”
Stats followed his brother off the bus. They walked quietly for a while, approaching their block.
“Well, in a, you know, ecological kind of way,” said Mark, “it sorta makes sense, what you guys are thinking. But on the other hand, Freddy, remember, Billee is pretty well known for being about six outs shy of a complete game. So, you know …”
“Don’t worry. I know it sounds loopy. But at least it feels like I’m doing something. I mean, what if it turns out we could’ve done something to help the Sox, and we didn’t?”
“I hear you. I’m just saying, don’t go too overboard on all this, okay? They don’t call him Spacebird for nothing.”
Stats let that comment stew as they arrived home. Silently, they climbed the stairs. Creaking open the front door, Stats saw that Pops was still up. He had several manila folders and sheets of paper spread out all over their big mahogany table.
He did not greet them with his usual exuberance.
“How did it go, boys?”
That question alone was surprising. Didn’t he know?
“They lost,” said Stats.
“Ah, geez.” In what appeared to be a bit of guarded stealth, Pops cleared the table with quick hands, not bothering to sort, and slid the papers together, placing them inside a single folder. Then he set all the folders on a shelf in the alcove facedown. Turning back, his mood seemed to have brightened.
“Had a little success with my chili dog buns today. Added some rye flour, and they held together a lot better. Think I’m getting closer.”
Mark joined Pops in his elevated mood. “Hey, that’s good to hear. No more soggy middles.” Playfully, he slapped his father on his rather abundant middle and pulled back, in a boxing pose.
Pops only grinned while tapping his knuckles against his head. “Knock on wood.”
“Let us try it out next,” said Stats.
“You bet,” said Pops. “I’ll have a new batch ready tomorrow. Oh, and Alfredo, don’t forget. We have that doctor’s appointment in the morning.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said, although he had, until then, forgotten.
They each exchanged tired good nights and headed to their rooms. On the way, Stats sneaked a glance at the upside-down folders on the shelf, though they remained a mystery. Was Pops working on another plan to raise money? he wondered. What would he think of selling this
Similar Books
