time?
True to his word, Pops had both chili dog buns and hotcakes ready for Stats and Mark as they stumbled out of their room the next morning.
“And, hey,” said Pops, once the boys found their way to the table, “there was something I forgot to mention. After you two left to go inside the park last night, a couple of the Boston Red Sox people stopped by. They said they wanted me to record one of those centennial messages for the Fenway Fever celebration.”
“Whoa, Pops!” Mark drummed the table. “That is huge. What are you gonna say?”
“I said I’d think about it and let them know.”
“No, no,” said Mark, “I mean on the JumboTron. You definitely have to tell the Sox you’ll do it. You just have to figure out your message. We can help.”
“Yeah,” said Stats, “it’ll be fun.”
“Well, see, that’s what I want to talk to you boys about.” Pops made his way around the table, a griddle full of Wenham Lake blueberry pancakes in one hand and a spatula in the other.
“Those Fen-Cent messages, I’ve seen a bunch of them. They play ’em on TV during the games, and I’m always thinking, theproblem is, it’s all grown-ups. I keep wishing they’d get some kids up there for some of those announcements instead of all these old people talking about the old days all the time. To you boys, someday these will be the old days, eh?”
He dumped a leaning tower of hotcakes onto Mark’s plate.
“So what I decided was, I’m passing the honor on to you two. What do you say?”
Mark hunched forward, head bent. He held the hot maple syrup tin by its wooden handle, but did not pour. “You sure you wanna do that? I don’t exactly have any stories to tell.” He looked up. “You’re the guy who runs the best hot dog stand in Boston. Zillions of people know you. Come on, Pops. You do it.”
Pops turned to Stats. “What say you, Alfredo?”
Stats cut down into his buttered stack with a fork edge. “I’ll do it.”
“You will?” Mark stared wide-eyed.
Stats shrugged. “I love Fenway, I love the Red Sox, I love baseball. I could come up with something, I guess.”
Pops cast a reading glance. “It’s up to you, Alfredo. No one is saying you have to.”
“I know. But it’ll be sort of like a webcam, right? You just stare at the camera and talk. I’ve done stuff like that before.”
“So should I call Mr. Lucchesi and tell him?”
“Yeah,” said Stats, stabbing his cuttings and raising his fork. “Go ahead, let him know.”
The worst I could do, he figured, is fall flat on my face. But, hey, the way the Sox are playing, who’s gonna notice?
CHAPTER 22
Stats and Pops arrived at Doc Roberts’s office ten minutes late for an appointment neither was in a hurry to attend. Today there would be no tests. Today they would receive no new results. The facts were in. This meeting centered on prognosis—that is, what to do next.
“As I have said before,” Doc began, “vagus nerve disorders can be tricky.”
Strewn across the cluttered desk in front of him, Stats could see medical charts and printed material, as if Doc had done some recent research on the matter.
“In children,” he continued, “we generally let things go forward awhile because in many cases they can improve on their own.”
Strike one, thought Stats. His “defects” were still in their near-original condition, as far as he could tell.
Doc focused on Pops. “In this case, Angelo, we see thatAlfredo’s condition is actually slipping somewhat. That is to say, the episodes of heartbeat irregularity seem to be increasing.”
Strike two, thought Stats.
“So what can we do?” Pops shifted in the small chair and leaned forward, pressing his palms into his knees.
“One fairly common approach is to implant a pacemaker. A simple regulator will catch the arrhythmia right away and signal the heart so it returns to a normal beat rate.”
“A pacemaker?” said Pops. “That’s for old guys, isn’t it? They
True to his word, Pops had both chili dog buns and hotcakes ready for Stats and Mark as they stumbled out of their room the next morning.
“And, hey,” said Pops, once the boys found their way to the table, “there was something I forgot to mention. After you two left to go inside the park last night, a couple of the Boston Red Sox people stopped by. They said they wanted me to record one of those centennial messages for the Fenway Fever celebration.”
“Whoa, Pops!” Mark drummed the table. “That is huge. What are you gonna say?”
“I said I’d think about it and let them know.”
“No, no,” said Mark, “I mean on the JumboTron. You definitely have to tell the Sox you’ll do it. You just have to figure out your message. We can help.”
“Yeah,” said Stats, “it’ll be fun.”
“Well, see, that’s what I want to talk to you boys about.” Pops made his way around the table, a griddle full of Wenham Lake blueberry pancakes in one hand and a spatula in the other.
“Those Fen-Cent messages, I’ve seen a bunch of them. They play ’em on TV during the games, and I’m always thinking, theproblem is, it’s all grown-ups. I keep wishing they’d get some kids up there for some of those announcements instead of all these old people talking about the old days all the time. To you boys, someday these will be the old days, eh?”
He dumped a leaning tower of hotcakes onto Mark’s plate.
“So what I decided was, I’m passing the honor on to you two. What do you say?”
Mark hunched forward, head bent. He held the hot maple syrup tin by its wooden handle, but did not pour. “You sure you wanna do that? I don’t exactly have any stories to tell.” He looked up. “You’re the guy who runs the best hot dog stand in Boston. Zillions of people know you. Come on, Pops. You do it.”
Pops turned to Stats. “What say you, Alfredo?”
Stats cut down into his buttered stack with a fork edge. “I’ll do it.”
“You will?” Mark stared wide-eyed.
Stats shrugged. “I love Fenway, I love the Red Sox, I love baseball. I could come up with something, I guess.”
Pops cast a reading glance. “It’s up to you, Alfredo. No one is saying you have to.”
“I know. But it’ll be sort of like a webcam, right? You just stare at the camera and talk. I’ve done stuff like that before.”
“So should I call Mr. Lucchesi and tell him?”
“Yeah,” said Stats, stabbing his cuttings and raising his fork. “Go ahead, let him know.”
The worst I could do, he figured, is fall flat on my face. But, hey, the way the Sox are playing, who’s gonna notice?
CHAPTER 22
Stats and Pops arrived at Doc Roberts’s office ten minutes late for an appointment neither was in a hurry to attend. Today there would be no tests. Today they would receive no new results. The facts were in. This meeting centered on prognosis—that is, what to do next.
“As I have said before,” Doc began, “vagus nerve disorders can be tricky.”
Strewn across the cluttered desk in front of him, Stats could see medical charts and printed material, as if Doc had done some recent research on the matter.
“In children,” he continued, “we generally let things go forward awhile because in many cases they can improve on their own.”
Strike one, thought Stats. His “defects” were still in their near-original condition, as far as he could tell.
Doc focused on Pops. “In this case, Angelo, we see thatAlfredo’s condition is actually slipping somewhat. That is to say, the episodes of heartbeat irregularity seem to be increasing.”
Strike two, thought Stats.
“So what can we do?” Pops shifted in the small chair and leaned forward, pressing his palms into his knees.
“One fairly common approach is to implant a pacemaker. A simple regulator will catch the arrhythmia right away and signal the heart so it returns to a normal beat rate.”
“A pacemaker?” said Pops. “That’s for old guys, isn’t it? They
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