He’d owe her a ballpark.
The Public Garden was across the street from the Common, and together they formed the northern terminus of the seven-mile chain of parks in the necklace. The area west of Charles Street was once a salt marsh, so the nation’s first botanical garden came with tons of fill and an equal amount of planning. The manicured look didn’t exactly conjure up memories of Texas rodeos and dusty cattle drives on the plains, but it was still one of Ryan’s favorite places. The summer before Chelsea died they had brought Ainsley here, and Ryan would never forget the way their little girl giggled herself silly on the famous swan-boat ride.
It was also convenient to the Ritz-Carlton Residences, where the newest Red Sox star enjoyed the penthouse lifestyle.
“Uncle Ivan!” Ainsley shouted as soon as she spotted him, running over.
Ivan scooped her up and whirled her around. “How you doin’, munchkin?”
“I can’t believe you’re here!” she squealed.
Ryan gave him a quick wink to keep the game going. Ryan had set up the “chance” encounter, but he wanted it to be a surprise for Ainsley.
“What luck,” said Ivan. “How weird is this?”
Ivan’s wife and young son were with him, and Ryan greeted them warmly. Ivan had been a true ladies’ man when he and Ryan had played ball together, but he had settled down with a Boston Brahmin who astounded her blue-blooded family by marrying a first-generation Hispanic American to become Jacqueline Ward Lopez.
Jacqueline said, “I’m going to take the kids to see the swans.”
Before Ryan could say, “I’ll come with you,” Ivan said, “You go ahead.”
Ivan seemed determined to get his best friend alone, so Ryan braced himself for a lecture as the two men continued their walk around the pond.
“I got a call from your housekeeper,” said Ivan. “She tells me she found you passed out drunk in the living room.”
“I wasn’t drunk. I took a sleeping pill at four A.M. ”
“If you’re going to take the meds, take them at bedtime, fool.”
“I know. I tell myself that I can beat this stupid insomnia without drugs, and then before I know it, it’s one o’clock in the morning and too late to take a pill. Then it’s four o’clock, and I can’t stand it anymore, so I take one. Then I’m screwed.”
At the bend in the path, they stopped at the concession cart for frozen lemonade. September weather in Boston could mean cold drinks or hot chocolate. Today was one of those in-between days when you could go either way.
“Here’s something for your radio show,” said Ivan. “My agent brought me another six-figure offer this week.”
“For what?”
“Advertising. On my crotch.”
“Right,” said Ryan, scoffing.
Ivan swallowed a heaping spoonful of the slushy lemonade. “It’s totally legit, dude. You remember George Brett?”
“Only one of the greatest third basemen to play the game.”
“Good-looking guy, too, which is why a market research group decided to show his photo to a group of women. They focused on his face. Then they showed the same picture to a group of men. Guess what they focused on.”
“The group of women?”
“No. The men actually split their time between his face and his crotch.”
“So naturally your agent put your crotch up for sale.”
“Well, we got an offer.”
“But do you really want a bunch of men looking at your crotch?”
“That’s the thing: it’s got nothing to do with me. The same study showed that the male crotch fixation was just as strong with pictures from the American Kennel Club as it was with the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Men just can’t help it.”
A woman jogged past them with her golden retriever on a leash. Ryan averted his eyes, fearful of putting Ivan’s crotch theory to the test.
They crossed Charles Street and entered the historic Common, where everything seemed to be marked by a plaque—trees, benches, flower beds, statues, monuments, walkways.
The Public Garden was across the street from the Common, and together they formed the northern terminus of the seven-mile chain of parks in the necklace. The area west of Charles Street was once a salt marsh, so the nation’s first botanical garden came with tons of fill and an equal amount of planning. The manicured look didn’t exactly conjure up memories of Texas rodeos and dusty cattle drives on the plains, but it was still one of Ryan’s favorite places. The summer before Chelsea died they had brought Ainsley here, and Ryan would never forget the way their little girl giggled herself silly on the famous swan-boat ride.
It was also convenient to the Ritz-Carlton Residences, where the newest Red Sox star enjoyed the penthouse lifestyle.
“Uncle Ivan!” Ainsley shouted as soon as she spotted him, running over.
Ivan scooped her up and whirled her around. “How you doin’, munchkin?”
“I can’t believe you’re here!” she squealed.
Ryan gave him a quick wink to keep the game going. Ryan had set up the “chance” encounter, but he wanted it to be a surprise for Ainsley.
“What luck,” said Ivan. “How weird is this?”
Ivan’s wife and young son were with him, and Ryan greeted them warmly. Ivan had been a true ladies’ man when he and Ryan had played ball together, but he had settled down with a Boston Brahmin who astounded her blue-blooded family by marrying a first-generation Hispanic American to become Jacqueline Ward Lopez.
Jacqueline said, “I’m going to take the kids to see the swans.”
Before Ryan could say, “I’ll come with you,” Ivan said, “You go ahead.”
Ivan seemed determined to get his best friend alone, so Ryan braced himself for a lecture as the two men continued their walk around the pond.
“I got a call from your housekeeper,” said Ivan. “She tells me she found you passed out drunk in the living room.”
“I wasn’t drunk. I took a sleeping pill at four A.M. ”
“If you’re going to take the meds, take them at bedtime, fool.”
“I know. I tell myself that I can beat this stupid insomnia without drugs, and then before I know it, it’s one o’clock in the morning and too late to take a pill. Then it’s four o’clock, and I can’t stand it anymore, so I take one. Then I’m screwed.”
At the bend in the path, they stopped at the concession cart for frozen lemonade. September weather in Boston could mean cold drinks or hot chocolate. Today was one of those in-between days when you could go either way.
“Here’s something for your radio show,” said Ivan. “My agent brought me another six-figure offer this week.”
“For what?”
“Advertising. On my crotch.”
“Right,” said Ryan, scoffing.
Ivan swallowed a heaping spoonful of the slushy lemonade. “It’s totally legit, dude. You remember George Brett?”
“Only one of the greatest third basemen to play the game.”
“Good-looking guy, too, which is why a market research group decided to show his photo to a group of women. They focused on his face. Then they showed the same picture to a group of men. Guess what they focused on.”
“The group of women?”
“No. The men actually split their time between his face and his crotch.”
“So naturally your agent put your crotch up for sale.”
“Well, we got an offer.”
“But do you really want a bunch of men looking at your crotch?”
“That’s the thing: it’s got nothing to do with me. The same study showed that the male crotch fixation was just as strong with pictures from the American Kennel Club as it was with the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue. Men just can’t help it.”
A woman jogged past them with her golden retriever on a leash. Ryan averted his eyes, fearful of putting Ivan’s crotch theory to the test.
They crossed Charles Street and entered the historic Common, where everything seemed to be marked by a plaque—trees, benches, flower beds, statues, monuments, walkways.
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