Bostonians sure loved signs. Ryan’s favorite was just up Beacon Street, right in front of the state legislature: GENERAL HOOKER ENTRANCE . Ryan thought that every state capitol should have one; politicians got into so much trouble whenever they were too specific about that sort of thing.
“Sorry, dude!” shouted a passing skateboarder, who barely missed Ryan.
A line of death-defying teenagers was surfing on wheels down the paved hill at the very southern end of Beacon Hill. Ivan led Ryan out of harm’s way toward the baseball diamonds, and they stopped at the chain-link fence behind home plate. A man was on the field with his teenage daughter, and Ryan suddenly felt an undeniable pang. The man was on the pitcher’s mound wearing a Red Sox jersey with Ivan’s number on the back. A five-gallon bucket of baseballs was right behind him. His daughter stood strong in the batter’s box, smacking everything that came close to the strike zone.
“Pretty good hitter,” said Ivan.
Ryan didn’t answer. He had a bad feeling about the direction of this conversation.
Ivan said, “How about I throw you a few pitches?”
“I don’t think so,” said Ryan.
As if on cue, Ivan’s wife showed up with the kids.
“Are you and Uncle Ivan going to play baseball?” asked Ainsley. She had an ice-cream cone in her hand and chocolate smeared all over her lips.
“Not today,” Ryan told her.
She licked her ice cream. “Why not?”
“Yeah,” said Ivan, “why not?”
Ainsley put her head against Ryan’s hip. “Daddy, I’ve never seen you play baseball.”
That hit Ryan hard. It wasn’t technically true—Ainsley had seen him play. She just didn’t remember the old Ryan James, from before Chelsea died. Thankfully, she also had no memory of the horrible year afterward, which had marked the end of his career.
Ivan’s wife chimed in. “Come on, Ryan. What can it hurt?”
“Please , Daddy?”
He couldn’t say no to Ainsley.
“You’re lucky I don’t kick you in the advertising,” he told Ivan. “Let’s get this over with.”
Ivan smiled and walked out to the mound. The girl’s father immediately recognized the newest Red Sox star, to whom he was more than happy to lend his equipment in exchange for Ivan’s signature on a ball, a bat, a mitt, and a cap.
“Batter up,” said Ivan.
Ryan stepped into the box, tapped the plate with his bat, and assumed his stance. Ivan went into his windup and threw the first pitch at batting-practice speed. Ryan whiffed.
“That was ugly, dude,” said Ivan.
“The bat’s too small.”
The girl’s father had a bigger bat in his equipment bag. It was the one Ivan had signed, but he lent it to Ryan in exchange for a signed jersey to be delivered later.
“No more excuses,” said Ivan.
He hurled another pitch. Ryan connected, and Ivan had to hop over a hot ground ball that sizzled past his ankles.
“Base hit,” said Ryan, and it actually felt good.
“No more Mr. Nice Guy,” said Ivan.
His next pitch was a legitimate major-league fastball. Ryan fouled it off. He readied for the next pitch, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed that a crowd was starting to gather. Obviously word was spreading throughout the park that Ivan Lopez, the Boston Red Sox sensation, was pitching to “some guy” over on the north diamond. Ryan foul-tipped another fastball.
“Come on, Daddy. You can do it!”
Ryan dug in. Up against a major-league pitcher, his daughter cheering him on—he was almost standing too close to an evaporated dream. Ivan went into his windup. Ryan guessed curveball. And he was right.
A screaming line drive went deep into the gap in left center field.
“Double,” said Ryan.
Ivan smiled, then pointed at Ryan as if to warn him. He went back to the fastball, and Ryan creamed it. Dead center field.
“Shit, man,” said someone behind the batting cage. “That one was all the way into the bleachers in Fenway.”
The crowd of onlookers was growing. A
“Sorry, dude!” shouted a passing skateboarder, who barely missed Ryan.
A line of death-defying teenagers was surfing on wheels down the paved hill at the very southern end of Beacon Hill. Ivan led Ryan out of harm’s way toward the baseball diamonds, and they stopped at the chain-link fence behind home plate. A man was on the field with his teenage daughter, and Ryan suddenly felt an undeniable pang. The man was on the pitcher’s mound wearing a Red Sox jersey with Ivan’s number on the back. A five-gallon bucket of baseballs was right behind him. His daughter stood strong in the batter’s box, smacking everything that came close to the strike zone.
“Pretty good hitter,” said Ivan.
Ryan didn’t answer. He had a bad feeling about the direction of this conversation.
Ivan said, “How about I throw you a few pitches?”
“I don’t think so,” said Ryan.
As if on cue, Ivan’s wife showed up with the kids.
“Are you and Uncle Ivan going to play baseball?” asked Ainsley. She had an ice-cream cone in her hand and chocolate smeared all over her lips.
“Not today,” Ryan told her.
She licked her ice cream. “Why not?”
“Yeah,” said Ivan, “why not?”
Ainsley put her head against Ryan’s hip. “Daddy, I’ve never seen you play baseball.”
That hit Ryan hard. It wasn’t technically true—Ainsley had seen him play. She just didn’t remember the old Ryan James, from before Chelsea died. Thankfully, she also had no memory of the horrible year afterward, which had marked the end of his career.
Ivan’s wife chimed in. “Come on, Ryan. What can it hurt?”
“Please , Daddy?”
He couldn’t say no to Ainsley.
“You’re lucky I don’t kick you in the advertising,” he told Ivan. “Let’s get this over with.”
Ivan smiled and walked out to the mound. The girl’s father immediately recognized the newest Red Sox star, to whom he was more than happy to lend his equipment in exchange for Ivan’s signature on a ball, a bat, a mitt, and a cap.
“Batter up,” said Ivan.
Ryan stepped into the box, tapped the plate with his bat, and assumed his stance. Ivan went into his windup and threw the first pitch at batting-practice speed. Ryan whiffed.
“That was ugly, dude,” said Ivan.
“The bat’s too small.”
The girl’s father had a bigger bat in his equipment bag. It was the one Ivan had signed, but he lent it to Ryan in exchange for a signed jersey to be delivered later.
“No more excuses,” said Ivan.
He hurled another pitch. Ryan connected, and Ivan had to hop over a hot ground ball that sizzled past his ankles.
“Base hit,” said Ryan, and it actually felt good.
“No more Mr. Nice Guy,” said Ivan.
His next pitch was a legitimate major-league fastball. Ryan fouled it off. He readied for the next pitch, and out of the corner of his eye he noticed that a crowd was starting to gather. Obviously word was spreading throughout the park that Ivan Lopez, the Boston Red Sox sensation, was pitching to “some guy” over on the north diamond. Ryan foul-tipped another fastball.
“Come on, Daddy. You can do it!”
Ryan dug in. Up against a major-league pitcher, his daughter cheering him on—he was almost standing too close to an evaporated dream. Ivan went into his windup. Ryan guessed curveball. And he was right.
A screaming line drive went deep into the gap in left center field.
“Double,” said Ryan.
Ivan smiled, then pointed at Ryan as if to warn him. He went back to the fastball, and Ryan creamed it. Dead center field.
“Shit, man,” said someone behind the batting cage. “That one was all the way into the bleachers in Fenway.”
The crowd of onlookers was growing. A
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