group of kids started a chant: “Ivan, Ivan!” The Red Sox ace reared back and threw some serious heat.
The crack of the bat silenced the Ivan fans. Ryan sent the ball on a towering ride to left field. Ivan turned to watch it go—and go, and go.
“Wow!” said Ainsley.
“That one would have cleared the Green Monster,” Ryan heard someone say.
Ivan was no longer smiling. Ryan knew that his friend was too much of a competitor not to be angry. This only spurred Ryan on. Ivan dug another ball out of the bucket, and then another, hurling pitch after pitch at his old teammate. Kids lined up in the outfield to flag fly balls, but Ryan was hitting them well over their heads. One kid was beyond the left field fence, all the way in the Central Burial Ground, the historic old cemetery on the Boylston Street side of the Common. Ivan was working up a sweat, and Ryan continued to knock the cover off the ball. They kept at it until the bucket of balls was empty.
Ivan stood on the mound with his hands on his hips. “That’s it, man.”
For the first time in a long time, Ryan had a baseball bat in his hands and a huge smile on his face.
Kids swarmed onto the field. Ivan took a few minutes to sign hats, T-shirts, arms, legs, and tennis shoes. Ryan gave the bat back to its owner and went over to Ainsley. She leaped into his arms and hugged him around his neck.
“You should play baseball like Uncle Ivan,” she said.
“Nah, that’s not what I do.” Ryan turned to give her a little twirl in the air, but he almost stepped on a little boy who had come up behind him.
The boy looked up and said, “Can I have your autograph?”
Ryan put Ainsley down. “You can,” he told the boy. “But I’m not a baseball player.”
“Yes, you are,” said Ivan, joining them.
Ryan turned to disagree, but Ivan’s dead-serious expression silenced him.
Ivan said, “You need to get back in the game.”
“Yeah, Daddy. You’re good!”
Ryan drew a breath. This whole thing was beginning to feel like an ambush. “We need to go. Your Uncle Ivan has a game tonight.”
“I’m in no hurry. I don’t pitch again till Saturday.”
“Well, we have to go,” said Ryan.
“Why?” said Ainsley.
“Yeah, why?” said Ivan.
“Because we have to,” said Ryan. He picked up Ainsley and started to walk away, but Ivan stepped in his path.
“I want you to think about coming back.”
Ryan suddenly felt the weight of the week’s events—the three-year anniversary, the anonymous tip, the relapse into insomnia. Swinging a bat for the first time in years was tough enough, and watching the deepest home run roll all the way to a cemetery hadn’t helped matters. It was all too claustrophobic.
“You need to get out of my way,” said Ryan.
“Just think about it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t . Now will you get out of the way?” he said, his tone harsh.
Ivan stood there, his expression showing confusion, anger, and disappointment. “Fine. Go.”
With Ainsley in his arms, Ryan made a beeline for the path toward Frog Pond.
“Why do we have to go?” said Ainsley.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
They were almost home free when he heard someone in the crowd ask, “Who is that guy?”
Ivan answered in a voice loud enough for Ryan to hear: “That, ladies and gentlemen, is a major-league Hall of Fame quitter.”
Ryan stopped cold. The inner voice of reason told him to keep going, but he was overpowered by a sudden surge of painful memories and a strange mix of emotions, not the least of which was anger. He put Ainsley down on the jogging path and told her to wait there. Then he walked back to Ivan, invaded his personal space, and looked him squarely in the eye.
“Don’t you ever call me that again. Not in front of my daughter.”
“What’re you gonna do about it?”
The anger swelled, and only the fact that they were surrounded by children prevented Ryan’s fist from flying. He turned and went back to
The crack of the bat silenced the Ivan fans. Ryan sent the ball on a towering ride to left field. Ivan turned to watch it go—and go, and go.
“Wow!” said Ainsley.
“That one would have cleared the Green Monster,” Ryan heard someone say.
Ivan was no longer smiling. Ryan knew that his friend was too much of a competitor not to be angry. This only spurred Ryan on. Ivan dug another ball out of the bucket, and then another, hurling pitch after pitch at his old teammate. Kids lined up in the outfield to flag fly balls, but Ryan was hitting them well over their heads. One kid was beyond the left field fence, all the way in the Central Burial Ground, the historic old cemetery on the Boylston Street side of the Common. Ivan was working up a sweat, and Ryan continued to knock the cover off the ball. They kept at it until the bucket of balls was empty.
Ivan stood on the mound with his hands on his hips. “That’s it, man.”
For the first time in a long time, Ryan had a baseball bat in his hands and a huge smile on his face.
Kids swarmed onto the field. Ivan took a few minutes to sign hats, T-shirts, arms, legs, and tennis shoes. Ryan gave the bat back to its owner and went over to Ainsley. She leaped into his arms and hugged him around his neck.
“You should play baseball like Uncle Ivan,” she said.
“Nah, that’s not what I do.” Ryan turned to give her a little twirl in the air, but he almost stepped on a little boy who had come up behind him.
The boy looked up and said, “Can I have your autograph?”
Ryan put Ainsley down. “You can,” he told the boy. “But I’m not a baseball player.”
“Yes, you are,” said Ivan, joining them.
Ryan turned to disagree, but Ivan’s dead-serious expression silenced him.
Ivan said, “You need to get back in the game.”
“Yeah, Daddy. You’re good!”
Ryan drew a breath. This whole thing was beginning to feel like an ambush. “We need to go. Your Uncle Ivan has a game tonight.”
“I’m in no hurry. I don’t pitch again till Saturday.”
“Well, we have to go,” said Ryan.
“Why?” said Ainsley.
“Yeah, why?” said Ivan.
“Because we have to,” said Ryan. He picked up Ainsley and started to walk away, but Ivan stepped in his path.
“I want you to think about coming back.”
Ryan suddenly felt the weight of the week’s events—the three-year anniversary, the anonymous tip, the relapse into insomnia. Swinging a bat for the first time in years was tough enough, and watching the deepest home run roll all the way to a cemetery hadn’t helped matters. It was all too claustrophobic.
“You need to get out of my way,” said Ryan.
“Just think about it.”
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I can’t . Now will you get out of the way?” he said, his tone harsh.
Ivan stood there, his expression showing confusion, anger, and disappointment. “Fine. Go.”
With Ainsley in his arms, Ryan made a beeline for the path toward Frog Pond.
“Why do we have to go?” said Ainsley.
“We’ll talk about it later.”
They were almost home free when he heard someone in the crowd ask, “Who is that guy?”
Ivan answered in a voice loud enough for Ryan to hear: “That, ladies and gentlemen, is a major-league Hall of Fame quitter.”
Ryan stopped cold. The inner voice of reason told him to keep going, but he was overpowered by a sudden surge of painful memories and a strange mix of emotions, not the least of which was anger. He put Ainsley down on the jogging path and told her to wait there. Then he walked back to Ivan, invaded his personal space, and looked him squarely in the eye.
“Don’t you ever call me that again. Not in front of my daughter.”
“What’re you gonna do about it?”
The anger swelled, and only the fact that they were surrounded by children prevented Ryan’s fist from flying. He turned and went back to
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