Island of Divine Music by John Addiego

baby,
twice. He added a Lord’s Prayer. Willie crucified the next pitch, and the Giants coasted to a win.
    Few people left the stadium, however. Paulie and the othersswiveled their upper bodies as if receiving yoga instructions en masse. The scoreboard looming over his left shoulder showed seven zeroes for Saint Louis, six for Los Angeles. In a moment another square zero appeared, and several people clapped.
    Paulie dug out the transistor and stuck its nipple in his ear. Russ Hodges blabbered about the car drawing, and Paulie saw a convertible roll out onto the field, as if part of a beauty pageant. A couple of middle-aged guys with New York accents moved into a gap beside him and asked what was what on the radio. One let his hairy forearm lie against Paulie’s knee the way he might with a buddy in a dugout. Who’s up for St. Louie?
    Paulie explained that Hodges was getting updates from Vince Scully in LA, but it was kind of periodic. Still scoreless in the top of the eighth. Wait. Fly to left field, caught by Davis. One out.
    Jesus, the guy next to him said, does this bring back memories? He started to describe a story Paulie knew well, about the pennant playoff in which Bobby Thompson hit his home run, and though it was a familiar tale of his father’s and uncle’s Paulie hung on every word because this guy had lived in Queens when it happened and could describe the sensation in the streets. His mind felt split in two, with one ear listening to Hodges give the count in LA alongside his patter about Folger’s Coffee while the other ear took in the Polo Grounds and a street in New York in 1951.
    An attractive woman stepped onto the field to claim her car, and the crowd cheered. Although her hair was dark, there was something in her manner of walking which made Paulie think of Mrs. Rinaldi, and he pictured her pursed lips as she leaned over himafter school.
Je n’ai pas ta plume, je suis dans mon lit.
I don’t have your pen, I’m in bed. He wondered if she shared a bed with her wizened little husband and hoped that, like Lucy and Ricky on TV, she had her own.
    Hodges was talking with Bill King about basketball when he fairly yelped, What? He did what? Just a minute, let’s get that for sure . . .
    Something happened, Paulie said. Several people leaned near him now. He leaped to his feet: Gene Oliver hit a homer for the Cards! The guys from New York stood next to him, and the man with the hairy arms squeezed his shoulders as they both hopped up and down, making the plank of the bleachers flex.
    There were pockets of applause, scattered sections of the stadium rumbling like the first waves of an earthquake as it might ripple through the concrete structure. The woman on the field turned to wave, and Paulie thought it might be her narrow shoulders and long neck which made him think of his teacher. Then, as the deep, sonorous voice on the PA spread the news, the entire ballpark shook and roared. Some of the Giants jumped onto the field and danced around, and the woman joined in, spinning with Juan Maricial until her dress opened like a flower.
    A n hour later Paulie was on the rooter bus as it rocked above the downtown on its approach to the Bay Bridge. Windows of the skyscrapers were orange with the approach of evening. Half of the passengers were sauced, and the old lady with the clipboardstaggered up the aisle as she handed around fistfuls of coins to the people on her list. Sirens and horns and fire bells sounded all over the city. People waved from their cars, threw cups and scraps of newspaper out their windows. The old guy beside him opened a bottle of Hamm’s, and some of it misted Paulie’s glasses while more of it lapped onto the man’s trousers. Paulie closed his eyes as the bus entered the understory of the bridge.
    S ince the pennant playoff games were televised in the evenings, he didn’t skip French. Mrs. Rinaldi made him sit in the front, and he could smell her perfume and chalk dust. It made an