Peter Abrahams - The Fan

“Then what’s the point?”

“It’s the overture, Bernie.”

“I like that. And the curtain goes up today?”

“The moment the president of the United States throws that first pitch in the dirt.”

“How do you know he’s going to do that?”

“Because that’s the way things are breaking for him. Check out the front section of the paper, Bernie. It’s not just a protective wrapper for the sports.”

Opening Day, and a beauty. Snow gone, temperature in the sixties, sky blue. Gil wore his lightweight tan suit, a blue shirt, the lucky yellow tie. He hit Mr. Fixit Hardware at nine on the dot, writing a two-box reorder on Swiss Army knives and selling a dozen Survivors, almost in passing; commission $59.36. Then he went to Cleats, ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, a draft. He took out his Survivor sample, just to assure himself he had really sold some.

“What’s that?” said Leon.

“The future of American blade making.”

“Cool handle. How much?”

“Retail? Seventy, seventy-five.”

Leon reached into his pocket. “How about sixty, for a friend?”

“It’s my sample.”

“Seventy.”

Gil sold the sample for $70. He felt a sudden lightness, as though something inside him had been cut loose from a heavy weight. Luck was in the air; such a rare sensation that at first Gil misidentified it as an alcohol buzz. He ordered another draft, a small one, and studied the Opening Day sports supplements.

The Globe had color photos of all the starters, complete with bios and lifetime stats. Rayburn lived in San Diego, with his wife, Valerie, a former cheerleader at the University of Texas, and their son, Sean, age five. He liked golf, country music, and, best of all, just hanging out with his family.

“Three hundred and twenty-seven doubles,” said Gil.

“Who?” asked Leon.

“Rayburn. That’s averaging better than thirty a year. Averaging.” Gil tore out the half column devoted to Rayburn and put it in his pocket.

“Where are your seats?” Leon asked.

“Right behind home plate.”

“Wave to the camera,” Leon said.

Gil picked Richie up at eleven-thirty. Ellen was waiting at the door, coat on.

“You’re late.”

“Traffic.”

“How original.”

Richie stepped forward, wearing a Sox cap, carrying his glove. “Hi, Slugger,” Gil said.

“Hi.”

“When will you have him back?”

“Hard to say, exactly.”

“Approximately.”

“Depends on the length of the game, right, Slugger?”

“Yeah, Mom. What if it’s thirty-three innings, like Rochester-Pawtucket, 1981?”

Ellen smiled. “Hum-babe,” she said, ruffling Richie’s hair. The moment she said that, Gil found himself wishing that he could undo some things, too many to count; that he could return to some fork in the road that he hadn’t even seen on the way by. Here were all the necessary parts-Richie, Ellen, himself-together in the front hall of Ellen and Tim’s triplex, no longer shaped to forge a whole.

“Six at the latest,” Gil said.

Ellen gave him a look he hadn’t seen in a long time, not completely hostile. Luck was in the air. “Have fun,” she said and kissed Richie good-bye.

They got in the car. Gil made sure the tickets were in his pocket, then flipped on the JOC. “I’m psyched,” he said “How about you?”

“What’s psyched? ”

“You know. Looking forward to it. Excited. Optimistic. Positive.”

“About the game?”

“Opening Day. The season. Everything.” Gil laughed, just for the hell of it.

“Me too,” said Richie. “Think we’ll snag a foul ball?”

“I don’t know. Feeling lucky?”

Richie didn’t answer immediately. Gil glanced at him. He was chewing his lip. “I hope so,” he said. “Today’s the draft.”

“The draft?”

“Whether I make the majors. Jason Pellegrini said his dad’s going to pick me, if I’m still available.”

“If you’re still available? That sounds good.”

“I thought so too,” Richie said.

“You’re a smart boy,” Gil said. “Take after your mom.”

He felt Richie’s eyes on him. “Aren’t you smart?”

“Naw,” Gil said. He turned up the volume. Jewel Stern was on.

“… players can’t help but feel jittery. I’m feeling a bit jittery myself.”

“An old pro like you?”

“Watch how you say that, Norm.”

“Jewel Stern, down at the ball yard. We’ll be back.”

Gil parked in the closest lot to the ballpark-$15. He handed the attendant an extra five. “Keep it unblocked,” he said. “And up front.”

The attendant frowned.

Gil gave him five more. His calculations depended on a quick getaway.

The attendant nodded and pocketed the money.

They were in their seats an hour before game time. On the field, the Sox were still taking BP. Rayburn was in the cage. He topped two pitches toward short, then lofted a fly to medium right. “Close enough for you?” Gil said. Richie looked around. “But how are we going to catch foul balls?” It was true: they were behind the screen and under the net.

“Maybe you could get some autographs instead,” Gil said.

“How?”

Gil pointed to the kids packed around the Sox dugout on the first-base side.

“I can go down there?”

“Why not?”

Gil bought Richie a program, gave him a pen, watched him make his way to the dugout. The players began coming off the field. The kids surged forward, hanging over the railing, waving programs, baseball cards, scraps of paper, shouting the players’ names. Richie tried to push through, was forced back, sat down hard on the steps.

“Don’t cry,” Gil said, but Richie was crying, Gil could see that even from where he was, two or three sections away. He hurried through the almost-empty rows of seats and down the aisle to Richie.

“Stop crying,” he said, raising Richie to his feet, feeling again how bony the boy was; lifting him was effortless.

Richie wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I don’t want any autographs.”

“Sure you do.” Gil took Richie’s hand, pushed through the shouting kids to the rail, towing Richie behind him.

And there was Rayburn, so close he could have touched him. He was big, but not as big as Gil. His white home uniform shone in the sun. Rayburn was signing autographs; he looked at no one and didn’t say a word, just wrote rapidly, while his body leaned almost imperceptibly toward the dugout, as though drawn by gravity. He had a fresh tan, except for pale semicircles under his eyes; but hadn’t shaved that day, and there was a blackhead on the side of his nose. Gil could smell that coconut shampoo he used in the ads, and a faint odor of sweat, although there wasn’t a bead of it on his face.

Gil squeezed Richie forward, against the rail. Richie stood there, hands at his sides, eyes open wide. “Ask him,” Gil said.

“Autograph,” said Richie, the word barely audible even to Gil.

Rayburn signed someone’s scorecard, took a step or two toward the dugout.

“Not like that,” Gil said. “Louder. ‘Can I have your autograph, please?’ ”

Richie raised his voice. “Can I have your autograph, please?”

“ ‘Mr. Rayburn.’ ”

“Mr. Rayburn?”

Rayburn spoke. “That’s it,” he said, and ignoring the pens, pencils, and programs waving in his face, and the cries of “Please!” began moving away.

Gil leaned over the rail. “Hey, come on, Bobby,” he said, perhaps too loudly. “Sign one for the kid.”

Rayburn paused on the top step. His eyes met Gil’s. “You don’t look like a kid to me, Slugger,” he said, and ducked into the dugout.

Gil felt his face go hot. At first, he was aware of nothing else. Then he heard the stadium buzzing all around him. And finally felt the damp little hand in his. He looked down.