Fenway Fever (21 page)

Alfredo Carl “Stats” Pagano had not planned on being famous. If he had, he would have worn better clothes. But that night, before the game was even over, dozens of fans had approached him and asked, rather politely, he noticed, if they might take a picture of him. And then they would ask for one
with
him.

Soon, Mark was directing traffic in and out of their small section of seats. That lasted well after the bottom of the ninth, when Dusty Doretta hit a sharp liner to second for the final out, with the tying run on third.

Before Stats left the ballpark, Bull Brickner approached him with another request.

“Hey, Statsmo. Lookit, some guys in the press box are wantin’ you to come up and take a few questions. Whaddya think?”

He thought it would be scary, but fun. He went.

The first few questions were easy. What school do you go to? What grade? Do you play baseball? How many games do you go to a year? Who’s your favorite player?

“My favorite player is Billee Orbitt, but I like them all. This is my favorite team so far.”

“Even though the Spacebird just got sent down?”

“That doesn’t matter. He’ll be back.”

“What do you like about him?”

Stats decided to give that one a little more thought. He dug for an answer he deemed worthy of the subject involved.

“Billee gives hope to a lot of us who are only just sort of normal and also sort of weird.” When they all laughed, he added, “I mean weird in a good way.”

“For example …”

“Well, for example, he doesn’t watch TV, and neither do I, except for Sox games. He plays baseball, which I don’t, but we are both huge baseball fans. He likes the history, and I like the numbers.” Stats searched around the top of his head for better examples. “Oh, and we both wish we could ride in a spaceship.”

When that brought head nods, he added, “Also, we both believe in the power of harmony. I like to see it between people, and he likes to see it between everything on the earth. He calls it balance. I call it setting things right so everyone gets treated equal. But it seems like those ideas make us different from most people.”

“How so? How do you think most people see it?”

That was a good question. It made him pretend to be a normal kid for once and try to see things from that point of view.

“I don’t think they mean to hurt anybody, exactly, but most people see being out of balance in the equality department as okay. Especially if things are going their way. And if they get the
chance, they would rather tilt things their own way than to give everyone else the same chance.”

The reporter chuckled a bit, looking around at his colleagues. “You don’t see that as being a natural survival instinct?”

“I don’t see that as being fair.”

From the other side of the room a woman asked, “You mentioned your family has had some difficulties. Medical and financial. How extensive, or how deep, is your family debt? Do you know?”

Stats did not feel that question was appropriate. Their family’s business was private. He certainly was not going to mention that Papa Pagano’s was up for sale. But he hated to disappoint, especially when it came to numbers. He remembered when Billee was asked the same kind of question, regarding his rookie-year salary, and Stats used that exact answer as his own.

“Let’s just say it’s somewhere in the low six figures. Next, please.”

“Okay, folks,” Mr. Lucchesi interjected, looking a bit uneasy. “Last question.” He pointed to a woman who raised her notebook. “Heidi.”

“Alfredo, what advice would you give the Red Sox right now based on your own personal experience?”

It was only then that he happened to catch a quick glimpse of his brother, Mark, standing in the very back of the room. Grinning.

“Well, first I’d say nobody’s perfect.” After that brought a laugh, he added, “Then I’d say if you want to climb as high as you can, don’t look down. You’ve already been there. Look up.”

The
Boston Globe
is the most widely read newspaper in New England. The Sunday sports pages, online and in print, are read by hundreds of thousands of people all over the world. On that Sunday morning, Stats Pagano’s picture was on the front page of the sports section, next to an article all about him and his message from the night before. In a rectangular box under the article was his little speech, word for word.

Upon reading the first paragraph or two, he thought he sounded so dumb, he could not even finish it. His thoughts seemed so random and disconnected. Pops told him his talk was brilliant, but that was Pops, who promptly went out and bought twenty copies, wiping out the supplies at the corner Dunkin’ Donuts and the sidewalk machine in front of the Sam Alone’s Bar down the block.

That morning, Pops posted the
Globe
’s picture of Stats on a small makeshift easel at the hot dog stand. It seemed to make a difference in the pregame moods of the patrons who shuffled
up and ordered what Stats figured could be a record number of hot dogs for one day. And though his heart panged for a visit from Billee, for just a small reminder of the good ol’ days, he couldn’t wait to total the numbers for Pops.

The night before, the Sox had lost a close one. Sure, they showed a lot of spark, but to hear the customers stepping up to the counter, you might think the Sox had just made the play-offs.

“Hitting’s coming around. That’s one good thing.”

“Pitching will, too, once they realize they don’t have to throw a shutout to win.”

They were intelligent comments by genuine fans. They could just as easily have made snide remarks, pooh-poohing the team, but for some reason they had chosen not to.

“I was there last night,” a number of people told Stats. They all congratulated him on a fine job. He could hardly look up with all the attention beaming down on him.

Some customers showed off the signs they’d brought that day.

Stats thanked them all, but he was so nervous about being in the spotlight all morning, he mislabeled several orders, using the wrong wrappers, and filled other orders twice. No one seemed to mind.

The real test of this change in attitude would come, he knew, during the game. This was, after all, the Yankees series. Four games. And the Sox had just lost the first two and were riding a
six-game
losing streak. They were bound to win some soon, sure. The percentages alone told him that. But these next two seemed urgent.

Just before game time, as Mark rushed around to help clean up, Stats walked out into the street. He looked up. Please, he prayed, just one hawk. Just one wing flap. Just a little “chee.”

Sadly, there was nothing.

Coming back around the front of the stand, he did notice one interesting development. The tip jar was stuffed.

Now, that happened every once in a while. If the Sox won a big game and shot into first place late in the season, the next day the overall good mood was often reflected in bigger tips. But the Sox were eleven games out of first place at the moment.

“How do you figure that?” Mark asked, eyeing the take.

“I don’t. You know me. I only deal with things that make sense.”

“I’ll tell you why,” said Pops. “Mark, you’re using better manners up front. You both hustle. You’re on top of things. People appreciate that. Like they say, you’re gonna catch more flies with honey than vinegar, eh?”

“Yeah, I guess,” said Mark. “But I catch more flies with my glove.”

He deserved the whack on the hat that Pops gave him for that one. But Pops had also given Stats an idea.

Before he left the stand, Stats shook open two plastic zip bags. He then placed two Chili Billees into each bag.

“Pops, I’m starving!”

He resealed the bags and put one in each of the front pockets of his hoodie.

The seesaw game that followed caused Stats more worry than a blowout would have. Each team had held the lead twice, but the Sox went into the ninth trailing the Yanks by one, 8–7.

The fans never gave up. As the Sox came in to hit, the rally caps came out. Everyone turned their hats inside out, and those without hats put food boxes on their heads. Some did both. They clapped and stomped for each pitch.

With two outs in the bottom of the ninth and runners on first and second, the Breeze walked up with a perfect chance to redeem himself after last night’s pop-up. And as if the crowd had willed it, he belted a shot into the right-field gap. It immediately reminded Stats of a classic David Ortiz walk-off bomb he’d seen on so many highlight DVDs.

When the Yankees’ center fielder jumped high above the fence top to pull it back in, however, the cheering roar turned into the loudest groan Stats could ever recall.

The perfect Hollywood storybook ending had eluded the Fenway fans, and for a moment they all stood in shock. The Breeze reeled around second, then slowed up after seeing the umpire’s fist.

It seemed every eye in the park was on Rico Ruíz.

And the crowd roared again.

The ovation lasted over a minute. These were the fans Stats knew so well. No, their team had not won, and, yes, they had dropped a heartbreaker to the dreaded Pinstripes, but these baseball lovers had witnessed a game. They had seen a go-for-broke never-give-up spirit in the hometown nine and they liked it.

When Stats turned around and looked at the full-house crowd, not yet heading for the gates, one small red and blue sign caught his eye.

Before leaving the park late that afternoon, Stats took a detour to the outside stairway leading to the upper deck. Yes, he thought, that’s exactly what I’m going to do. On the street-side landing, about ten feet below the roof, he stopped and faced away from the park.

He was not looking for anything. He was getting into position. He felt the wind on his back.

“Mama, they’re going to operate. I guess you know that.” He let his eyes roam the sky. “Okay, just this. Am I going to die?”

He waited. He imagined what it would be like to be shed of this awkward, poorly functioning shell he lived within. He imagined what it would be like to walk around with a battery-operated heart.

Neither option scared him.

Staying just as he was seemed worst of all.

“Mama? Will you be there?” He felt a warmth rise inside of him.

“Okay, good. Now, Mama, tell me when and where.”

He heard no voices. That’s not the way she did it. Instead an impulse came to him, clear as the Boston sky.

“Straight up, straight back,” he felt. “Two on the east side of the press box roof, two on the west.”

“I hope this works.” He removed a plastic bag from his left pocket. Looking up, he flipped two Chili Billees onto the east-side roof.

He stepped to the west side and did the same. Afterward, a puff of wind cooled his face, lifting the brim of his cap. And that was all.

At 11:30 that Sunday night, Mark’s phone rang. Of all the times to forget to shut it down. Who was calling so late?

Mark squinted at the display. “Who’s Dewey Larson?”

Stats sat up. “Oh, that’s for me. Sorry.”

Mark tossed him the phone. Stats opened it. “Hey.”

“Hey, your phone goes straight to voice mail.”

“Yeah, I know. What’s up?”

“Where you been?”

“Asleep. It’s the middle of the night. Why?”

“No, I mean—never mind. West Coast just reported in—twenty-four hours late. I think they held off until they could double-check their numbers for the whole season.”

“So? That doesn’t change anything. Everyone knows who the leader is.”

“Oh, and so, you what—just unweb yourself from your cyberspiders? Nice guy.”

“Look, I’m hanging up now. I don’t want to talk about this.”

“Fine, but one question. Did you even see the L.A. results?”

“L.A.? That didn’t even matter. That guy was way behind. Welzer won.”

“Says you. Welzer was three-for-four. L.A. went five-for-five. He passed up Welzer.”