Date: Sun, 10 May 2015 15:53:19 -0400 From: Paul Knoke Subject: INSTALLMENT TWENTY-THREE of "THE FATHER CONTRACT" INSTALLMENT TWENTY-THREE from THE FATHER CONTRACT by Arthur J. Arrington Edited Paul K. Scott Please consider making a donation to Nifty to keep our PJ's hopes alive and well! Remember, he needs all the help he can get to make his wish for a father come true! Chapter Forty-Three: One Gift, Sincerely On the hour or so ride to Wilkes-Barre, PJ was in a distinctly better mood. With Carl's permission, he'd amused himself by listening to one of Carl's Beatles' CD's, happily drumming his fingers on the dash to the rhythm of songs like "Here Comes the Sun" and "Get Back" and wishing he'd learned to play guitar instead of the violin. They arrived about 7 P.M. Saturday evening--but Carl had to drop him off at the train station rather than the bus depot, which turned out to be at the opposite end of town. After giving his "chauffeur" five dollars for gas, PJ managed to hitch another short ride, glad that the driver didn't seem to expect any reimbursement for his trouble, and then, clutching his paper bag with the surprise he was bringing for Jack, he walked a final few blocks to get to his destination. He didn't mind any of that. But these were only minor obstacles compared to what he still faced. Once he reached the bus depot and asked at the window for a ticket, the attendant coolly replied, "There's no service to Philadelphia from here on weekends, boy." PJ's stomach clenched. No service? "But . . . I gotta be there tomorrow! What should I do?" "Got me," the man told him indifferently. "You can go to New York. Maybe you can get from there to Philly." "How much to New York?" "Twelve-fifty, weekend rate." So PJ purchased a ticket to New York and considered himself lucky to have caught a bus that was leaving almost right away. The ride on that Greyhound bus seemed endless even though it was direct, with only a couple of stops. PJ's stomach got queasy the way it always did on long bus trips, but he kept his mind off it by counting the headlights of cars passing on the highway while he tried to guess where they were, estimating how much further there was to go. He dozed without knowing it, the car lights, rumble of tires, the engine roar blending into a confused jumble where his consciousness drifted half-awake, half-asleep, until up ahead the lighted towers of New York City glittered out of the darkness. As his bus spiraled down a helix to the Lincoln Tunnel, PJ pressed his face to the window, staring in awe across the Hudson River at the great spectacle of a Manhattan lit up at night. Then they were plunging under that River, speeding through the Tunnel, emerging in the crowded heart of the huge metropolis, turning onto another spiraling ramp, this time heading upward toward the disembarkation gates at the West Side Terminal. Idling bus engines, theirs and a dozen others, spewed exhaust fumes into the air as PJ, bag in hand, followed his fellow passengers off onto a platform. The acrid smell of diesel had him wrinkling his nose in distaste until an escalator took him down to the brilliantly-lit floor below where clocks built into advertising signs informed him that it was nearly midnight. PJ continued to tag along behind the adults in front of him, making his way to another, much larger bank of escalators that rode him down to the vast space of the main concourse. PJ was amazed at how many people were crowded into the huge terminal despite the lateness of the hour. Everyone seemed to be traveling. There were long lines at all the dozens of ticket windows. Since PJ had no idea what bus company went to Philadelphia, he asked directions of a transit policeman, who directed him to a big information counter near the 8th-Avenue entrance. There, a middle-aged black woman regarded PJ impersonally. "Philly," she said, consulting her computer terminal. "Nothing 'til later this morning. Gets you there a little before noon." "I need to be there sooner than that, Ma'am," PJ told her, putting on his polite "little-boy" act. "Don't you have something?" "It's Sunday, honey," the black woman said more sympathetically. "They don't run much on weekends." "Oh. . ." A lump of fear grew in PJ's chest. What if I can't make it to the game? Or worse, get stuck somewhere! "Why don't you try the train?" the woman suggested. "Amtrak might have something you can use." PJ grasped at the straw. "Where do I go for that, Ma'am?" "Penn Station." The woman pointed to a broad set of steps that led down below street level. "You take the subway. It's one stop downtown on the 8th Avenue express." "Thank you very much," PJ replied. The lump of fear was bigger. He had heard all sorts of scary stories about the New York subways, but still, he had to take a chance! He walked in the direction the woman had indicated, and went down the stairs. He found himself in a vast underground labyrinth. After getting directions from another uniformed transit policeman, he discovered how to buy a one-dollar token, passed through the turnstile, and followed signs that led him down even deeper beneath the streets onto the 8th-Ave- line downtown platform, a long ill-lit cavern raised six feet above tracks that bordered it on either side, tracks that came from darkness and disappeared into blackness beyond. Other than a far-off rumbling from one of the tunnels, the area was deathly quiet. Scattered along the platform, a few other people were waiting as well, all of them slovenly-dressed men. None of them appeared to take notice of him, but he still had the eerie feeling that he was being watched. Nervously, he waited for a train to come, standing with as brave a pose as he could muster, gripping his little bag tightly, fearful that someone might try to snatch it. It wasn't long before he heard that same rumbling noise getting louder and louder in the tunnel to his right. Then with a roar, a train pulled in, stopping amid the hissing of pneumatic pressure and a shrieking of brakes. When the doors opened, people stepped out, others got on-- yet PJ hesitated in nervous indecision. Was he supposed to get on too? Was it the right train? Then he saw that each car of the train had a sign that said "Local" on it. He remembered that he was supposed to take an express and stopped cold in his tracks. The train closed its doors, started up with another rumble, and left. Suddenly it was quiet again. Heart pounding, PJ glanced around, wondering if he'd done everything wrong. Maybe he should've gotten on that train! Maybe he'd heard the woman wrong! What if that'd been the only train and there wouldn't be another one! Further down the platform, there was a man who kept looking at him. PJ tried to avoid his eyes. What if the man started walking toward him! In the tunnel, a far-off rumble got louder and louder. With another roar, a second train pulled in on the other side of the platform, and this one, PJ saw, had "Express" in its lighted windows. When its doors opened, he hustled on with his bag, taking a seat in a car where there were only three other people. After what seemed like a long wait, while he watched the entrances ready to move if the man on the platform followed him, the doors slid closed and the train pulled out of the station. It was noisy, but PJ found the speed and the loudness rather exciting. After flying along through the dark subway tunnel for awhile, the train slowed to a stop at another lighted platform that looked similar to the one he'd just left. He noticed signs on the square columns along the platform. Each one said "Penn Sta." This had to be his stop. He hurried onto the platform as soon as the doors opened. Following others who had gotten off the train, he climbed a flight of stairs up into a long wide corridor. This took him to a big, low-ceilinged concourse with lighted advertising signs and lots of ticket windows, nearly all closed--except for one booth marked "Amtrak Information." PJ headed straight for it to ask for further directions. "Philadelphia?" answered a sloppy-looking young man with a ponytail who stood behind the counter. "Sure, you can get there. You want the Metro liner?" "How much is it?" PJ inquired. When the man told him "thirty bucks," PJ asked if there was anything cheaper. "We got a Local, dude. Gets you there about the same time. Just makes more stops. It leaves about three A.M." He sent PJ to one of the few windows that were open where PJ bought a ticket on the Local for twenty-five dollars. He looked at the clock. He still had to wait a few hours, so he walked to an all-night newsstand, bought a two-dollar-and-fifty-cent video game magazine, and sat down to read it on one of the old wooden seats in the waiting area, his bag, his little sack with its precious contents, tucked under an elbow at his side. He was deep in the magazine when a gruff voice demanded, "Let's see your ticket, kid!" Startled, PJ looked up. A New York City policeman was standing over him. On one side of the blue uniform was a huge service revolver; on the other, a holstered nightstick. The man wore a silver badge with a number on it that looked as big as a dinner plate, gleaming in the station light. PJ hastily produced his ticket and the policeman grabbed it. Only after a long, close examination did he reluctantly hand it back. "Traveling by yourself?" the cop asked with a cold, hard stare. PJ said that he was. "I better not see you try to tag anyone in here," the cop told him in a nasty way. "And when that train leaves, I better see you on it. I'd like nothing better than to run your little fag butt into detention." The policeman strolled off, but PJ noticed that he stayed in the area. Time passed slowly, but PJ was too scared to sleep. At last, when the clock showed quarter to three, there was activity at the gate where the Local was leaving, so he got up and walked over. He had to pass the cop on the way. "Sorry to spoil your evening, Sweetie," the policeman said with a leer. PJ was careful not to look or say anything in response, but he was thinking, you asshole! He passed through the gate, showing his ticket to the guard, and went downstairs onto a platform much longer than the subway one. The Local was there, waiting on one of the two tracks. He boarded what looked like a very old passenger coach that smelled strongly of dust and stale cigarette smoke. There were only a handful of other people. Taking a seat by a window, he read his magazine until with a sudden jerk, the train began to move. They left the station through a long, long tunnel, and when they finally came out into the night, PJ saw that they were in New Jersey. The tunnel had gone all the way under the Hudson River. He was fascinated by that, but it had also been scary! Still, PJ felt a little safer on the train than he had in the station, and he was able to doze. Yet he was afraid to go to sleep because he thought he might miss his stop. There certainly seemed to be plenty of those! In fact, the train didn't appear to miss a single one, but as PJ looked out at every little place they halted, he saw no one getting on or off. Finally, curiosity overcoming shyness, he asked a man sitting across the aisle from him why they were stopping so often if there were hardly any passengers to pick up. "It's what they call a 'milk train,' Sonny," the man explained. "That's so the farmers can drop off their morning milk for all the folks in the area." How neat, PJ thought. After that, he alternately read and dozed some more while gradually the sky got lighter as the sun came up. When the landscape outside became more urban, PJ thought they might be getting into Philadelphia, but this city turned out to be Trenton, still in New Jersey. They made a long stop there before continuing on. Afterwards, the landscape they passed seemed littered with junkyards, old warehouses, ancient factories, and big truck parks. On and on, the trip seemed endless, longer than the bus trip had been, but at last they began to snake into what PJ realized was a really big city. Block after block of buildings stretched as far as his eye could see. They went over a river on a high trestle and plunged on the other side into a chasm between giant warehouse buildings that dwarfed the train. At last they came into a huge station. The conductor came through the car yelling, "Philadelphia, 30th Street Station, Philadelphia!" PJ quickly rolled up his magazine to take with him, picked up his little bag, and got off, following others into a big, high-ceilinged, dusty waiting room that looked like a picture in an old book. A huge clock on the wall read 6:32 A.M. On the opposite side, beyond a vast marble floor, glass doors opened onto a street. PJ walked straight to them, emerged onto the sidewalk, and started looking for a taxi, spotting one almost immediately parked by the nearby curb. "Can you take me to where the Phillies are playing today?" he asked the driver. The man put away a paper he was reading to push down the flag on his meter. "Hop in," he told PJ. He closed his door and the cab started moving as soon as PJ sat down. "How much do you think it will be?" PJ asked nervously. He was getting worried about his dwindling supply of money. But the man didn't answer. PJ looked at the meter and was shocked to see that it already read two dollars. He kept his eye on it apprehensively as they drove. It read ten-fifty by the time they turned down a street that led to a big open space. PJ saw a large stadium surrounded by parking lots. "Veterans Stadium," the man said over his shoulder. "Where you want I should drop you off?" "Right here is fine," PJ hastily told him, not wanting to the meter to go any further. "This is where the game is today, right?" "Yeah, this is it. I'd say you're a little early, though. If you're thinking of scalping tickets, kid, watch out. There's cops all over this place." "Thanks." Grabbing his bag with one hand, PJ handed over a ten and a five with the other, and got out. The man waved in disinterest, intoned "Okay, kid," and drove off without offering any change, leaving PJ standing there watching in dismay as more of his money disappeared. He looked around. The parking lots were deserted, the only living thing in sight a stray dog that ran off when he walked toward it. Going to the wire mesh fence that surrounded the stadium, PJ followed it all the way to the far side of the huge place where he found a row of wooden ticket kiosks. Crawling into the space between one of them and the fence, he stretched out, using his magazine for a pillow, the bag with Jack's present safely snuggled against his side. All of a sudden he was feeling very tired. He intended to just rest his eyes for a moment--but before he knew it, he was fast asleep. * * * The sounds of people talking and moving woke PJ. Cautiously, he crawled out from behind the kiosk and stood up. There were a few cars in the parking lot. None of the ticket windows were open yet, but people were already lining up to them. After retrieving his paper sack, though not the magazine, he ran over and joined the line nearest to him, behind a little boy, much younger than Billy, with a man PJ assumed was his father. When PJ asked him, "Sir, could you please tell me what time it is?" the man answered, "Almost 9:30, Son." PJ was in the act of thanking him when two other boys older than PJ got into line. "Scalpin'?" one of the older boys asked. PJ nodded without saying anything. "Should be good today," the boy said. "This game gonna sell out for sure." "Gonna' be a lotta cops, though," the other one grumbled, glancing around suspiciously. There was a very long wait until the ticket windows opened, first one hour and then another creeping by as the lines got longer and longer. A man offered PJ and the other boys ten dollars each for their places, but they refused. "We make way more than that scalpin' the tickets," the first boy contemptuously muttered once the man had gone. While the two boys behind him passed the time with a hand-held video game they didn't invite him to share, PJ listened to the same little boy talk to his father. "Where will we be sitting, Daddy?" the kid kept asking. "I don't know," his father said. "I just hope we can get tickets. I think this game's almost sold out. Probably we'll be in the bleachers." "Where's that?" "By the outfield." The boy pulled anxiously on his father's sleeve. "We'll still see batting practice, won't we?" "We'll see it," his father promised, ruffling his son's hair. "And Jack will be there, right?" the little boy persisted. "He'll be there," his father promised again. PJ leaned toward them and asked the kid, "Are you a Jack Canon fan?" The boy just stared at him shyly. PJ saw that he was carrying a beat-up old baseball glove. "He thinks Jack Canon's the greatest baseball player that ever lived," his father said, answering for his son. "Don't you, Petey." The little boy nodded. PJ stared seriously at the man and asserted, "He is the greatest player." Then he looked down at the boy. "Petey, Jack plays right field. So have your dad get bleacher seats on that side and you'll be able to see Jack up close, okay?" Petey nodded. "I have Jack's picture in my room." "So do I," PJ told him. "He's the greatest. You know what he always says?" Petey nodded. "Anything's possible!" He showed PJ his glove. "I brought my glove so I can catch the ball if he hits a home run. And I'm gonna get his autograph. I brought my baseball card for him to sign." The father stroked his son's head. "I don't know about that, Petey. Don't get your hopes up. There'll be a lot people trying to get his autograph." "He's pretty nice about stuff like that," PJ said. "You might be surprised." The ticket window in front of them opened at last, and their line pushed forward. Slowly but surely, they got closer to the window. "Bleacher seats only," PJ heard the ticket man tell Petey's father. "I got nothin' in the grandstand." Petey's father bought two tickets. But PJ was dismayed to see how much money they cost. He pushed up to the window, looked in, and asked, "How much for the cheapest ticket?" "All I have are bleacher seats," the man told him. "They're twenty bucks." PJ's heart fluttered in panic. Twenty dollars! If he paid that he would only have about five left. Not near enough for a bus ticket home! And he couldn't borrow money from Coach Drew, Jack, or Travis without telling them that he was traveling on his own. Now what? Face set in determination, PJ made his decision. "I'll take one," he told the ticket seller, handing over the twenty dollars. I've come this far he told himself. Ticket in one hand, the bag with Jack's surprise in the other, he stepped away from the window. He was committed. He would think about how to solve the transportation problem later. The gates to the stadium were still closed, so after finding Petey and his dad, PJ went over to stand near them in the line waiting to get in. He felt more comfortable being next to someone he knew, even if it was only a little bit. Another hour went by. PJ passed the time watching people, listening to snatches of conversations. A lot of the fans waiting for the gates to open were kids like Petey, going to the game with their dads for Father's Day. PJ looked at them feeling both envious and a little superior. After all, his dad, or at least his almost-dad, was actually playing in the game! Finally, the gates opened. But as the line began to move and they neared the turnstyle, PJ spotted yet another problem: a big sign posted by the guard taking the tickets read, "No One Under Age 16 Admitted Without An Adult." PJ tugged on the arm of Petey's father. "Mister Petey's Dad, can I go through the gate with you?" He motioned toward the sign. "I don't know . . ." the father looked uncertain. "Please, Sir," PJ begged. "Listen, I can fix it so your son can get Jack Canon's autograph. Just take me in. I'll fix it for you. I promise." The man stared at PJ. Finally he said, "Well, I don't see what harm it can do. Come on, kid." PJ gave the father his ticket and they went through the gate with PJ holding onto his arm and Petey holding PJ's hand. "They're with me," the man told the guard, who nodded, ripped the tickets in half, and handed back the stubs. Once they were all inside, the man gave PJ his stub. "Were you serious about helping Petey get an autograph?" "Come with me," PJ told him. PJ had no idea of the stadium layout. He blundered about until at last he found the ramp leading into the seating around home plate. "Oh! Daddy, look!" Petey exclaimed as they came out of the ramp into the big ballpark. The boy stared in wonder at the tens of thousands of seats and the sparkling green infield. To PJ, who had seen Yankee Stadium and Fenway Park, the Phillies Stadium looked sort of shabby, but clearly the small boy was entranced. He gazed around, wide-eyed. "It's his first time," his father explained. PJ nodded. "I know what it's like. It's beautiful, isn't it, Petey?" The boy nodded. "Come on," PJ said, taking his hand. "We need to get down by the dugout." There was already a crowd of fans and young kids jamming the aisles around the dugout on the first-base side. Carefully protecting his paper bag while they edged past people, PJ looked around for Coach Drew and Travis. "I'm meeting two friends here," he explained. "They have season passes and can get us down on the field. I don't see them yet, but they'll be here." While they waited, PJ explained to Petey what was happening in front of them. "Some of the ballplayers come very early to loosen up," he told the boy. "They take batting practice and might do special drills with a coach, or work with a trainer on an injury. Look down there! The Phillies are already in the batting cage!" Suddenly, he heard someone calling "PJ, PJ!" Turning, he saw Travis pushing through the crowd. "Hey, Travis!" PJ yelled, waving back. "Excuse me a minute," he told Petey and his father. He ran up the aisle to his friend, and when Travis gave him a bear hug, they patted each other on the back. "I told you we'd meet one more time before school ended," PJ said. Then he shook hands with Coach Drew, who greeted him with a "Hi, PJ. You look great!" But the young man was studying the boy carefully, apparently noticing that he seemed pale and tired. "Come meet some friends of mine," PJ said. He led them over and introduced Petey and his dad. "We met in the line coming in," he explained. "Can you use your passes to get us on the field? Petey wants to get Jack's autograph." "We can sure try," said Coach Drew. They pushed their way through the press of fans to a gate near the dugout guarded by two burly stadium ushers. Coach Drew showed their passes and explained what they wanted. The bigger of the two guards shook his head. "Sorry folks. Two of you can go on the field but not all of you. Two passes, two people. That's the way it is." Travis turned to PJ. "Don't worry. I'll fix this. I'll go find Jack and get him to come see you. "Don't tell him I'm here!" implored PJ. "I wanna surprise him." "Got it!" Travis went down onto the field and stepped around into the dugout. "Petey? You did say you wanted to meet Jack Canon, right?" PJ took the boy and boosted him up onto the railing in front of him. "Well, you better get ready." Travis climbed back up out of the dugout smiling broadly. Right behind him, wearing his Red Sox uniform, came Jack. The fans around the dugout began to scream and cheer. Kids crowded against the railing nearest him, holding out pens, cards, pieces of paper, caps, tee shirts. Jack broke into his trademark grin and waved. As he followed Travis to the gate, PJ popped his head out from behind Petey and yelled, "Jack! Look! It's ME! " He smiled and waved. When Jack spotted him, he looked astonished for a moment. Then he stepped over to PJ, lifted him over the railing, and put him down beside him. Petey looked on in pure wonder. "What are you doing here?" Jack asked him. He looked at PJ intently. "It's okay, Jack!" PJ put a hand on Jack's arm. "I'm here with Travis and his coach. It's a surprise. I didn't run away or anything. It's all okay." He smiled up at Jack, eyes shining, doing his best to appear innocent, with his free hand hiding the bag behind his back. Jack stared down at PJ for a long moment. Then he gave him a pat on the arm. "All right." "Jack." PJ added, grabbing his hand. "Before you do anything, you have to meet someone. This is my friend, Petey. He's a big fan of yours and I promised he could meet you." He reached up to where Petey was perched on the railing. Jack reached out, placing his big hands around both sides of the little boy's waist. "Hi, Petey!" The boy stared at Jack with his mouth open. "That's his dad behind him," PJ explained. "Hi," Jack said to Petey's dad over the noise. "Can I borrow your ball player for a minute?" Petey's dad, as speechless as his son, just nodded as Jack picked Petey up. After lowering him to the field by PJ, he got down on one knee next to him and put his Red Sox cap on the boy's head. "Petey, do you know who I am?" The boy nodded shyly. "PJ here tells me you wanted to meet me," Jack told him. "Well, I'm very glad to meet you, Petey. Shake." He held out his big hand, and the boy clutched it with his small one. Jack shook with him gently. "Petey, do you play baseball?" The boy nodded again. "I'm learning," he said in a little voice. "Who's teaching you?" Jack asked, giving the boy a quick hug. "My daddy." "That's the very best person in the world to teach you to play baseball," Jack told the boy. "I hope you have a lot of wonderful times together. I bet your daddy's the best guy in the whole world." Petey gave him a big smile. "Petey, do you have something you want me to sign?" Wordlessly, the little boy got the baseball card out of his pocket and gave it to Jack. "Tell you what," Jack said, looking at it, "let's go over here and I'll sign it." He picked Petey up, carried him to the on-deck circle, and knelt down next to him again. After signing the card with his felt-tip pen, they posed together for a picture with the boy wearing his cap. "Do you know what, Petey?" Jack asked. "I'm going to send you that picture with my autograph on it so you can have it to put on your wall. Would you like that?" Petey's face broke into a huge smile. He nodded eagerly. Jack carried him back to the stands, handing him to his father with the boy clutching his signed baseball card as if it were the Holy Grail. Jack explained to the boy's father about the picture. "Have you got something with your address on it?" Jack asked him. "No, but I can give it to you to write down!" the man shouted over the noise. After providing him the information, the father took Jack's hand to shake it. His eyes were glittering with tears. "Mr. Canon, my boy believes you're the greatest baseball player who ever lived, and now I do too. How can I ever thank you?" Jack grinned at him. "Easy. Teach your kid to love the game, just the way you're doing. Spend time with him." He winked at Petey, took a Red Sox batting glove out of his pocket, and gave it to the little boy. "Petey, after your dad teaches you how to swing a bat, I want you to use this when you hit your first home run. And when you do, I want you to remember who gave it to you, and that I told you that baseball is the greatest game in the world. Will you do that for me?" Petey solemnly shook his head. With another wink, Jack took his cap off the boy's head, placing it back on his own. "Anything's possible, kid," he told Petey in an equally solemn voice. Then he turned to Travis and PJ. "PJ," he said, putting his hand on the boy's shoulder, "it's great to have you here. Listen, I've gotta take care of some of these customers, and I wanna get Travis and his friend into the dugout to meet the team. But I'll be back to talk to you later, okay? So stick around." PJ nodded to show he understood. "Okay, Jack. But can I see you for just a little while after the game. Please? It's important." Jack looked at him, and for an instant or two he wasn't smiling. "Okay, but it can only be for a few minutes, PJ. This is a travel day for us. We're leaving for the airport right after the game." "It'll just be a minute, Jack," PJ promised. He grinned happily. "It's a surprise." Jack shook his head. "PJ, you don't have to give me any more presents." "No, no," PJ assured him. "It's nothing like that." "Okay," Jack replied. Then he smiled again. "Come to think of it, I've got a surprise for you, too. I'll see you afterwards. I'll leave your name with the guard at the clubhouse. Jim will come get you." He turned to Travis. "Come on, Sport." Bring your coach. I have some friends I want you to meet." And with his usual big grin, his arm around Travis' shoulders, he led the boy off toward the Boston dugout, with Coach Drew at their side. Left on his own, PJ looked around the field. Now that he was out here, he saw no reason to go back into the stands until he had to. Still carrying his sack, he wandered about, occasionally greeting Red Sox players he knew, and stood back out of the way as they began to hit in the big batting practice cage around home plate. "Hi, PJ. Thinking of taking a few swings with the team again?" PJ turned to see who was talking to him and found the AP columnist, Mr. Gerstein, standing there, smiling at him. The elderly grey-haired man was smoking a pipe, looking rather formal in a lightweight summer suit with a white shirt and colorful tie. "Hi," PJ gave the reporter a friendly greeting because he sorta liked him, even though he always felt a little apprehensive around the old sportswriter, afraid he would start asking a lot of questions. Mr. Gerstein took the pipe out of his mouth and waved it. "Beautiful day for a game, isn't it? What brings you here today?" PJ shrugged. "Some friends of mine had tickets. I had a chance to come visit, so I came." The columnist smiled at that. "The fact that today happens to be Father's Day is just a coincidence, then?" PJ nodded a "yes." "How's that little school team of yours doing? You still playin' on it?" PJ smiled up at the man. "We're doing great! We're in the League Tournament for the first time in eight years!" Mr. Gerstein smiled again. "Pretty good," he said approvingly. "As a matter of fact, you guys went seven-and-five on your season, didn't you?" PJ looked at him in surprise. How'd he known that? He must have been talking to Mr. Bunker. "Did Jack make it to any of your games?" The columnist asked this in a seemingly casual way, adding, "He sure went to a bunch of your swim meets." Casual? His eyes stayed fixed on PJ's. "The swim meets were in the off-season," PJ told him. "Jack's pretty busy now." "Still,"--Gerstein went on, holding a match to re-light his pipe and then taking a few puffs--"still, it seems to me I heard somewhere that he did make it to one game. A game that you guys played right here in Philadelphia, as I recall." "I think he was there for a few minutes," PJ admitted, reluctantly. "He couldn't stay very long." The AP man puffed on his pipe. "PJ," he said slowly, "I heard a very strange rumor about that game." He puffed some more. "I don't suppose you'd care to comment?" PJ just gave him a blank look. "You know, PJ?" he went on. Holding his pipe, Mr. Gerstein regarded the boy kindly, "If it's true that a young reincarnation of Babe Ruth now owns the Red Sox, that would be quite a story." Eyes twinkling, he then added, "A story, you might say, of mythic dimensions." PJ smiled, but he still said nothing. Mr. Gerstein knocked the pipe out on the heel of his shoe. "It is also said ("knock-knock-knock, the pipe banged against the shoe) that in the game yesterday, which put you guys into the Tournament, you didn't play. Is that true?" "I'm just a sub on the team and they didn't need me to substitute," PJ told him. Why is he asking me all these questions? After a pause, the elderly man asked another one. "Are you seeing Jack today, PJ?" "I've already said hello to him." "And you're not traveling with the team this summer?" the man continued. PJ shook his head. "I don't know how these rumors get started." Mr. Gerstein gave him another warm smile. "If I don't see you again, PJ, have a nice summer. You still think the Red Sox will be in the Series?" "Anything's possible!" PJ told him, smiling. But inside, he was thinking, Mr. Gerstein acts real nice, but somehow, I don't think l'll ever trust him. "Yes indeed," the elderly man said. "But it takes more than just a slogan. See you around, PJ." With a smile and a final nod, he walked off toward the dugout. PJ turned back to watch the batting practice, feeling strange. It was eerie to find out that people were checking up on him without his knowing about it. He didn't like it. He wondered how many others were doing it. When he wandered back to the area by the dugout gate to wait for Travis, he tried to remain as inconspicuous as possible. He didn't care to meet any more reporters. Eventually, Jack came out of the dugout with Travis and Coach Drew. There was an immediate reaction in the stands as people caught sight of him. Jack led his guests over to the batting cage, where they watched him take batting practice, and PJ was amazed, as always, at the ease with which Jack belted ball after ball over the fence. His swing looked so relaxed from a distance, but PJ knew the immense sensation of power one got seeing it up close, just like Travis was now. When batting practice ended, Jack escorted Travis and Coach Drew over to the Phillies dugout, where PJ saw Jack introducing them to several of their players, all of them talking and laughing, and Travis getting baseball cards signed. Thought PJ, You lucky stiff, Trav! Even I never met those guys! All three returned to the Red Sox dugout side of the field and PJ trotted out to meet them. Jack had his arm around Travis' shoulders, and the boy was looking up at him with gratitude. "Jack, this was just awesome. I'll never forget it!" "Hey, PJ thinks you're a terrific kid, Travis," Jack told him, "and so do I. Doing this was a pleasure." Coach Drew turned to shake Jack's hand. "Jack. I can see why PJ thinks so much of you. This has been a real privilege." "I think we're just very lucky to know two such wonderful kids as Travis and PJ," Jack responded with a big smile. "You guys enjoy the game, now. And, Travis, don't let PJ here get into any mischief. You know how he is! PJ, I'll see you after the game." He gave them a quick wave, turned to wave his cap at the stands where fans were cheering and calling to him, and, after giving them all one more big grin, climbed down into the dugout. "PJ, Jack is such a great guy!" Travis exclaimed. PJ saw that his friend now had an autographed Red Sox cap, a batting glove, and a pocket full of baseball cards. "Yeah," PJ agreed, "he's the best." They went back through the gate by the dugout into the stands where fans jamming the aisles in the box seat area looked at them enviously. "Where are you sitting, PJ?" Coach Drew asked. "With you guys, if I can," PJ answered, giving him a crafty smile. "Yeah, PJ!" Travis exclaimed. "Sit with us. There's always a couple of empty seats around." The season passes Jack had gotten for Travis and his coach were in a box not far from first base. After getting to their seats, PJ left his bag with Coach Drew and accompanied Travis to the snack stand for a big order of nachos with money the young coach had provided. PJ eagerly devoured his and drank a Coke. It was the first food he'd had all day. The two boys spent the time before the game happily chatting, and Travis showed PJ the baseball cards the players had signed for him. "Look, PJ. Here's Jack's card, and cards from the other Red Sox stars, and here's more from the Phillies. And he got all the players to autograph 'em because I was smart enough to bring 'em with me! Man, Jack knows everybody. And he's so nice!" "Jack's one of the nicest people I know, Travis," PJ agreed. "Remember, I told you that the first time I met you at our swim meet." Travis put his cards away carefully. "I'm never going to forget today." He looked at PJ. "You know, you're one of the nicest people I know, PJ. I wish you were spending the summer with us." "You and Erik will have a good time, Big Brother." With a smile that was almost sad, Travis nodded and wistfully added, "It would be even more fun if all three of us were here." The game got started then, the Red Sox leading off in the first inning. Jack was batting fourth. When he came up with a man on base and two outs, the crowd gave him a tremendous greeting. PJ looked around. Spectators in Red Sox hats and shirts were up cheering everywhere, but even the Phillies fans were on their feet, the entire stadium giving the best player in the game a standing ovation. Jack took off his cap and stood grinning in the sunshine by home plate. The noise was so loud, PJ could feel it in his body. "Jack, Jack, Jack, Jack. . ." the crowd began to chant, and the stadium thundered to the sound. Heart swelling with pride, PJ brushed his eyes quickly to stem the tears that came welling up. That's my dad they're cheering, he thought. There are thousands of kids here with their dads today. Petey is sitting somewhere with his, Travis is right here with his coach. And I'm here too, and there's mine standing at home plate. The greatest player in the world. My Dad. Of all the kids in the stadium, there's only one who can go to the clubhouse after the game and say, 'I'm here to see Jack Canon and be let in. That's because I'm his Son!' Jack stepped into the batter's box before the chanting stopped. The stadium was still rocking when he unloaded on the first pitch, sending it high over the right center-field wall into the bleachers. Amid an explosion of noise, he tossed his bat, just as he always did, and trotted up the first-base line, with the stands going berserk, people chanting his name and stomping their feet. After crossing home plate, as he came back to the dugout, he took off his cap and pointed toward where PJ and his friends were up, yelling with all the rest. He shouted something impossible to hear in that vast ocean of noise, but PJ in his heart knew what it had to be. He was sure Jack must be saying, "For you, Son! I hit that for you!" "Jack!" PJ yelled with all his strength. "Jack! You're the greatest!" Jack's homer put the Sox into an early lead. But the Phillies battled back in the third inning with some runs of their own. The Red Sox didn't have their best pitcher on the mound, so the game continued to be close. PJ and Travis had a wonderful time. They got up and roamed around the different sections, looking at the game from different angles. For awhile they sat in two empty seats right behind home plate and tried to get their faces on TV, until, that is, they got chased out by the seat's owners coming back from the snack bar. Then they tried to get as close as they could to the on-deck circles to call out to the players. For a long time, they hung out near the railing up the foul line from first base, hoping to get a foul ball, but at last, after having no luck, they returned to Travis' box for the seventh-inning stretch. "Glad to see you made it back," Coach Drew said. "I was sure some security guard was going to drag you to me with his hands gripping your collars, or worse, in cuffs!" The two boys grinned at him. "How 'bout some hot dogs?" the young coach suggested with a smile. Both boys enthusiastically yelled, "All right!" They munched on ballpark dogs and drank sodas as they watched the Phillies take a one-run lead in the eighth inning. When The Red Sox changed pitchers, PJ told Travis, "Don't worry. Jack's coming up in the ninth!" The Red Sox bullpen got the Phillies out at last, and the final inning began with the second, third, and fourth Boston hitters due up. The Sox faithful came to their feet. The first batter walked; the second one sacrificed him to second. Then it was Jack's turn at the plate. The stadium began to rock as the crowd began chanting, Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack. PJ stamped his feet with the rest. He had absolutely no doubt that Jack would get another hit. He'll do it for me! When the Phillies brought in a new pitcher, the crowd noise stopped while he warmed up. Then the chanting began again. They have to pitch to him, PJ knew, because the Red Sox have other good hitters coming up behind him. The new pitcher kept the ball down and away from the strike zone, not giving Jack anything good to unload on. The count went 2-2. Jack crowded the plate. The pitcher tried to brush him back with an inside pitch, but Jack was ready. He stepped up quickly and snapped off a quick swing. The ball soared into the deep left-field corner. It's going to be close, PJ thought. He crossed his fingers. Yes! The ball brushed past the foul pole fair and hit the first row of seats. Another homer! This time a two-run shot! "Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack . . . ." The thundering chant rocked the stadium. PJ and Travis jumped up and down, screaming in excitement as Jack tipped his hat and trotted around the bases. The Red Sox couldn't add to their one-run lead, but they didn't need to. They brought in the closer and set the Phillies down in the bottom of the ninth. The game ended on a nice unassisted put-out by the first baseman. "Oh man, what a game! This has been just fantastic!" Travis told his coach. No one in the stands had left their seats yet. Now the aisles were jammed with people as the sellout crowd slowly filed out. Over by the dugout, kids were packed in a huge mob next to the railing, trying to get Jack's autograph. "Those parking lots are going to be mobbed," Coach Drew said. "Let's wait awhile until some of this thins out." He handed PJ the paper bag he'd been safe-keeping for him. "So, are we going to see you again?" I'll try to get up at the end of the summer," PJ told him. "My camp finishes in August and I have to get back to school early for our football camp. But there should be a few days in between that I can spend with you guys." Travis and PJ stayed in their seats, talking about their summer plans while around them, the stairs and walkways gradually emptied. Suddenly Coach Drew said, "PJ, you've got to stay in touch." "Yeah, Little Bro," Travis added. "I want to know all your times from the age-group meets you're in, and I'll send you mine." His coach got up and looked around. "I guess we better try to get to our car. PJ, you're all set on transportation, right?" "Oh sure," PJ told him. "I'm all set. Jack will get me to the airport." "I guess this is it, then," Travis said reluctantly. "I'm going to miss you an awful lot this summer, Little Brother. They'll be no one to cheer for me, and no one to push me in the IM!" "I'll e-mail you, Big Brother." PJ held out his hand and Travis took it, but then stepped forward and gave PJ a hug! "Make sure you come at the end of the summer," he said. "Promise!" "I will," PJ told him, laughing. He patted his big brother on the back. "So long, PJ." Coach Drew shook his hand. "Call me if you need anything or even if you just want to talk. We'll always be here for you. You know that." "I'll remember. Goodbye." PJ waved to his friends as they went up the aisle, watching until they disappeared down one of the ramps. Then, after sitting for a few more minutes, he checked the contents of his bag to make sure he had everything secure before slowly making his own way up to the ramp and following it back inside, under the stands. Because he had no idea where the clubhouse entrance was, he looked for someone to ask. It took several minutes of wandering before he located one of the stadium ushers, who gave him directions. Following them to the letter, he walked down another ramp, turned a corner, and only found an entrance surrounded by a wire screen, guarded by security men. "Beat it, kid," one of the guards said, shooing him off. "You can't hang around here." PJ faced him, squared his shoulders, and proudly stated, "My name is PJ Thorndyke. I'm on your list. Jim Wagoneer is supposed to meet me." The guard stared suspiciously, but when he consulted his clipboard, he raised his eyebrows, and picked up the phone. After a few moments of conversation, the man hung up, turned to PJ, and with new respect in his voice said, "They'll be up to get you in a minute. Sorry I snapped at you like that. We get a lot of kids that try to sneak in here." PJ just smiled at him. Shortly, the door opened and Jim beckoned PJ over. Leading him down a short inside corridor, he opened the door to a small office, teasing as the two of them went in, "We've got to stop meeting like this." He pulled the door closed and said, "Jack will be around soon. It's like open season on him today. Every kid ever born is after his autograph, plus there are dozens of reporters ready to ambush him in the locker room. I'm supposed to tell you that he can only give you a few minutes. He wishes it could be more, but the skipper wants us out of here quickly today. I guess you've heard about the All-Star thing?" PJ shook his head "no." "Well, they just opened the website for the voting the other day, and so many people logged on to vote for Jack they had to temporarily shut the site down! He's already been selected for the team. That's what the reporters are here for. That--and the game today. Man, that was a good one! Did you see that first homer he had? Geez, that was a hum-dinger!" "I saw it!" PJ enthusiastically replied. They chatted for a bit about the game, and PJ related how much Travis had enjoyed it. "I think we got on TV once, too," PJ said excitedly. "We were both behind home plate for awhile." "Hey, that's great, kid." Jim looked down at PJ's eager face and ruffled the boy's soft, blonde hair. He smiled fondly. "Sounds like you and your friend had a good time. That's good. That's what baseball is really all about. You'd be amazed how many people forget that sometimes." PJ smiled back at him. "Jim, how are you and your wife doing?" With a chuckle, Jim answered, "Trust you to remember! We're doin' okay, PJ. We're seeing a counselor. I think we're gonna get back together." "I'm glad," PJ told him. The door suddenly opened. Jack stepped in, still in his uniform, walked over to PJ, and picked him up to give him a quick hug. "Hey, Tiger! This is a nice surprise. I'm glad you made it today. What a game, huh? Did Travis like it?" "He really did, Jack," PJ assured him, trying to hang onto his paper bag and simultaneously give Jack a return hug. "He had a great time. So did I." "Good!" Jack put PJ down. "Listen, Tiger, It's comin' in on me from all sides today so I can't take too long. Are you getting my e-mails? Is everything going along okay?" PJ nodded. "Great. How are you getting back to school?" "Walter has it all arranged," PJ lied. "Travis' coach is taking me to the airport." "Yeah, that's where we have to go in a few minutes. That's if I can ever shake all the reporters and get changed! The skipper wants us out of here early today. But I wanted to tell you one thing. Now remember, I said I'd make it up to you about not seeing you play that one time. Well, here's the deal. I've got it all set up for you to be my guest at the All Star game! The whole thing. The Home Run Derby and the game, both!" "All right!" PJ exclaimed, his eyes shining. "Thanks, Jack!" "I thought you'd like that." Jack was looking very pleased. "And there's more. I want you to spend the Fourth of July with me, too. At the house. We'll leave from there for the game." "Jack!" shouted PJ. Clutching his little bag, he threw his arms around the tall man and hugged him as tightly as he could. "Jack, you're just the greatest." He pressed his cheek against Jack's uniform. Jack patted his head. "Okay, PJ. It's the least I could do for you after all I put you through. Now look, Tiger, I gotta get goin' here. Jim will get you out so the reporters don't come after you. Listen! You have to e-mail me the address of that camp you're gonna be at so I can arrange to break you lose for this All-Star thing. Don't forget, now." "I won't, Jack." PJ stared up at him with adoration. "Okay, then that's it. We're all set. Jim will take you out." Jack pried himself loose from PJ's grasp. He gave the boy a grin. "Have a safe trip back. And do good on those tests or whatever it is you have to take. I'll see you." He turned to leave but PJ grabbed his arm. "Wait, Jack! I've got something for you." Jack turned around and gave PJ a stern smile. "Come on, now, PJ, I thought I told you to stop giving me things." "It's just a little thing, Jack," PJ said haltingly. "It's just . . . it's something I made for you." He handed Jack the paper bag and the man reluctantly took it. "Okay, PJ. If you made it, I'm sure I'll like it. Now we better get you out of here before some reporter comes along." "Jack, can't you open it now . . . please," PJ begged. "It's something for today. I brought it all the way for you." Jack looked at him for a moment. Then he smiled and said, "Okay, PJ. I'll open it." He reached in the bag and took out an envelope and a small box. "Open the box first," PJ told him. He hung on Jack's arm, watching anxiously. After handing the envelope to Jim, Jack opened the little box. Inside was a tie clasp in the shape of a tiny baseball bat. It was a beautifully polished gold color and it glittered in Jack's hand. "I made it for you, Jack," PJ told him excitedly. "See, I soldered it to the clasp here after I shaped it. I polished it with grit so it looked like gold. It took a long time. You can wear it with the Red Sox tie I gave you when you're making your speeches." Jack stared at the little clasp in his hand. "I will wear it, PJ. Next time you see me on TV, you look for it, okay?" PJ nodded. "Don't forget the envelope, Jack." Jack took the envelope from Jim and opened it. Inside was a big card. The front was decorated with a whimsically-drawn little floppy-eared rabbit along with some colorful hand-drawn script that read, "Just hopped over to tell you . . . Inside, the first rabbit was looking up a big rabbit, saying to complete the thought, ". . . that you're the greatest Dad in the world!" PJ had lightly crossed out the word "Dad" with a pen stroke and above it in small letters had written "Friend." The card was signed, "Love, PJ." Jack sighed and smiled a tight little smile. "Okay, PJ." He tenderly ruffled the boy's soft blond hair. "Do you like it, Jack?" PJ asked hesitantly. He had worried that Jack might resent the way he had only slightly lined out the word "Dad," as if he'd meant Jack to see it. "I like it, PJ. You know that. Now, let's get you out of here. It's almost 5 o'clock and you have to get home. Don't worry; I'll wear the tie clip. In fact, I'll wear it for my All-Star interview. They're doing it next week. Don't forget to give me that address!" With that he went back through the door and left. "Do you think he really liked it, Jim?" PJ asked, looking at the door where Jack had disappeared. "If he doesn't, he's crazy," Jim said, brushing at his eyes. "Don't worry, PJ. He liked it." "Sometimes I have trouble telling with him," PJ explained in a plaintive little voice. "I don't want him to be mad at me again. Jim, would you please tell him that our team made the Tournament? I didn't have a chance to, and I want him to know." "I'll tell him, PJ," Jim assured him gently. "Now, come on. Remember what Jack said. The skipper wants us all outa here early. You know he would have spent more time with you if he could have." "I know, Jim," PJ said. "It's okay. I know all the things he has to do. Besides, he already did the best thing he could do for me today." "What's that, PJ," Jim asked as they went back up the corridor. "The All-Star game?" "He hit the home run for me." PJ looked up anxiously at the reserve catcher. "Jim, he did hit that first one just for me, didn't he?" "I'm sure he did, PJ," Jim said. "Have a safe trip back. I'll be seeing you." They shook hands and PJ left by the clubhouse door, not feeling nearly as happy as he'd thought he would be after seeing Jack. Why was it always like that? Why wasn't it like Bill with Erik, or Billy with his dad, or. . . . He'd worked so hard on the present for Jack, and it was as if. . . No! He wasn't going to think it! He wasn't! Instead, he was going to think about how to get home. He had five dollars. It was time to worry about how to get home on five measly dollars! * * * CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT TWENTY-THREE Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail: paulkdoctor@gmail.com I appreciate any comments you want to make!