Date: Sat, 7 Nov 2015 10:57:38 -0500
From: Paul Knoke <paulkdoctor@gmail.com>
Subject: INSTALLMENT THIRTY-SIX of "THE FATHER CONTRACT"

INSTALLMENT THIRTY-SIX
from

THE FATHER CONTRACT
by

Arthur J. Arrington

Edited Paul K. Scott

Please consider a donation to Nifty to keep this thrilling story of PJ
going on and on!

              Chapter Sixty-Seven: All Injuries, Small and Great

PJ's hip got worse before it got better. On Friday it was even painful to
sit in class, and walking between classrooms was so bad that Erik had to
help him with his books. He felt a little better that afternoon because he
spent most of football practice time in the whirlpool. He went back to his
House early and watched part of the afternoon playoff game between the Red
Sox and the Mariners. When he left for dinner, the Sox were in the lead
two-nothing. After eating, he and Erik hurried back to catch the final
inning and saw the Red Sox win five to three. The series was now tied at
two games apiece.

"They still have to win one more game," Erik said as he kept an eye on his
roommate climbing painfully up the stairs in front of him. "It'll be an
incredible comeback if they do it."

"They're gonna do it, just like I predicted," PJ confidently told him. He
stopped on a landing to rest.

"PJ, is that hip getting worse?" Erik's expression was a worried mix of
anxiety and suspicion.

"No, it's okay." Hobbling up the rest of the stairs, PJ tried to mask his
pain better.

His sleep, already restless and disturbed by dreams, became even more
intermittent because the discomfort in his hip woke him every time he
changed position. But the good news was that the worst of those dreams
disappeared in the face of these constant interruptions. That meant that he
was less fearful of the nights.

On Saturday morning, he spent another hour in the whirlpool, with Coach
Lewis periodically checking on him.

"It's getting better, Coach," PJ assured him. It wasn't, but PJ didn't want
his coach getting alarmed more than he already was.

After lunch, he accompanied his friends over to Billy's house, and limped
painfully through a practice of their plays in the backyard, concealing his
injury as best he could so that Billy's mother wouldn't fuss too
much. Later, the other boys went skateboarding, but PJ just sat and watched
while the usually active Billy stayed close by, keeping him company. They
talked about what Billy was doing in school, and PJ suggested some books he
thought Billy might like.

"Do you really think I could go to Gordonsville someday?" Billy asked.

"Yes, I think so," PJ told him.

The small boy gave him a solemn look. "I wanna be with you an' Erik."

PJ thought about the conversation when he returned to the School later on.

Before dinner, he and Erik called Bill. "The injury is starting to get
better, Bill," PJ assured him over the phone. "I've been getting some
whirlpool treatments and I feel a lot stronger."

"Okay, PJ." Bill sounded relieved. "Just take it easy on it until you're
sure it's okay."

"I will," PJ promised.

After dinner, PJ went to the Hobby Shop. His model plane was coming along
nicely, and for a time, as he worked on it, he was able to forget about his
hip, Jack, football, and everything else. He put his project away
regretfully when it was time to leave. But when he remembered that Jack's
final Division series game was on TV, he made the best time he could across
the dark Quadrangle, though he still went the long way despite his limp to
avoid going by the Chapel steps.

Erik and some other boys were watching the game in the Common Room when he
arrived. "Nothing to nothing in the bottom of the fourth," Erik informed
him as he sat down. "Jack's grounded out twice."

Because his hip kept bothering him, PJ moved between innings from sofa to
floor and back to the sofa again, trying to find a comfortable
position. But most of the time, the game was exciting enough to distract
him from the aching. He had come in at the best part, just as the scoring
began. The Red Sox broke through first when Jack hit a two-run double in
the fifth, and then scored on another hit by the Sox first baseman. In the
sixth, though, the Seattle team had their turn. The Red Sox pitcher walked
the first two batters and the Mariners began hitting. Before the inning
came to a close and the bleeding stopped, four runs had scored. By the
seventh-inning stretch, the home-team Seattle crowd was up and cheering for
victory, confident their Mariners could hold the one-run lead.

However, in the top of the eighth with two outs, the Red Sox rookie third
baseman reached first on an error, stole second base, and scored on a nice
single that Jack slapped into right field. All the boys in the Common Room,
Erik and PJ included, were up and yelling! The Mariner's lead was
obliterated! A bloop single by the next batter moved Jack to second, but he
was stranded there when the following hitter grounded to first for the
third out. Fortunately, the Sox brought in a fresh reliever and held
Seattle scoreless during their time at bat.

Tie score! Ninth inning! The bottom of the Red Sox order due up. On the
mound--the Mariners ace closer. The tension mounted! PJ was certain his
heart would jump out of his chest at every pitch! The first batter grounded
out to short. "ONE!" chanted the Seattle crowd. The Red Sox second baseman
came to the plate, a mediocre hitter, in the lineup primarily for his
defense. Then, a miracle! He swung at the first pitch and blasted it into
the left-field bleachers, his first home run since before the All-Star
break! The stunned Seattle pitcher watched in disbelief as the Red Sox
player circled the bases, grinning happily. Boston fans in the crowd
cheered. The second baseman was mobbed by his teammates as he crossed the
plate, Erik and PJ celebrating right along with them, whooping and
hollering like they were losing their minds! Erik was bouncing on the sofa,
and PJ would have joined him if his hip hadn't been so messed up. From the
TV came the commentators' voices going on and on about how incredible it
would be if the Red Sox were to win the five-game series after losing the
first two at Fenway.

The Sox only got that one run, but if they could hold on, it would be
enough. The Mariners came to bat in the bottom of the ninth, grimly
determined to score at least two more runs and win. The Red Sox closer,
famous for his cliffhanger finishes, almost outdid himself. He gave up two
singles and a walk to load the bases with nobody out. Then he managed to
fan a batter. Once again, PJ's heart jumped at every pitch! Any mistake, a
passed ball, a hanging curve, could tie the game or worse, eliminate the
Sox from the playoffs.

"I don't believe this!" Erik sat on the edge of the sofa, his eyes glued to
the screen.

PJ could not even speak. Please! he prayed. Please! Let them do it!

The next hitter bounced one to the left side of the mound. PJ's heart shot
into his throat. But the pitcher put out his glove and snagged the ball. He
threw to the catcher for the force, just barely getting the ball there in
time. Now there were two outs and the Red Sox still had their one-run
lead. The Seattle crowd was up on its feet, screaming.

The next Mariner batter was one of their sluggers. He and the pitcher eyed
one another. The first delivery was a low fastball at 99 mph. It was called
a ball. The Red Sox closer glared at the umpire. He wound up again and
tried to blow another fastball up in the strike zone past the big Mariner
hitter. PJ almost couldn't bear to look. The hitter swung at the ball in a
sweeping arc. Thwack! He belted a deep fly into the right-field corner out
by the foul pole! The TV camera showed Jack racing toward it, looking back
over his shoulder. His glove went out. He caught the ball just before
crashing into the padding on the wall. He rolled to the ground and bounced
back to his feet, holding up the ball in triumph! The TV play-by-play
announcer started screaming into his microphone:

	"He's got it! Canon's got it! Sox win! Sox win! Sox Win!"

Erik jumped on top of PJ and began to pound him delightedly. "Jack did it!
The Red Sox came back!" The two boys rolled together happily on the
sofa. "Ah! Ouch!" PJ said, rubbing his hip. It hurt, but he was too excited
to care.

"Oh! Sorry, PJ," Erik quickly helped his friend sit up.

"That's okay. Oh man, isn't this great?"

"Yeah." Eric was grinning. "Now they have to play Cleveland."

The Cleveland Indians had eliminated the wild-card Oakland Athletics in
three straight games and had been waiting in the wings to see who they
would play for the Championship of the American League.

"We can beat them," PJ asserted confidently. "We've been doing it all
season.

It was late when they got to bed. PJ was tired, but he still slept badly
because of his hip.

* * *

He awoke the next morning with a slight headache, and felt dull and
groggy. But he made himself get up and follow his regular routine. His hip
continued to be painful, and he was only able to manage a few of the drills
Erik, Brian, and Phil did with Billy. After lunch, they did their two-hour
workout in the weight room, and PJ found afterwards that he actually felt
better. The repetitious exercises seemed to have loosened his muscles and
eased the pain in his joint. He didn't accompany the others when they took
Billy home, but went up instead to rest in his room. While he was alone, he
decided to write to Jack. As always, he kept his note short. He didn't want
to bore Jack, and he hoped that there was more of a chance of Jack reading
his messages if he made them brief. He congratulated Jack on his great
comeback win, and then typed,

"It was teamwork that won the game for you, Jack. Just like it was teamwork
that won for us last Thursday.  You are right about how importent it
is. Even in swimming you have to support each other and work together or
your team can't win. After we won our football game I reminded Erik of what
you said about coming back when your behind.  You told us that anyone can
win when they'r ahead, but only the great champions can come from behind.
Erik said that we were all champions, every one of us.  And so are you,
Jack. You and all the Red Sox.  Congradulations again on taking the
division series.  I know you will beat the Indians and go to the Series. I
believe in you. This week we play our big rivel Fieldstone.  It will be a
really big game for us.  Don't forget, you have a travel day then,
Jack. You could come to see me play. I will try very hard to make a
touchdown for you even if you are not here. Bill is going to come. He comes
to almost every game.  He always asks me, 'When is Jack coming?'  I am
still sort of injured. My hip has been hurting a lot since the game. I am a
little scared about it.  I know you had to come back from a hip injury, too
Jack.  Could you write me an email and just tell me if there's anything I
should be doing?  You don't have to say anything persenal. Just anything
would be okay. I miss you an awful lot.  Love, PJ."

He ran his Spell check, chuckled when he saw a bunch of dumb mistakes, and
chuckled again when he realized that his note wasn't so "short" after all.
After he'd sent it off, though, his mood quickly changed. He sat down at
his desk with his face in his hands. His hip was starting to throb again,
and he felt lonely and a little frightened. What if his hip was hurt so bad
that it never got better? What if he couldn't swim or play baseball ever
again? He wished Jack would write him back for real. He got up, limped to
his closet, and opened the door so he could look at Jack's poster. Then he
lay down on his bed. The tear across the poster was visible, but he found
that if he kept looking long enough it seemed to go away. At least he
didn't notice it anymore. He stared at Jack's grinning face.

Anything's Possible. Anything's Possible. Anything's Possible . . . He kept
repeating that to himself over and over. When he heard voices on the stairs
he grabbed a book quickly and pretended to be reading when Erik, Phil, and
Brian walked in.

"How's it feeling?" Erik asked.

"It's way better," PJ lied. "That workout we did helped it a lot."

"Maybe you're over the worst of it," Erik said. "I hope so. You start
swim-team practice tomorrow morning, don't you? You think you'll be able to
do it?"

"Sure," PJ said with a confidence he didn't actually feel. "Hey, don't
forget to set the alarm an hour earlier. Phil, I'll come over and wake you
up."

The younger boy nodded. "Okay." Then he asked anxiously, "PJ, we're gonna
work out together, right?"

"I'll be with you the whole time," PJ assured him. "Everything'll be
fine. You'll see."

"All the kids on the swim team are real nice, Phil," Brian added. "The
workouts are killers, but you'll have fun with the team. And the coach is
real cool."

"Just don't let him do anything to mess up his passing and pitching arm,
PJ," Erik begged.

PJ laughed. "I'll try not to let him get too screwed up, Eric."

When they went to dinner, PJ tried to minimize his limp as much as he could
so Erik and the others wouldn't worry. Later, while he prepared his
classwork for the next day, he had to keep moving from his desk to his bed
and back again because the hip kept throbbing. He slept badly that night.

* * *

The next morning, Monday, he woke early and got Phil up to take him to swim
practice. His hip was bothering him when they went across the cold, dark
campus to the lighted Field House, but once they got there, nothing but
good things happened! Coach Bernard welcomed them and took particular care
to talk with Phil and make the shy boy feel comfortable.

"We're very glad to have another good backstroker," he assured him. "And I
bet we can improve your freestyle, too," he added, casting an appraising
eye at Phil's slender build.

He had also noticed PJ's limp with concern. After making him undress, he
carefully examined his hip, just as Coach Lewis had. "I think it's just
bruising," he told PJ after he had pushed and poked and moved the boy's leg
around. "We'll see how it goes. The swimming ought to help it. I think
you'll be okay." His reassuring pat on the shoulder had PJ feeling greatly
relieved when he went to his locker to put on his Speedo. He looked at the
practice suit that Jack had given him for Christmas almost a year
before. It was too small and getting worn-looking. Hundreds of hours in
chlorinated water and weeks of exposure to the Florida sun had faded the
colors. But he would rather have died than part with it. Jack had given it
to him, and his friend Charlie had helped pick it out. He wondered what
Charlie was doing. He might be playing on a football team like me, he
thought.

Once the workouts started, PJ discovered that his coach was right. As he
swam through his warm-ups and then attacked his interval training drills,
the hip joint gradually loosened and his pain went away. By the end of
practice, PJ was pushing harder than ever and his hip felt fine.

Phil pushed himself hard, too, and PJ was glad to see how well he did. The
younger boy copied his older friend and finished the last set with a
gut-busting sprint that left them both sagging on the lane ropes, gasping
for air. When they recovered, PJ took him around and introduced him to all
the other boys, including Randy and the Upper-School swimmers. As they were
shaking hands and talking about their times that summer and the prospects
for the upcoming season, PJ realized how nice it was to be on a team where
everyone was anxious to do his best and where the older boys were trying to
lead the way to a championship. "You're gonna help us a lot, Phil," said
Davis, one of the thirteen-year-olds who would serve as unofficial
co-captain for the Middle-School team in the upcoming season. "PJ, let's
make this the year! Hey, I saw you're times in Swimming World this
summer. If you keep improving, you could get us a first at the Eastern
Championships! That would be a lot of points."

"I'm gonna try."

As they changed to go to the Dining Hall, Coach Bernard came by their
lockers. "Nice job, you two." He gave Phil a pat. "PJ, how's the hip?"

"It feels fine now, Coach," PJ told him. "Watch." He walked to the wall and
back without limping.

"Okay, it's just a bruise then, for sure," the coach said. "Now, it's going
to stiffen up on you again in a few hours and it may take a few days to go
completely away, but it'll be fine as long as you don't re-injure it. So be
careful, all right?"

"I'll be careful," PJ promised. "Is it okay if I take football practice
today?"

"Sure, just no contact. I'll talk to Coach Lewis for you. But I bet he's
already planning on excusing you from that."

PJ felt a lot better when he and Phil went to breakfast.

"PJ, I wasn't a show-off today, was I?" Phil asked, obviously proud.

"You never have been, Phil," PJ told him, "and you did just great
today. You're gonna do well this year. I think we're gonna surprise
everybody! Just like you surprise me at night!"

Phil grinned and said, PJ, I love being with you. Then he stared at PJ very
seriously. "That's why I want to do all my workouts with you. You don't
mind, do you?"

"No, Phil, I don't mind. In fact, I'd like that." He put his fist out on
the table and Phil put his on top. They looked intently at each
other. Suddenly, PJ grinned. "Watch out, I may teach you the butterfly! I
bet it'd make you stronger."

Phil gave him a mischievous look back. "I don't know if I'm built for it
the way you are, but I bet I can push you and make your backstroke faster."

"We'll do it!" PJ replied, laughing.

"I'm still hungry," Phil said. "Look! There's Erik and Brian. Let's eat
again with them." They slipped into place behind their roommates and went
through the line a second time.

PJ found that his hip did stiffen up again, but he was still feeling better
than before when he and Erik went to football practice that afternoon. The
first thing they checked was the bulletin board. The assignments for the
Fieldstone game were posted. "Oh man," Erik softly said. He was listed as
the starting quarterback, and PJ's name was down for one of the
wide-receiver positions, with a question mark beside it.

PJ gave Erik's shoulder a soft punch. "Way to go, Erik," he quietly said.

Erik looked at PJ eagerly. "PJ, you've got to be ready for that game! I
need you to start."  "I'll be okay," PJ promised.

In the three practices before the Thursday game, PJ was careful to avoid
contact and concealed any discomfort in his hip. He didn't want Coach Lewis
having any doubts about starting him. The morning swimming workouts helped
him the most. Gradually, his hip was recovering. He was able to sleep
without constantly waking up.

Then, with no warning, the dream came again.

* * *

It came on the night before they played Fieldstone. PJ had stayed up late
to watch the beginning of the second game in the Red Sox-Cleveland
series. The Red Sox had won the first behind the pitching of Pete Montoya,
their ace Cy Young award-winner, helped by a walk-off home run by Jack. But
they were losing the second game when PJ went to bed on Wednesday
evening. Jack had been doing fairly well, and PJ had stayed up an hour
later than usual to see his second at-bat. The crowd at Fenway was cheering
for him again as his slump seemed to be over, and whenever he came to the
plate, PJ thrilled at the familiar chant of "Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack
. . . Jack . . .," shaking the stadium. It was a chant he could still hear
ringing in his ears as he climbed up the stairs to his room. Erik was
already asleep when he tiptoed through the door. He quickly undressed and
got right into bed. He still had a slight dull pain in his hip, but he fell
almost instantly asleep anyway. Between his early-morning swim practice,
his classes, football practice, and homework, his days were so long and
crowded that he was exhausted at the end of them. His last thought was that
if Jack played well and the Red Sox won, Jack might be in such a good mood
that he would come tomorrow and watch them play Fieldstone.

He was still thinking this as he walked through the long narrow corridor
with the cement floor and concrete block walls. At first, he thought it was
the corridor below the stands in the Gordonsville Field House, but the
tunnel went on for too long. It seemed to stretch in front of him forever,
lit by an endless chain of bare light bulbs on the ceiling. Then he heard
the crowd. It was up above somewhere. The cheering came to him faintly,
like the distant roaring of the sea. He was looking for Jack. It was
terribly important that he find him. He couldn't remember why, but he knew
there was something he had to ask him. He looked in every door he came to,
but they were all dark inside. "Jack?" he called uncertainly. Suddenly, he
was certain that Jack wasn't there. That he never had been. PJ began to run
down the corridor searching for an exit.

Behind him the corridor lights were going out. The darkness was coming. The
game was over. They would close the stadium and he would be trapped in the
dark forever. He ran faster, trying every door frantically. They were all
locked. There was no place he could go. He whirled in time to see the light
just behind him wink out. In the dimness of the last bulb above him, he
pulled a book of matches out of his pocket and tried to strike one. He
tried match after match, striking and striking, but there wasn't even a
spark. The stink of lighter fluid rose in his nostrils. His clothes and
everything around him were soaked in it. In a panic he tried again,
struggling to hold back the dark. As the last match fell from his hand, the
light above him went out too.

"No!"  He cried. "No! No!" He reached for the chains he wore on his neck
and held them in a death grip. He gave a despairing cry. "Erik!"

"Right here, PJ. I'm right here."

He opened his eyes. His roommate was sitting on the bed, leaning over him,
holding his arms.

"I can't find it, I can't find it," PJ sobbed. "Erik, it's dark."

"No it's not, PJ," Erik told him soothingly. "You're all right. Here's your
light. See, it's on. I'm right here with you. Everything's okay."

PJ stared around wildly. His heart was pounding.  Quickly, he patted his
pajamas and his bedclothes to see if they were wet.

"You're okay," Erik assured him again.

As he began to calm down and come fully awake, PJ touched the Bhatt chain
on his neck. "Erik?" He wanted to ask about the nightmare.

"That was a bad one," his roommate pushed him back down onto his pillow and
fixed the bed covers that PJ had thrown to the floor by all of his
thrashing.

"What's wrong, buddy?" Erik asked, looking at his friend with
concern. "Tell me about it. This wasn't just your hip waking you up. You
had one of those dreams, didn't you."

PJ nodded. He was trembling slightly.

"So what was it, PJ? Come on. Tell me. There's been something bothering you
since the end of the summer. What is it?"

PJ shook his head and whispered, "It's the game. I'm worried about the
game."

Erik sighed and shook his head. "Whatever you say, PJ." He pulled back the
covers and slid into bed next to his roommate. "Move over, PJ. I'm keeping
you company for awhile. You scared the crap out of me with that
shouting. It's gonna take me awhile to get relaxed." Twisting around, Erik
got comfortable on the pillow, put a protective arm around his roommate,
and asked with mock seriousness, "Now, how can you possibly be worried
about tomorrow's game when you know darn well I'm gonna be right in there
with you, throwing those great passes you like so much because you get to
run down the field with them and be a star?" Erik threw his hands up in
pretended exasperation. "I ask you!"

PJ smiled a little. He rolled onto his side and put his hand on Erik's
arm. Then he whispered, "Tell me what the game's gonna be like, Erik."

"Well, first we'll see the ESPN trucks parked by the Field House when we
come to change," Erik told him, settling back on the pillow. "And of
course, it's gonna take us longer than usual to get ready because of all
the reporters begging us for interviews. . .  ."

* * *

He went on like this for some time in a quiet, low voice until he heard
PJ's breathing become regular and felt his roommate's hand slip off his
arm. When he saw that PJ was asleep again, he slipped quietly from beneath
the covers and readjusted them so his friend would be warm. Then he got
back into his own bed.

It was awhile before Erik got back to sleep. He was a lot more worried than
he'd let on. When PJ's thrashing had awakened him and PJ'd called to him,
he'd been thoroughly alarmed. He couldn't remember ever seeing in PJ so
frightened since the memorable time he'd had that nightmare while staying
in Jack's hotel room in New York. He seriously considered going to see
Mr. Williamson. But he looked at PJ's sleeping form, listened to his
breathing, and decided not to. PJ would probably be all right, though he
was now absolutely sure something bad was bothering him.

If he won't tell me what it is, he thought, there's only one person he will
tell, and that's Jack. With that thought in his mind, Erik drifted back to
sleep.

When his alarm went off at its usual early hour, Erik awakened to be sure
that PJ got up for his swim practice.

* * *

The first thing PJ did was check his computer for mail. There was
nothing. Then he logged on to the Red Sox website and groaned. "They lost
last night."

"That ties the series at one apiece," Erik said. "Don't worry, PJ, it's a
seven-game series. There's a long way to go."

"I know," PJ said. "I was just hoping that Jack would. . ." He stopped and
said hurriedly, "I better get going. Thanks for helping me last night,
Roomie. I'm sorry I woke you up." He looked very embarrassed.

"No problem," Erik told him. "You were just having some pre-game
jitters. Why not? This is a big one. Go kick some butt in the pool. You'll
feel better. And try to stay relaxed today. You're gonna do great."

"Okay," PJ replied.

* * *

After PJ had left with Phil, Erik didn't go back to sleep the way he
usually did. Instead,he went to PJ's computer and brought up the mail
window. "Sorry, PJ," he whispered. He felt like a jerk snooping around on
his friend's desktop, but he was determined to check a few things. He
examined the "History" file of messages. PJ had been writing Jack
regularly. Nearly every day. He scrolled through the lists of received
mail. Jack had apparently been writing back, but not nearly so often, maybe
once a week.

Erik shook his head. Whatever was bothering PJ, it had to be something
else. He copied Jack's e-mail address on a piece of notepaper, went to his
own computer, and brought up his e-mail window. He clicked for a new
message and typed,

"Dear Jack, I guess you remember last spring when you asked me to keep an
eye on PJ and let you know if he was sleeping okay. I don't like to bother
you while you are so busy right now with the playoffs, but I think you
should know that PJ is having nightmares again. The one he had last night
was just as bad as the one he had that time in your hotel room and that's
why I'm writing this to you, because it scared me. Something has been
bothering him ever since the end of the summer. PJ won't tell me what it is
and I'm his best friend.

I know he emails you almost every day and that you are writing back because
he reads your messages to me. He cares about you more than anyone in the
world, so maybe he'll tell you what's wrong. Sometimes he acts kind of
weird and it worries me. He has not really been sleeping well since the end
of the summer. It was so bad I almost wrote you before, but then it was
better for a while. But now its getting worse again so I thought I better
tell you.

I hope you can find out what is wrong. PJ is my very best friend and I'm
worried about him. PJ says you are going to come to one of our games
soon. I hope you do. You would like it.  PJ is the star of the
team. Without him we would never win. He is going to win a championship for
us. I hope you win your championship too Jack.  We are all rooting for
you. PJ keeps telling me over and over Never Say Die! So I don't. Good luck
and see you soon I hope, your friend Erik."

He read over what he'd written, typed in Jack's e-mail address, and pressed
"Send."

	As he got his books and assignments together before going to
breakfast, he wished that he'd sent the message to Jack weeks ago when he'd
first thought about it. If anybody could find out why PJ was hurting so
much, Jack could. Erik just hoped he would be able to visit them both
whenever he got the chance, and that it'd be sooner rather than later.

* * *

	"Jack! Over here! . . . Jack! . . . Jack!"

	Screaming fans, half of them kids, surged against a restraining
barrier as the file of Red Sox players walked toward their charter jet.

	"Travel Day! God! It's bedlam!" yelled a free-lance stringer for
ESPN Magazine. He was standing right beside Malcolm Hibbard, the
sportswriter for The Boston Globe. "It's a feeding frenzy! Playoff fever!"

	"Are you kidding?" Hibbard gave the young man a patronizing
glance. "It's like this every day when that guy's around." He pointed to
where Jack Canon, flashing his famous grin, had turned aside to greet the
crowd. Instantly, amid even more high-pitched shrieks of "Jack!," a hundred
kids desperate for an autograph held out caps, shirts, pictures, cards,
baseballs . . . anything that could hold a signature.

	"Christ, they love him, don't they?" marveled the ESPN writer.

	"When he's goin' good, they do," Hibbard cynically replied. "It
dropped off some during the slump."
	"He's sure as hell past that now." The younger man had to shout to
be heard over the noise. "That home run Tuesday night won the first game
for 'em."

	Hibbard watched Jack do a few quick signings for some of the
smaller kids, say something to the rest, and with a wave walk off toward
the plane. His grin never faded. Hibbard shook his head. "It's amazing how
patient he is with them."

	The other reporter eyed him. "Guess he better be. Word is, it was a
kid got him his contract."

	The tone of this made it more of a question than a statement, but
Hibbard didn't take the bait. Instead, he frowned and said, "I wouldn't ask
him about that if I were you. You might never get another interview."

	"Why?" Clearly the young man wanted to pursue this rumor, but
without another word, Hibbard picked up his carry-on bag and attached
himself to the tail of the boarding line. As a favored hometown
sportswriter, he was privileged to fly with the team.

	A memory had awakened in him, though. Hibbard was recalling a day
six months before . . . A swimming pool in New York City, of all places
. . . There had been a young blonde boy, so good-looking he might have been
a model for the Speedo he was wearing. "It's nice to meet you," the boy had
said, shaking hands, poised and confident. "I read your column. You're a
good writer."

	And Jack Canon had been there too. Why don't you talk about him
anymore, Jack? You sure as hell talked about him then, didn't you, thought
Hibbard as he relived that scene. The way you looked at that kid! And the
way he looked back! That boy thought the world of you. Any fool could have
seen it. And then the kid had been around Fenway that spring . . . He
handed you your bat in the game against the Yankees. And was he at the
All-Star Game? Did he touch your bat before you hit that grand slam? TV
missed it. God! What a hell of a story we all missed if that really
happened the way some say it did!

	The Globe writer switched his carry-on to the other hand and
climbed up the air stairs into the plane. And since then, nothing, he
thought . . . He picked out a seat in the crowded back section among the
other sportswriters and Red Sox publicity staff. What about those rumors
that circulated? Does that kid really own the team? Did he really get Canon
that contract like I heard Abe Gerstein hint about? Nobody's
talking. Canon's sure not. And where's that kid now?

* * *

	Up front, legs stretched into the extra space reserved for his
seat, Jack Canon buckled his lap belt and settled back comfortably. Series
tied, he was saying to himself. Cleveland's tough. But my swing is
back. An' we can beat them. I feel it!

	Confidence. His had been increasing more and more as he came out of
his slump. It hadn't even faltered during those first two home losses in
the Division series. "I knew we'd come back," he muttered under his
breath. Lately, phrases like that seemed always in his head, almost as if
someone were whispering them into his ear. "An' we'll take this American
League Championship, too!"

	Just stay focused. Keep the team on rack. Stay clear of another
slump! No distractions!  Focus on the goal . . .
	The Series! Jack visualized it. The Series, and a World
Championship back in Boston! The sportswriters were already talking about
"The Curse." Well fuck them! Curses were made to be broken! Anything's
possible!

Anything's possible, Jack. The young voice repeating those words in his
head was not his own. Who was it that had always kept the faith with that
old slogan of his? . . . Stop it! Don't think about PJ!

Except it was hard not to. God, it was hard! "But it has to be this way,"
Jack whispered. He'd said it to himself a hundred times. Now he muttered it
once more, as if repetition made it true. "It has to be this way."

Damn it! He was thinking about the kid again! It was the autographing that
had done it. Every time he worked a crowd, signing for the fans, he
half-expected PJ to pop up unanticipated. The kid had a way of doing
that. Look at how he'd turned up that time in New York . . . and then that
Phillies game. You just never knew. . . . He'd told him "No more!"  But PJ
was the kind who set his own rules. "Too much like me, that's what." The
words came out under his breath.

Why? Why? Why had he let himself get so attached?

Of course it had been the contract. That damn thing had been the start of
it. "Let the kid come meet you," his agent had said. It had seemed such a
simple thing. But then he'd met PJ, and nothing after that had been
simple. . . .

"If neither foe nor loving friend can hurt you." Jack softly quoted
Kipling's words. "If all men count with you, but none too much."

Kipling . . . the one guy whose stuff he'd liked in all those English
classes they'd made him take while playing ball in high school and
college. That guy told it like it was. But Jack wondered if Mr. K. had
written that glib shit about people not counting too much before or after
losing his only son in World War I. "Before, I bet," he muttered
bitterly. It was all very well to talk about people not counting too
much--until you lost them. Then try it. Try losing your wife and kid. "You
don't get over that, Mr. K," he whispered. "People say you do. But we know
better, don't we."

And then he'd met PJ. His son, almost alive again right down to the same
age and birthday. And oh God, everything he could have ever wanted a son to
be. Smart, affectionate, brave as a lion--his Little Champ. A winning,
wonderful kid. God, how could you not reach out to him? And yet, at the
same time, how not flinch away? A specter from the past. All that fear of
being hurt again. There was fine print in a "Father Contract." Commitment,
responsibility, attachment. Pieces of yourself you had to offer. When loss
ripped that all violently away, it left raw wounds.

In a way, Kipling had been right. Let all men count with you--but none too
much. Entanglements, commitments, affection--they were all distractions. A
man who wanted to achieve couldn't afford them. But achievement came at a
price. Oh yes, you paid a price. He'd kept his wife and son at arm's length
while ambition drove him to achieve baseball greatness. He had never been
there for them. That was why his boy had yearned to see him so badly. That
was why they'd been on that stupid charter jet when it crashed. A stupid
accident on their way to see him. He still had nightmares of his little boy
screaming in terror as the plane went down! Stupid, stupid! And he lived
with the guilt. The stupid, stupid guilt.

Not again. Not ever again. Once burned, twice shy! No one gets close. He
hadn't thought about another woman since his wife died. But another
boy?. . .

He knew how to survive. You built a fortress wall about your true self and
remained safe behind it. You let people approach, but allowed no one
in. You created the Jack Canon the fans wanted to see, and let them believe
it was you. But there was that other price! It was lonely within that
wall. Charlie, his little boy's best friend, had almost made it inside, but
he'd ended up resisting him. Then had come PJ.

God, the way that kid looked at him sometimes! Like an instinctive force,
using that damn contract to smash his way into his heart! But what could he
have done? He'd needed that contract with the Red Sox, the kid knew it, and
then had conned him into a contract of his own. So there had been those
promises he should never have made, didn't want to make. And yet, God help
him, hadn't minded making them either. They had meant so much to this
boy--now his boy?

Jack shook his head. From outside the plane came a rumble as the air stairs
were moved away. Then the noise of the boarding door being closed. Behind
him, the other Red Sox players settled into seats, talking and
laughing. With a sigh he stared out his window at the crowd of fans still
waving from behind the barriers, some of them young boys.

Occasionally he was sure that he could feel PJ's thoughts across the
distance that separated them. He thinks about me, I know he does! Right
before that third Mariner's game, facing elimination, it was as if he'd
heard PJ voice telling him, "Go on, Jack! You can do it! Never say die!"
And they had gone on, to that miracle comeback sweep. Now they were playing
for the American League Championship, and he could still feel that
confidence, that certainty that they would win . . .  Then would come the
Series. And to hell with the "Curse"! Who believes in courses anyway, or
premonitions, or anything except your own eyes, your own brain, your own
skill, your own determination!

 But it wasn't just thoughts. At Baltimore, before this game they'd had to
win to stay in contention, he'd been signing autographs during batting
practice when he'd heard, "Jack . . . Jack!" PJ's voice, sure as hell! He
would have known it anywhere! Of course, he'd looked around, but PJ wasn't
there. And yet, in the strangest way, he had been, standing right next to
him, looking up in that way he had. "Jack," the kid was saying, "You're
gonna win. I know it! I believe in you . . . "

And they had won. A tough game, but they'd won. He'd gone three-for-four at
the plate that night. It had been his first real sense that the awful slump
was behind him.

Jesus, he had to admit to himself that he missed PJ! Yet way down deep he
was scared. It was more than just fear . . . but the risk of being hurt
again . . . and of hurting PJ in the process by failing to be a good father
for the second time around! And so he'd had to send him away that time in
Chicago. And because Jack knew PJ wouldn't leave of his own accord, he had
to act mean, and he hated himself for that!

And there was another good reason to do what he did, he thought,
scowling. All it would take was one smart-ass sportswriter to start
speculating, "We never see him with a girlfriend, he doesn't date. But you
know how he is with kids. And he hangs out all the time with that
twelve-year-old boy . . . "

Christ! Wouldn't that be a mess!

Out on the wings, the jet engines whined as they ran faster, and the plane
began to taxi. But he couldn't get PJ out of his head. His longing to see
that boy again was like an ache in his heart. He could hear his voice. He
longed to be with him despite himself. And the images of PJ in his mind's
eye: PJ in his football uniform, PJ in his baseball uniform, PJ in his swim
suit, PJ naked when he stripped him that time for bed . . .

No! Surely there wasn't a physical attraction there! Unthinkable!

Jack grabbed the palm computer out of his duffel bag and stared at it. The
kid's gift to him. He used the damn thing so often now he'd probably be
lost without it. He idly ran a fingertip over the buttons. There was a
combination of key strokes that would take him to where PJ had left
messages. He hadn't looked at any since reading the one about PJ coming to
Chicago.

Perhaps it wouldn't be hard to do so now . . .

No! That's all behind me.

He quoted Kipling to himself again. "Long ago and far away." Let there be
no distractions! All that stuff--commitments, affection,
responsibility--that led straight back to the slump.

"I'm no good as a father," he muttered, shoving the computer into his
bag. "This is how it's gotta be." Besides, he thought, what the hell. There
are dozens of people who can take care of the kid at that gold-plated
school he's at. PJ will be fine.

Oh yeah? Sure of that, are you?

Grimacing, Jack squeezed his fists tight in an attempt to shut out the
voice of his conscience. But the voice persisted. What crap! All those
excuses. You're a coward is what it is. You're scared that if someone gets
close to you, you'll be hurt again. That kid needs you. You know he does.

"But dammit, I'm no good for him!" Jack insisted aloud.

* * *

There was a jolt as a lanky form dropped heavily into the seat beside him.
"Here you are," Jim Wagoneer said, fumbling around for the lap belt.
"Sitting all alone, and talking to yourself. Looks like I'm just in time to
keep the Pride of the Red Sox from goin' round the goddamn bend!"  He
grinned at Jack. "Figured I'd come up here. Got tired of listenin' to those
sportswriters yackin' about how great you are."

"Fuck them!" Jack told him. "I better spend part of this flight reminding
everybody that baseball's a team sport, not a one-man show! Cleveland's not
gonna roll over and let us beat 'em!"

"Amen, brother. And on that note . . ." Jim opened a loose-leaf binder he'd
brought. "Let's you an' me pore over these-here scouting notes for the
umpteenth-millionth time, shall we?"

"Damn right." Jack shifted over for a clear view of the binder's pages. No
more about PJ! Get the kid outta your head.

When the big Red Sox jet took off, engines roaring, Jack and the reserve
bullpen catcher barely noticed. Both were in deep concentration, their
heads together over the reports.


				   * * *

Author's Note: It's my hope that by the end of this chapter, all you folks
who are mad at Jack will see him in a different light.  He hasn't forgotten
about PJ, no more than PJ's forgotten about him!  Will there be some magic
in game seven of the World Series?  (And you know there's gonna be a game
seven!)  Stay tuned. -- A.J.

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT THIRTY-SIX

Editor Paul K. Scott's e-mail: paulkdoctor@gmail.com

    Please feel free to write in because A. J. and I love to hear from you!