Date: Sat, 20 Feb 2016 14:08:32 -0500
From: Paul Knoke <paulkdoctor@gmail.com>
Subject: Installment Fory-Three of "The Father Contract"

INSTALLMENT FORTY-THREE
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 Seventy-Nine: The Curse of the Bambino

In the early morning, before leaving for swim practice, PJ checked the Red
Sox website to confirm what he already knew. They had lost Game Five.
Sometime in the late innings, the Boston lead had slipped away and Atlanta
had won 8-5! He looked at the individual statistics. Jack had gone three
for four at the plate and hit a home run, but the rest of the Red Sox team
hadn't fared so well. Over nine innings, they'd left eleven men on base.

Staring at the computer screen in the darkened room, with Erik asleep in
the other bed and the House silent around him, PJ shivered with an eerie
sensation. It wasn't exactly fear, but there was a scariness to it,
something a bit like what he experienced in his dreams: Jack had known all
along! Jack knew everything!

The Series was coming back to Fenway Park. Jack had already made those
tickets possible. They served as this clear message: I need you, Little
Champ, to which PJ replied, whispering in the darkness, "I'm coming, Jack."

After turning off his computer, he prepared to go across the hall to get
Phil.

At practice that morning, Seth noticed him, smiled, and said, "Maybe we'll
be seeing your Red Sox play after all." Later, over breakfast, Erik
insisted, "Atlanta just got lucky in those last two games. The Sox are back
home again. They'll win tomorrow and the Series will be over! An' that'll
be awesome! They'll win the Series at Fenway!" To which Phil added, "The
Sox have just gotta win!"

Then Brian interjected, "But suppose there really is a Curse of the
Bambino?"

"What's that?" Phil asked." Who's "Bambeanie"?

The other boys laughed. "That's OK, Phil," said Brian. "It's pronounced
'Bam-bean-o.' I didn't know what it meant either, until PJ told me. It's
about Babe Ruth, right, PJ?"

PJ, whose thoughts had been wandering, re-focused on the conversation.
"Yup," he answered. "Babe Ruth is the most famous ballplayer ever. He was
the 'Sultan of Swat,' also nicknamed 'The Bambino'. He played for the Red
Sox until they sold him to the New York Yankees a long, long time ago.
Since then they've never won a World Series. That's the "Curse."

Phil stared at him. "You mean Babe Ruth put a curse on them because they
sold him?"

"Nah," answered Erik. "People just say that. But since then, they've never
won any big playoff games. Isn't that what you told me, PJ?"

"They won some American League pennants. But never the World Series. Not
since 1918." PJ looked thoughtful. "The Curse of the Bambino is a legend.
Yet lots of people believe it's true. People say that because of it, the
Red Sox can't win the World Series even with Jack Canon. But I know they
will! Jack won't get beat by any curse. I believe in him."

While the other boys talked, PJ stared off into space, visualizing how it
would be: Together. Me an' Jack. The Red Sox will win the Series! An' then
everything will be all right.

Now that he had a definite plan to see Jack, PJ found it difficult to think
of anything else. It needed a special effort by him to concentrate on his
classwork in the following hours. He got through football practice by
pushing himself hard, so lost in the rhythm of physical activity that Erik
had to nudge him several times to get his attention.

That night he debated with himself over sending Jack an e-mail telling him
that he was coming. Finally, he decided that he had better do it. Jack had
gotten angry each time in the past when he'd shown up unexpectedly. Even
though Jack had sent for him this time, it might be better to give him a
"heads up." He opened his mailbox, called up a "new" message page, typed in
a greeting, and started by telling Jack how sorry he was about the Red Sox
loss the previous night.

"If it will make you feel any better," he wrote, "we won our football game
yesterday. It was a real good game against Essex Academy. They were all
nice kids. When we were shaking hands afterwards they all told me to wish
you good luck in the series. They are all rooting for you. Walter sent me
the tickets you got. I hope you win the series on Saturday. But in case
there is a 7th game on Sunday, I want you to know that I will be there.
You and me together, Jack. The Red Sox will win. I have to see you,
Jack. Just for a minute. Thats all, I promise. I know you are real busy.
But can I please, please see you for just a minute? Can you fix it? Maybe
you can leave my name at the clubhouse door or something.  I really, REALLY
need to see you. I hope more than anything that you win on Saturday. But if
not I will be there on Sunday and I know you will win then.  Good
luck. Love, PJ."

He intentionally didn't mention anything about the Curse because it might
bring Jack bad luck. After signing it and sending the message off without
proofreading it, he buried himself in his homework to keep his mind
distracted. When bedtime came, he settled comfortably under the covers, and
read The Secret Garden until his eyes wouldn't stay open any longer. Only
then did he turn out his reading light and allow himself to sleep.

The next day, Saturday, PJ kept up his strategy of remaining busy to avoid
thinking too much about his trip. Luckily, there was plenty to do. Football
scrimmages filled the morning, after which the Top Floor Gang picked up
Billy and decided to do their weight workout right away since he couldn't
be with them on Sunday. Afterwards, they held a secret practice in Billy's
backyard, and when he had to leave with the rest of his family for the
drive to his grandmother's, he anxiously reminded them, "Don't forget to
come next Saturday."

"Don't you worry, Little Brother," Erik assured him. "We'll be here."

After dinner, PJ skipped the Hobby Shop and ran up to his room where he
polished off all of his weekend assignments. When he and Erik headed
downstairs to watch the Red Sox, he'd already prepared everything he would
need on Monday and tucked the tickets safely away in a desk drawer. The
Common Room was crowded with boys anxious to see what everyone expected
would be the last game of the World Series.

"You know," said Eric, who squeezed in on the sofa next to PJ, "in a way
it's good that the Sox lost those two games, 'cause now they get to win the
Series at home."

	"Yeah." PJ nodded in agreement. Winning at Fenway was definitely
better. And it could happen this very night in Game Six. If it did, would
that mean there was no Curse, that Jack hadn't arranged for the tickets
after all? His stomach clenched at the thought, but Game Seven or no Game
Seven, he and Seth would still go to Boston. And Jack just had to be
there. PJ didn't envision any other possibility. He had to see Jack!

"Wow! Check it out!" Erik was staring at the TV picture which had suddenly
expanded to a spectacular nighttime aerial view of Fenway Park, the
perfectly manicured grass of its beautiful emerald playing surface
dazzlingly illuminated amid dull-lit surrounding streets. There was a
thrilling fanfare of music. World Series graphics flashed on the screen. In
awed tones, the voice of a famous commentator, said:

"From Boston's historic Fenway Park, the oldest venue in Major League
baseball, home of the Green Monster--Welcome to our continuing coverage of
the World Series!"

Cameras in the stadium panned over the grandstand, showing the retired
numbers of former Red Sox greats, before focusing on the smiling features
of Jack as he warmed up. The TV picture then cut to a shot of him
surrounded by kids, signing autographs before the game. That was followed
by a short interview in which Jack praised the fans of Boston and thanked
them for the support they were giving the team. Live coverage resumed with
two commentators in their booth above the field.

	One said to the other, "Jack Canon is clearly one of the all-time
great players in baseball and one of its all-time great gentleman as
well. He's done an amazing job in these playoffs. He's been the heart and
soul of the Red Sox all year."

	"He certainly was," his partner agreed, "and tonight he may take
his team all the way to the goal so many Red Sox fans have dreamed of for
so long. Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, stay tuned because coming up
we have great pitching, great hitting, and a possible crowning of a World
Champion--all for you, live, in our coverage of Game Six of the World
Series!"

The TV cut to a commercial.

	"Boston's gonna do it tonight," Brian said. He and Phil were curled
up on the floor, leaning against Erik and PJ's legs. "It would be awful
hard for Atlanta to win three straight," Phil agreed. PJ kept watching the
screen for glimpses of Jack. The cameras showed him for a few seconds,
trotting out to right field for the start of the game, waving to the
cheering fans.

Right from the first inning on, the game that night seemed to be all Red
Sox. After they'd scored an early run to take the lead, Jack came up in the
third inning amid a dramatic situation-- two outs and two men on base! When
he shattered his bat fouling off a 2-1 pitch, the TV crew focused on a
teenaged Red Sox batboy who wiped the handle of a new bat with pine tar
before bringing it out to him. He said something and Jack smiled back. PJ
didn't recognize him and wondered what had happened to the two other
batboys he'd met the previous spring. With the chant of "Jack . . . Jack
. . . Jack . . . Jack . . ." thundering in the stands, the Red Sox star
unloaded on the next pitch and sent it deep into the right-field
seats. Both the crowd at Fenway and the boys watching in the Common Room
went wild.

"Oh, man!" Erik yelled as he pounded PJ on the shoulder. "What a shot!"
Brian and Phil were both on their feet jumping and cheering. "Four to
nothing!" Phil said happily. "Boston's gonna take the Series!"

It seemed so. Inning followed inning with Atlanta failing to score or even
get men on base. Some of the boys that had been watching the game went
upstairs to bed. The Top Floor Gang, however, stayed wide awake. And PJ had
a peculiar feeling that the game wasn't done yet. Each time Jack came to
bat, he crossed his fingers.

In the eighth inning, Atlanta scored a run and the Red Sox manager changed
pitchers. Later, when the Sox had their turn at bat, PJ waited for them to
put some insurance runs on the board, but the bottom of the Red Sox order
failed to get a hit.

For the top of the ninth, Boston brought in its closer and Atlanta came to
bat. The Red Sox closer had been exciting all year, getting himself in and
out of late inning jams over and over. Would he avoid that this time? Heart
pounding fast, PJ crossed his fingers again. In the excitement of rooting
for a Red-Sox victory, he'd forgotten all about how winning the Series now
would eliminate the need for a Game Seven. Just win! Wasn't that all that
mattered?

The closer started well. He struck out the first Atlanta batter. But then
he proceeded to walk the next two. The huge Fenway crowd tried to cheer him
on. Atlanta was into the top of their order now. Their fourth batter worked
the count full before unloading on a curve that broke over the plate. It
was a double! The ball was hammered all the way to the right-centerfield
wall. Two runs scored, including the second man who'd walked, coming all
the way around from first and just barely sliding in under the catcher's
tag at home plate. The batter ran from second to third on the play. Now
everyone at Fenway Park was on their feet. PJ and Erik were on the edge of
their seats. "They're still ahead," Erik said tensely. "All they need are
some outs." The pitching coach for the Red Sox came out to the mound for a
conference. "I bet that's exactly what he's telling the pitcher," PJ said.

"They better watch out for a bunt from this next guy," Phil said tensely.

Phil proved to be exactly right. The Atlanta team was famous for its
excellent bunting, and they tried one on the first pitch. But the bunt was
poorly executed. It hopped out quickly just to the left of the pitcher's
mound where the Red Sox closer pounced on it. The runner from third
scrambled back to the base. The pitcher turned to throw to first for the
out. The only trouble was--he didn't have the ball! In his haste to look
the runner at third back, he'd let it slip out of his grasp. It was still
lying on the ground in front of him. The batter reached first long before
he could pick it up again. No one had scored, but everyone was safe.

"Oh boy," PJ groaned.

"It's still OK," Erik reassured him. "Now they have a good double-play
situation. All they have to do is get this next guy to hit one on the
ground."

That was what the Red Sox closer tried to do. With all the Red Sox faithful
cheering him on, he kept his pitches low to the Atlanta hitter. But the
batter outlasted him and drew a walk.

The bases were loaded.

The Fenway fans began to stomp and whistle. They were desperate for the Red
Sox to get a double play and win the game. The tension both in the stadium
and in PJ was unbearable. He leaned forward to watch, his heart thudding.

The next batter hit a whistling ground ball to the right side. Double play!
Every fan thought the same thing. This is it!  But the baseball flashed
past the second baseman's outstretched glove and rolled into the
outfield. By the time the center fielder could get to it, two more runs had
scored and the Braves had taken the lead.

"In Atlanta they must be going nuts right now," Erik observed glumly.

"It's the Curse," Brian said. "It's gotta be. We had this game won."

"It's not over yet," PJ told them. "Jack's gonna be up when we get our turn
at bat."

"Jack can do it," Phil said quietly. "I just know he can."

"They gotta get out of this mess first," Erik groaned. "There's only one
out, and still a guy on third."

The Red Sox changed pitchers again. The game had been going for over three
hours now and it was getting close to midnight, but none of the Top Floor
Gang were having any trouble staying awake.  Unfortunately, the new Boston
pitcher had no better luck than his predecessor. He walked his first
batter, giving Atlanta yet another base runner. To no avail, of course, the
restless Fenway crowd booed the umpire's call on the last pitch.

Erik shook his head in frustration. "I don't believe this!"

"That was a strike," Phil complained as they watched the replay.

PJ was so tense he couldn't say anything. What must Jack be thinking? he
wondered. Yet he was almost certain that he knew. Jack's told me many
times. He could almost feel the hand on his shoulder, almost hear the deep,
calm voice saying, "Never give up, Little Champ." He'd told PJ that so
often!

"Never give up, Little Champ. Never, never say die!"

The Boston reliever walked around the mound to settle himself and got ready
to pitch to the next Atlanta batter. It was their centerfielder: a young,
strong player who had been a rookie sensation several years before and now
was one of their best hitters. "This guy can park it," Erik remarked. "They
better watch out!"

Yet instead of swinging for the fences, the Braves hitter got underneath
the first pitch and sent a short blooper fly ball to right field.

"It'll drop in for more runs!" Brian exclaimed.

PJ caught his breath. On the screen, he could see Jack running in.

	"Canon's trying for it!" the TV announcer screamed. "There's no way
he can get to it! Look at him come!"

There was a breathless instant when it seemed that Jack's desperate race to
the ball would come up short--and then . . . Jack dove forward, glove
extended. He seemed to fly through the air--and the ball dropped into his
glove, just inches before it hit the ground. With a twist of his body, he
bounced up and heaved the ball like a missile to first base where the
Atlanta runner, convinced that the short fly had been uncatchable, was
caught off the bag halfway to second base.

	"I don't believe it! I don't believe it! I don't believe it!" the
TV commentator was beside himself, shouting into his microphone. "What an
incredible play! The inning is over! The inning is over! Canon has made a
double play on one of the most sensational catches I have ever seen! Listen
to this crowd! Ladies and gentlemen, when we come back, we'll go to the
bottom of the ninth with the Atlanta Braves up by only one!"

		In the Common Room, Phil was pounding Brian on the
shoulders and Erik was hugging PJ. The boys were all cheering wildly. "Jack
did it!" Phil kept yelling. "He did it! He'll bring them back now. I know
he will."

"What a play," Erik yelled. "What a play!"

"I hope Billy got to see that," PJ said, smiling. He was thinking of a
similar play, his own . . . when? It was hard to remember. But he knew he'd
wished more than anything that Jack had seen it.

"They've just got to come back and win now," Brian said. "They just have
to."

The bottom of the ninth opened with the first Red Sox hitter flying out to
the second baseman on a hard line drive.

"Bad luck!" Eric groaned. "A few inches either way and that's a base hit."

"I've had that happen to me." PJ said, shaking his head. "It's a lousy
feeling."

The next batter was Jack. As the stadium rocked with the chant "Jack
. . . Jack . . . Jack!," he stepped in confidently and smashed a curveball
deep into the right-field corner. It missed being a home run by
inches. Only an outstanding play by the Atlanta fielder prevented it being
a triple. "If Jack scores, he ties it up," said PJ. "Come on, guys. Bring
him home!"

But it wasn't to be. Despite all the cheering of PJ and his friends and all
the urgings of the Fenway faithful, the next two Red Sox batters went down
in order with ground balls to the infield. Through it all, Jack had
remained confident and cheerful out at second base, calling encouragement
to his teammates. After the last out, while the camera was showing the
Atlanta Braves players celebrating, PJ could see, in the background, Jack
running over to the batter who'd made the last out, patting him on the back
and saying something to him.

After the game the television commentators had a lot to say about the Curse
of the Bambino.

	"It may be that the jinx on the Red Sox is too strong for even Jack
Canon to break," one was saying.  "Jack is certainly the greatest player of
our time. He has performed magnificently in these playoffs. He can hit, he
has made great defensive plays. We saw him make a play tonight that
surpasses anything I have ever witnessed. But it still wasn't
enough. Perhaps the Curse really is just too powerful!"

	"I don't know about curses," his partner added. "But tonight we saw
Atlanta pull off one of the great comebacks of all time to tie this
Series. If they manage to win tomorrow night, they'll be one of only a very
few teams to come back after losing the first three games."

	The TV crew cut to an interview with Jack. "Jack," the reporter was
yelling over the noisy mob around them, "Atlanta has come all the way back
after losing the first three games to you. Do you still believe you can
win?" The TV camera showed Jack's face in close-up. As PJ saw the eyes and
heard the familiar voice of the man he wished more than anything in the
world was his father, he felt a great longing well up inside him.

	"Atlanta is a great baseball team," Jack told the
reporter. "Tonight they played like the champions that they are. They never
gave up and they came from behind to win. But we have a championship team
too. We never thought that beating Atlanta would be easy. It hasn't been
and it won't be. But we're going to do it. This Red Sox team is a very
great team. It will rise to the challenge."

	 He turned to look directly at the camera. "The Boston Red Sox fans
are the best fans in the world!  You've been with us all year. Be there for
us tomorrow night. Don't let us down. Just remember, you're rooting for one
of the greatest teams in the history of baseball. We never say die!" (to
PJ, it felt as if Jack's eyes were boring into him). When Jack nodded and
abruptly walked away, the TV picture returned to the commentators'
booth. "Can he do it?" the announcer asked his color man.

	 "I don't know." The man was slowly shaking his head. "It's the Red
Sox . . . it's Fenway Park . . . so much history . . . so many
disappointments." He gestured towards the field which was visible behind
them. "It's strange. It's almost as if this Series had to go seven
games. It's as if the Red Sox are waiting to find some missing piece before
they can break through the Curse." With a final shake of his head, the
color man finished with, "I'm not sure of anything. Except this: It's going
to be quite a game here tomorrow night! Probably as great a game as this
wonderful historic ballpark has ever seen!"

	  His partner smiled into the camera. "And we'll be right here to
bring you all the action. Tomorrow night, ladies and gentlemen, join us
here at Fenway for the Seventh and final game of this World Series when we
will crown a new World Champion!"

	  The next images on the screen were two pictures side-by-side. One
was of Jack. The other was of Babe Ruth.

	Mr. Williamson walked in, turned off the TV, and sent them all to
bed. Four tired Top Floor Gang members climbed the three flights of stairs
up to their rooms.

"I can't believe the seventh game of the Series is going to end up on a
school night," Brian complained. "We won't be able to watch the whole
thing."

"We'll just have to catch the end of it on the radio," Erik said. "Maybe
what we should do is try to nap tomorrow afternoon so we can stay up late."

"I'm going to try and do that," Phil said, yawning. "I don't want to miss
any of it."

PJ remained quiet. He was thinking about the interview after the game. When
Jack had looked at the camera and stared out of the screen, PJ had been
convinced that he was talking to him personally. He must have gotten my
e-mail! He needs me. He's sent for me! I'm coming, Jack. I'll be there. He
got ready for bed and slipped under the covers, but for a long time he
couldn't get to sleep because he was thinking about the next day. Against
all the odds the Series had gone to seven games. Jack had known it
would. Jack had gotten him those tickets for a reason. The Curse was too
powerful for Jack to break all by himself. He needs me with him!

Tired. So tired . . .But so many thoughts in his head. His eyes wouldn't
close. Finally, he got up, went to his computer, and opened his mail
screen. He had no new messages. Why hasn't Jack answered me? I know he must
have gotten my message. Opening a blank notepad, he quickly typed,

"Dear Jack, I'm sorry you lost your game tonight, but it doesnt
mater. You're the greatest
baseball player in the world. I will be there for the game tomorow night.
I now you will
win. I beleve in you. I want you to be my friend forever. Love PJ."

He sent it without reading it over. Then he went back to bed.

The darkness invaded PJ's dreams that night. He awoke in a panic with his
heart pounding, and felt around himself frantically to see if he'd wet his
bed. He'd been searching for something everywhere, and he thought it had
probably been Jack. He looked around his room. In the dim glow of his
nightlight, he saw his roommate sleeping with the covers pulled up above
his chin. He regarded him for awhile and sighed. He wished he could sleep
the way Erik did. He got up again, opened the door of his closet so he
could see Jack's poster, and slid back under the covers.

As he waited for his heart to stop racing, he wondered if there were things
like curses too powerful for even Jack to overcome. His eyes wanted to
close, but remnants of foreboding from his dreams lingered, and he was
afraid to go to sleep. His head turned on the pillow as he sought a more
comfortable position, . . .  trying to remember. . . batting cages
. . . somewhere beneath a stadium . . . Ricky Vargas, the young Ranger
player at the All-Star game
. . . .

"You will break the Curse?" Ricky had asked, staring at him strangely.

Half-awake, PJ repeated aloud to the darkness what he had told Ricky. "I
believe in Jack Canon."

* * *

CONCLUSION OF INSTALLMENT FORTY-THREE

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