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3
I drove up the Mile-A-Minute Highway that Thursday afternoon. This time I didn’t need to buy a hat
when I got to Derry, because I’d remembered to add a nice summer straw to the purchases I made at
Mason’s. I registered at the Derry Town House, had a meal in the dining room, then went into the bar
and ordered a beer from Fred Toomey. On this go-round I made no effort to engage him in
conversation.
The following day I rented my old apartment on Harris Avenue, and far from keeping me awake,
the sound of the descending planes actually lulled me to sleep. The day after that, I went down to
Machen’s Sporting Goods and told the clerk I was interested in buying a handgun because I was in the
real estate business and blah blah blah. The clerk brought out my .38 Police Special and once more
told me it was a fine piece of protection. I bought it and put it in my briefcase. I thought about
walking out Kansas Street to the little picnic area so I could watch Richie-from-the-ditchie and
Bevvie-from-the-levee practice their Jump Street moves, then realized I’d missed them. I wished I’d
thought to check the late November issues of the Daily News during my brief return to 2011; I could
have found out if they’d won their talent show.
I made it a habit to drop into The Lamplighter for an early-evening beer, before the place started
to fill up. Sometimes I ordered Lobster Pickin’s. I never saw Frank Dunning there, nor wanted to. I
had another reason for making The Lamplighter a regular stop. If all went well, I’d soon be heading
for Texas, and I wanted to build up my personal treasury before I went. I made friends with Jeff the
bartender, and one evening toward the end of September, he brought up a subject I’d been planning to
raise myself.
“Who do you like in the Series, George?”
“Yankees, of course,” I said.
“You say that? A guy from Wisconsin?”
“Home-state pride has nothing to do with it. The Yankees are a team of destiny this year.”
“Never happen. Their pitchers are old. Their defense is leaky. Mantle’s got bad wheels. The Bronx
Bomber dynasty is over. Milwaukee might even sweep.”
I laughed. “You make a few good points, Jeff, I can see you’re a student of the game, but ’fess up—
you hate the Yanks just like everybody else in New England, and it’s destroyed your perspective.”
“You want to put your money where your mouth is?”
“Sure. A fin. I make it a point not to take any more than a five-spot from the wage-slaves. Are we
on?”
“We are.” And we shook on it.
“Okay,” I said, “now that we’ve got that accomplished, and since we’re on the subjects of baseball
and betting—the two great American pastimes—I wonder if you could tell me where I could find
some serious action in this town. If I may wax poetic, I want to lay a major wager. Bring me another
beer and draw one for yourself.”
I said major wager Maine-style—majah wajah—and he laughed as he drew a couple of
Narragansetts (which I had learned to call Nasty Gansett; when in Rome, one should, as much as
possible, speak as the Romans do).
We clinked glasses, and Jeff asked me what I meant by serious action. I pretended to consider, then
told him.
“Five hundred smacks? On the Yankees? When the Braves’ve got Spahn and Burdette? Not to
mention Hank Aaron and Steady Eddie Mathews? You’re nuts.”
“Maybe yes, maybe no. We’ll see starting October first, won’t we? Is there anyone in Derry who’ll
fade a bet of that size?”