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He and the large lady (Frati looked like a Tolkien dwarf next to her) consulted in whispers, then he
came back to the counter. “If you mean what I think you mean, I’ll take your action at four-to-one.
But if the Yankees don’t go down three-to-one and then bounce all the way back, you lose the bundle.
I just like to get the terms of the wager straight.”
“Straight as can be,” I said. “And—no offense to either you or your friend—”
“We’re married,” the large lady said, “so don’t call us friends.” And she laughed some more.
“No offense to either you or your wife, but four-to-one doesn’t make it. Eight-to-one, though . . .
then it’s a nice piece of action for both sides.”
“I’ll give you five-to-one, but that’s where it stops,” Frati said. “For me this is just a sideline. You
want Vegas, go to Vegas.”
“Seven,” I said. “Come on, Mr. Frati, work with me on this.”
He and the large lady conferred. Then he came back and offered six-to-one, which I accepted. It
was still low odds for such a crazy bet, but I didn’t want to hurt Frati too badly. It was true that he’d
set me up for Bill Turcotte, but he’d had his reasons.
Besides, that was in another life.
5
Back then, baseball was played as it was meant to be played—in bright afternoon sunshine, and on
days in the early fall when it still felt like summer. People gathered in front of Benton’s Appliance
Store down in the Low Town to watch the games on three twenty-one-inch Zeniths perched on
pedestals in the show window. Above them was a sign reading WHY WATCH ON THE STREET
WHEN YOU CAN WATCH AT HOME? EASY CREDIT TERMS!
Ah, yes. Easy credit terms. That was more like the America I had grown up in.
On October first, Milwaukee beat the Yankees one to nothing, behind Warren Spahn. On October
second, Milwaukee buried the Bombers, thirteen to five. On the fourth of October, when the Series
returned to the Bronx, Don Larsen blanked Milwaukee four-zip, with relief help from Ryne Duren,
who had no idea where the ball was going once it left his hand, and consequently scared the living shit
out of the batters who had to face him. The perfect closer, in other words.
I listened to the first part of that game on the radio in my apartment, and watched the last couple
of innings with the crowd gathered in front of Benton’s. When it was over, I went into the drugstore
and purchased Kaopectate (probably the same giant economy size bottle as on my last trip). Mr. Keene
once more asked me if I was suffering a touch of the bug. When I told him that I felt fine, the old
bastard looked disappointed. I did feel fine, and I didn’t expect that the past would throw me exactly
the same Ryne Duren fastballs, but I felt it best to be prepared.
On my way out of the drugstore, my eye was attracted by a display with a sign over it that read
TAKE HOME A LITTLE BIT O’ MAINE! There were postcards, inflatable toy lobsters, sweetsmelling
bags of soft pine duff, replicas of the town’s Paul Bunyan statue, and small decorative pillows
with the Derry Standpipe on them—the Standpipe being a circular tower that held the town’s
drinking water. I bought one of these.
“For my nephew in Oklahoma City,” I told Mr. Keene.
The Yankees had won the third game of the Series by the time I pulled into the Texaco station on
the Harris Avenue Extension. There was a sign in front of the pumps saying MECHANIC ON DUTY
7 DAYS A WEEK—TRUST YOUR CAR TO THE MAN WHO WEARS THE STAR!
While the pump-jockey filled the tank and washed the Sunliner’s windshield, I wandered into the
garage bay, found a mechanic by the name of Randy Baker on duty, and did a little dickering with