Out of Left Field by Liza Ketchum Page A

say. “We play Oakland first. We can beat the Twins—but it would be sweet to cream the Yankees, after the nightmare of Aaron Boone.” I omit Dad’s obscene moniker for Boone.
    “I’m with you on that one. Nothing like revenge.” Tony takes my e-mail, phone number and address, and tells me my tickets will be in the mail—“When, not if , we’re in the playoffs. And stay in touch. It’s good to chat with someone who’s paying attention.” His voice deepens. “My brother and I used to shoot the breeze about the Sox until he passed, last year.”
    “Damn. I’m sorry.”
    “Me too. It was a long, crummy death. Talking baseball helps me forget.”
    “No kidding.” Now there’s no excuse. I’ll have to read the sports page again, turn on the games.
    Back inside the pizzeria, the smell of cheese, oil and garlic assaults me, but today, I can handle anything. It’s only later, when the skin on my hands looks ancient from so many dishes, that I think about my so-called brother in Canada. Who may have a time bomb ticking in his chest. I’ve been so focused on Cora’s side of the family—and myself—that I forgot about the mystery guy. I keep a close eye on the clock.
    “See you tomorrow,” I call to Frankie.
    “Be careful.” He tosses the dough into the air, his signature salute. I give him a thumbs-up as it lands in his outstretched hands.
    *
    Coach reads the letter and rubs a hand over his shaved head. “Come back when you get the all clear. I’ve given your spot to Tarcher. I had no choice, with your no-show status. You’ll have to work your way off the bench.”
    Unbelievable. No sympathy whatsoever. This goes in the Be Careful What You Wish For category. I didn’t want pity, did I? Never mind. We’re both being honest. “Sure, Coach.” I leave before I say something I’ll regret. I’d go nuts on the bench. And I have more important things to do.
    It’s All in the Stats
    There’s a note from Mom on the kitchen counter: “Call when you get home. I’ll be back at six with cold soup,” signed with a smiley face. Perfect. This gives me lots of time.
    No messages on my cell. Damn. Why is Cora taking so long? Maybe my own workup took longer than I realized. I leave a message on Mom’s phone, tell her I’m still breathing, and spend the next few hours getting methodical, like a real detective. I jot down questions, dates, and Ray’s phone number in a blank notebook, then search online for information about men who went to Canada to escape the draft. There were border crossings around the Northeast, including at Niagara Falls. Is that where Dad went? It’s close to Toronto. In his farewell letter to Cora, Dad said he was cold—but it was winter; he could have been anywhere. Dad always said a ball player’s history was “all in his stats.” No stats for Dad. I’m groping in the fog.
    I learn about a book a guy wrote back then, called a Manual for Draft Age Resisters , and request a copy from inter-library loan. A lot of guys who ran away were almost my age. If they had a draft now—what would I do?
    I study Dad’s e-mails. He deleted most of his Sent file, except for the week before he died. Weird. Marty might know how to recover them, but he’d probably say it wasn’t kosher. Dad sent nothing to Ray in his last days on earth—but would Ray have Dad’s messages to him? Only one way to find out. Am I ready for that?
    I read through the rest of Dad’s letters to Aunt Cora, which are in order; Cora must have sorted them before she gave me the box. In Toronto, he made bread for everyone who lived in his house, bought clothes at a place called The Cosmic Egg (seriously?), went to hear Joni Mitchell, Neil Young, and Gordon Lightfoot at some club.
    Joni Mitchell? I take a break, search for her albums on Dad’s shelf. “Blue” plays as I follow Dad’s journey on to Montreal. That’s where he meets Ray Graham, adopts a kitten, gets his degree in social work at McGill. By the time Dad