The Fan by Peter Abrahams Page B

dirty mind of yours, Bernie. What you can do with spring training is what Moby Dick did to Captain Ahab.”
    “I’m sorry?”
    “Deep-six it, Bernie. Spring training doesn’t mean—what would be a good word?”
    “Squat?
”
    “Perfect. When are we going to learn? It’s the same routine every year. The pitchers always jump ahead of the hitters—that was certainly true this spring, with none of the Sox swinging the bat well, excepting Primo, who’s turned into Lou Gehrig, for how long we don’t know—and everybody goes to Wallyworld and lowers his handicap. The end.”
    “Then what’s the point?”
    “It’s the overture, Bernie.”
    “I like that. And the curtain goes up today?”
    “The moment the president of the United States throws that first pitch in the dirt.”
    “How do you know he’s going to do that?”
    “Because that’s the way things are breaking for him. Check out the front section of the paper, Bernie. It’s not just a protective wrapper for the sports.”
    Opening Day, and a beauty. Snow gone, temperature in the sixties, sky blue. Gil wore his lightweight tan suit, a blue shirt, the lucky yellow tie. He hit Mr. Fixit Hardware at nine on the dot, writing a two-box reorder on Swiss Army knives and selling a dozen Survivors, almost in passing; commission $59.36. Then he went to Cleats, ordered scrambled eggs, bacon, a draft. He took out his Survivor sample, just to assure himself he had really sold some.
    “What’s that?” said Leon.
    “The future of American blade making.”
    “Cool handle. How much?”
    “Retail? Seventy, seventy-five.”
    Leon reached into his pocket. “How about sixty, for a friend?”
    “It’s my sample.”
    “Seventy.”
    Gil sold the sample for $70. He felt a sudden lightness, as though something inside him had been cut loose from a heavy weight. Luck was in the air; such a rare sensation that at first Gil misidentified it as an alcohol buzz. He orderedanother draft, a small one, and studied the Opening Day sports supplements.
    The
Globe
had color photos of all the starters, complete with bios and lifetime stats. Rayburn lived in San Diego, with his wife, Valerie, a former cheerleader at the University of Texas, and their son, Sean, age five. He liked golf, country music, and, best of all, just hanging out with his family.
    “Three hundred and twenty-seven doubles,” said Gil.
    “Who?” asked Leon.
    “Rayburn. That’s averaging better than thirty a year. Averaging.” Gil tore out the half column devoted to Rayburn and put it in his pocket.
    “Where are your seats?” Leon asked.
    “Right behind home plate.”
    “Wave to the camera,” Leon said.
    Gil picked Richie up at eleven-thirty. Ellen was waiting at the door, coat on.
    “You’re late.”
    “Traffic.”
    “How original.”
    Richie stepped forward, wearing a Sox cap, carrying his glove. “Hi, Slugger,” Gil said.
    “Hi.”
    “When will you have him back?”
    “Hard to say, exactly.”
    “Approximately.”
    “Depends on the length of the game, right, Slugger?”
    “Yeah, Mom. What if it’s thirty-three innings, like Rochester–Pawtucket, 1981?”
    Ellen smiled. “Hum-babe,” she said, ruffling Richie’s hair. The moment she said that, Gil found himself wishing that he could undo some things, too many to count; that he could return to some fork in the road that he hadn’t even seen on the way by. Here were all the necessary parts—Richie, Ellen, himself—together in the front hall of Ellen and Tim’s triplex, no longer shaped to forge a whole.
    “Six at the latest,” Gil said.
    Ellen gave him a look he hadn’t seen in a long time, not completely hostile. Luck was in the air. “Have fun,” she said and kissed Richie good-bye.
    They got in the car. Gil made sure the tickets were in his pocket, then flipped on the JOC. “I’m psyched,” he said “How about you?”
    “What’s
psyched?
”
    “You know. Looking forward to it. Excited. Optimistic. Positive.”
    “About