One

Red Sox fans are nature’s yo-yos. On the way up, we experience an unreasonable exultation that assures us that all is right with the world, that the planets are aligned, and that God loves us. Then we crash, and as we fall we know that life is only suffering, that the world is a cold and malevolent place, and that love and passion are just ruses designed by a vengeful God to crush our spirits and kill our pathetic shoots of springtime hope.

It was a warm September night, and I was on the way up.

The Red Sox were winning. “Sweet Caroline” rang in the bottom of the eighth inning. And the seat next to me, instead of being empty, held a high school biology teacher named Lucy. We were on our third date, having navigated the shoals of introductions, coffee, and dinner to reach the point where I had invited her to a Red Sox game. Better yet, she had just invited me to her apartment to see a baseball autographed by Roger Clemens.

“Bum bum bum!” Lucy sang, pointing her finger at the field to punctuate each bum.

The song went on to say that good times had never seemed so good, and I had to agree. My seats are on the first base side of Fenway Park, up underneath the roof, protected from the rain in the fall and the sun in the summer. We had a clear view of the pitcher and plays at first base. My dad bought the seats in 1987, just after Bill Buckner and the 1986 Red Sox collapsed in the face of the Mets and the forces of history. He was sure that the Sox would be back in the World Series the following year, but he was wrong. The Sox didn’t see the World Series again until 2004, when we beat the Yankees four straight and swept the Cardinals.

I was at Game Four when Dave Roberts stole second base and reversed the curse, but my dad wasn’t. He had been dead for years, dropped by an aneurysm. I went to that game with my best friend, but I would have given anything for my dad to be standing next to me that day.

Lucy danced until the end of the song, her ponytail bobbing through the back of her pink Red Sox cap. We sat and I draped my arm around Lucy, squeezing her shoulder as she leaned into me. The Orioles bullpen was horrible. The Red Sox drew a walk, hit a single, and then hit a ground ball to the pitcher, who bobbled it, picked it up, looked at third, realized he was too late, spun to first, and realized he was too late again. Bases loaded.

I drank my beer and felt my Droid cell phone vibrate in my pocket. I looked at the screen. It was Bobby Miller, my buddy from the FBI.

Talking on a phone at Fenway was useless, so I texted.

At the ball game. Sox winning. Too loud to talk.

The phone buzzed again.

Need you now. Meet me at your house.

Lucy asked, “What’s up?”

“My buddy wants me to go home.”

“You’re not going, are you?”

I laughed and pointed the phone’s camera at her. “Smile.”

Lucy gave me a brilliant smile, all white teeth, blue eyes, and tanned September skin. I took the picture and showed it to her. She nodded and I sent it to Bobby’s phone with a message.

Busy tonight. See you tomorrow.

The Sox were already beating the Orioles 9–2, but the crowd smelled blood and was cheering for a complete drubbing. It looked like they were going to get it. The Sox cleanup hitter stepped to the plate.

My phone buzzed again.

Get your ducking app down here.

I showed my phone to Lucy. “He says I should get my ducking app down there.”

“Your ducking app? What’s a ducking app?”

I program computers for a living. I’m very good at it. I’m especially good at fixing bugs. All bugs look like this one: you have something that makes no sense, and you need to find the key that explains it. The answer usually comes in a flash of insight, like the one that hit me now.

I said, “Autocorrect. His phone thought it was fixing his spelling.”

Lucy grabbed my wrist, sending a thrill up my arm, and looked at the phone. “Fucking ass?”

“Bingo.”

“He said that you should get your fucking ass down there?”

“Yeah,” I said, typing.

Bite me.

The Sox grounded into a double play. The crowd moaned and sat. A few idiots started for the exits. Amateurs. You don’t sit through a whole baseball game and leave a half inning before it’s finished. That’s like leaving church in the middle of the closing prayers. Besides, half the fun of winning is listening to “Dirty Water” blare over the loudspeakers at the final out.

My phone buzzed again. I expected another badly spelled expletive, but instead Bobby had sent me a picture. I opened the picture and my stomach climbed through my chest. I put my beer down on my foot. It spilled under the seats. The crowd, the Sox, and even Lucy disappeared as I stared at a picture of a dead guy, lying on a brick sidewalk. The picture was small and grainy, obviously taken with Bobby’s camera phone.

It looked like my father.

My brain stuttered and locked up. The guy had my dad’s sandy brown hair, his pushed-in nose, his powerful, squat build. I had none of those things. I took after my mother, with her slender northern Italian roots. The guy’s eyes were open. Blood pooled on a brick sidewalk. I lived on a street with brick sidewalks.

I texted.

Is this guy in front of my house?

Yes.

I showed the picture to Lucy and said, “It looks just like my dad.”

She said, “But your dad’s dead, right?”

“Right.”

Another text from Bobby.

Now get down here.

Lucy stood. “Let’s go.”