The Corolla, that grumpy old Japanese man, refused to start. So they walked to the subway. This made Ted uncomfortable because he had kept his father in that newsless bubble, pretty much sealed off from the world, for the past few weeks. Marty had not ventured beyond the inside of the house, the inside of the car, and a daily visit to Benny’s kiosk, where the old men had helped keep the Sox bubble sealed quite expertly. Ted had managed the VCR charade extremely well and had even convinced Marty that the “A-maz-in’” Bill Mazer was on vacation, so they had stopped watching the sports recap at night. The subway and the walk to Maria’s apartment was a haphazard free-for-all in comparison. Ted was on high alert. He felt like the secret service. The Marty perimeter must not be compromised.
It reminded Ted of when Marty would take him to the park for pickup football. Football wasn’t like softball to Marty, he didn’t bet on it, didn’t take it at all seriously. So he’d allow unathletic Ted to be a part of it. Ted would have been about ten, and Marty would make sure that he got picked among the men. Ted was the only kid there and he wasn’t there because he was good. He was there because Marty was the best quarterback in the neighborhood, and if he wanted his kid to play, his kid would play. Marty would give Ted a route to run on every play—down and out, down and in, stop and go—and Ted would dutifully run them. Nobody guarded Ted. He didn’t know, but he was playing in a game of his own. If it was five on five, Ted would be the sixth man on his father’s team. Marty would call plays in their huddle for the men and, as they’d break, he’d whisper a route in Ted’s ear. The words were magical and sometimes military, like macho spy talk—buttonhook, down and in, slant, bomb. Ted couldn’t remember if he ever got the ball thrown to him, but Marty would always look him in the eye and say, “We’re saving you for a critical moment. They’re gonna forget about you and that’s when I’ll hit you. Get open, buddy boy. You’re my secret weapon.” It never mattered that he didn’t get the ball; it was the nicest thing his father ever said to him. He was his father’s “secret weapon,” and that was more than enough. The weapon had never been deployed on the asphalt. But tonight it was. Ted was going long and really was, after all, Marty’s secret weapon.
Marty had insisted on bringing a six-pack of beer for the occasion. Ted had suggested wine or champagne; Marty was sure that beer was the right call. Marty also refused to bring his cane. Kinda broke Ted’s heart a little that Marty wouldn’t bring the cane, struggling to appear vigorous and healthy. Marty caught sight of himself in the car-window reflection, and was unable to hide his disappointment. “Whenever I catch my reflection,” he said, “I expect to see a sixteen-year-old kid and I point at it, and think, Who is that old man?”
When necessary, he leaned on Mariana for support. In solidarity with Marty, Ted and Mariana had both dressed nicely for the occasion.
As they sat in the lurching subway car, Marty saw an abandoned New York Post on the seat next to him, and he reached for it idly. Ted, the secret weapon, pounced and grabbed the paper from his father. Marty looked irritated. “What are you doing?”
“You don’t wanna get that newsprint ink all over your hands. You’ll look like a bum. Let me see your cravat now, Captain.”
Ted reached over and fiddled with Marty’s tie the same way Marty would have knotted Ted’s tie so many Thanksgivings ago. It seemed each action tonight was fraught with symbolism and import. It made Ted feel like he was inhabiting two worlds, the real and the symbolic. He felt a slightly pleasant vertigo from this. Mariana reached over to straighten Ted’s tie. Ted looked at Mariana and wished there were something out of place on her that he could touch or correct. But there wasn’t. She was perfect.