No job. Ted spent pretty much all his time at the hospital. Sometimes Maria would spell him, and he’d go watch the softball leagues in Central Park, but mostly he stayed with Marty. He and Mariana locked eyes occasionally, but they managed to avoid each other mostly, and Ted stifled his impulses to make a scene. Every day, he’d pull his seat up to the side of Marty’s hospital bed and read him all three daily papers from start to finish. It took hours, but Ted had nothing else to do. He had heard that people who awoke from comas could remember things that were said to them while they were gone. Ted felt a piece of Marty still remained. Somewhere. And he spoke to that part. Sometimes he would hold his dad’s hand.
The Red Sox were awful. Chokers. They were cursed. They had totally tanked to the Yankees, and the Yanks had taken a sizable lead. But then there was yet another shift, and the Sox showed signs of life while the Yanks started showing nerves. By September 17, Boston had made up some ground and were just two games down to the Yanks. Both teams kept winning now. It was neck and neck for weeks.
Ted read from the back of the Post to his father. “Sox made up a game, Dad. They’re hanging in there. Don’t leave the party yet. Try to stay, stick around and see what happens next, okay?”