Ted arrived at the hospital looking fresh faced and handsome with his new, late-’70s short hair. He was half hoping Mariana would see him and have second thoughts, but he didn’t see her. Papers in hand, he entered Marty’s room and sat down beside him. He took Marty’s hand and ran it over his scalp. “I cut that fucking hippie hair, Dad,” he said, “like you wanted me to.”
He picked up the Post and pointed. “And guess what? They’re tied. Boston did it. They came back. They won their last eight fucking games in a row, like champs. They didn’t fold, so now you don’t fold. C’mon, Dad, you’re immortal till October, you can’t go till the Sox win.” Even though there was not even a hint of response, Ted continued, “There’s a one-game playoff. They did a coin toss and it’s up in Fenway. They have home-field advantage. One game decides it all. I like Boston.”
Marty didn’t move.