They drove quietly as they made their way back to New York City, still in shock, really. Ted didn’t even put on the Dead. They were a couple of hours outside of the city, in middle-of-nowhere New England, when Ted finally spoke. “Bucky Dent? Sixty years and six innings and then Bucky Dent? Outta nowhere.”
Marty began to shake his head. “No, not nowhere. Of course, Teddy, of course it’s Bucky Dent.”
“What?”
“I never saw it before. I see it all now. All of it. It’s never Mickey Mantle that kills you. Never Willie Mays. Never the thing you prepare for. It’s always the little thing you didn’t see coming. The head cold that puts you in your grave. It’s always Bucky Dent.”
Ted looked at his father. The old man looked like he was in a trance, like a seer.
“And don’t let the Yankees fool you, Teddy, life’s not about winning, life’s about losing—Yankee fans don’t know anything about life, but Boston, Boston knows the truth.”
Ted nodded and kept his eyes on the road, as Marty grew hushed, but continued, “Life belongs to the losers, Teddy, like me and you. And Mariana. And Bucky Fucking Dent. Don’t ever forget that.”
“I won’t.”
Marty settled back in his seat and reclined it. He seemed to be drifting off, but then, almost like a benediction, he said, “God bless Bucky Fucking Dent.”
Ted smiled and repeated softly to his dad, “Yeah. God bless Bucky Fucking Dent.”
Ted waited for something else, but Marty had now grown quiet. He looked over at his father, who seemed very, very still despite the bumping of the road. Ted had a bad feeling announce itself. He extended his hand to touch Marty.
“Dad?”
Ted rested two fingers on his father’s neck for a pulse and found none, checked for breath escaping his mouth, felt none. Ted knew his father was dead. Marty was dead. Ted’s father was dead. He looked away from his father and back to the darkening road ahead, and said, only to himself now:
“God bless Bucky Fucking Dent.”