Their Last Game, Chapter Five

Two weeks later, Bobby sat in his unlit basement and watched the Senators-Indians game. At three- thirty just as the ninth inning was about to begin, Bobby saw JP walk in with an open Budweiser and stand over Bobby’s chair and say, “Watching the Senators?”

“Yeah.”

“Looks like they’re playing The Tribe. Is that Sam McDowell?”

“Yeah.”

“Sudden Sam, he’s something. How’s he doing?”

Sam McDowell

Sudden Sam McDowell

“Pitching a shutout. The Senators have two hits.” Bobby thought the sunlight seemed weaker in the black and white pictures, and the players seemed smaller and the late afternoon shadows seemed grayer. He watched the Senators’ second baseman Bernie Allen flail away at and swing under an incoming fastball.

“High gas,” JP said, “no way Bernie Allen is going to catch up with that.” Bobby noticed JP’s tired eyes, and brown smudges covered his white t-shirt.

“How was your job?” Bobby said.

JP’s not going to college was a touchy subject around the house. His dad seemed angrier about it than his mom, who believed JP would come around in time. Bobby didn’t know what to think, just not to bring it up.

“I’m learning a lot,” JP said, “about working for a living. The guys I work with don’t make it into Spring Valley that often.” Bobby turned to pay better attention to JP, who looked far away beyond the TV and took a healthy swig of beer.

JP appeared to snap out of it and looked at Bobby and said, “Did you know dad worked his way through Georgetown playing piano at The Carlton?”

Bobby had a difficult time seeing his dad doing something like that. “Nope,” he said at last. “What’s the Carlton? Where is it?”

“It’s a swanky hotel on 16th St. near Dad’s office. And get this: he once saw Howard Hughes there.” Bobby kind of nodded, and opened his mouth, but didn’t hear any words come out of him. He had heard the name Howard Hughes, but didn’t want to let on he didn’t know how significant that meeting was.

“He was pretty good,” JP said, “and those swells tipped well, and he made a lot of money. More than enough to pay his tuition and some left over to take mom out to a nice restaurant from time to time. His buddies envied him.”

“They couldn’t treat their girlfriends as well as dad. But dad had to work; granddaddy lost so much money at the track.” Bobby wanted to know about how and why granddaddy lost the money, but thought better about asking.

“He’ll tell you,” JP said, “he learned more about living at The Carlton than he did at Georgetown. I’ll go to college some day, but I want to find out how the world works.” Bobby heard Warner Wolf recapping the game, and Bobby got up and turned off the TV.

Warner Wolf

Warner Wolf

He didn’t know why JP told him these things, but he was glad he did. JP said, “I’ve got to let you know something, which may be hard for you to take, but I’m going to move out on my own, but don’t worry; we’ll still see a lot of each other.”

He knew JP had his reasons, but it was going to take some time before Bobby understood them. “And tomorrow,” JP said, “I’m going to buy a VW van. If you’re lucky, I’ll take you for a ride. Listen, buddy, I’m going to get out of these duds and hit the shower.”

Before JP left the room, Bobby felt JP place his hand on his back and smile at him in a way that told Bobby nothing could ever come between brothers.

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Their Last Game, Chapter Four

When Bobby arrived, the Tornado wasn’t in the driveway; his folks and Anna hadn’t returned from Uncle Finn’s. The Vista Cruiser was there, and if JP was home, he could drive Bobby to the hospital. But if JP was out, Bobby was screwed.

When Bobby entered the kitchen he saw JP standing by the stove, barefoot and in his boxer shorts and wearing an Ali- Frazier Fight of the Century t-shirt.

Ali Frazier fight

Poster for Ali – Frazier Fight of the Century.

In his left hand, JP held “The Washington Post,” creased and folded over, most likely to the sports page. Bobby knew JP paid too much for his shirt off a guy in Georgetown, but, for his hero, Ali, he said it was worth it.

Watching his brother turn strips of bacon in a large cast iron black pan filled with scrambled eggs, Bobby noted the lit cigarette resting on the countertop, and he watched JP bend and take a drag from it, drawing the paper closer to burner’s flame.

“Oh, crap,” JP said, and Bobby saw his brother look everywhere. The pan was on fire, and his brother sprinted toward the pantry door and opened it and threw the pan into the backyard. The door slammed, and Bobby saw JP, the fire apparently out, return to the kitchen.

“What the hell?” JP said. “Weren’t you supposed to be at Uncle Finn’s?”

“I … ”

“Jesus; I’m sorry. What the hell happened to you?”

“I was in a fight.”

“I guess so,” JP said, and Bobby saw JP approach him. “Take your shirt off so I can get a better look.” It stung Bobby when JP ran his hand over his wound. “You’re going to need a couple stitches. Keep that shirt on it. I’ll be right back.”

When JP returned, he held a tube of Neosporin, a gauze pad and some scissors and tape, and he was dressed in a navy golf shirt and chino shorts.

Bobby removed his shirt from his head and let his brother rub the ointment into his wound, and accepted the gauze pad JP handed him, and JP said, “Hold this on the cut while I cut the tape.”

Bobby said, “How do you know to do all this?”

“Guys at my job are always getting hurt, and they think I’m the smartest so it’s my job to patch them up. Okay. You can take your hand off.”

With the tape now applied to the gauze, JP said, “That ought to hold until I can get you to Georgetown. Hang on while I put this crap away. Then we’ll hit the road.”

Bobby sat in the station wagon’s passenger seat and waited for JP to adjust the seat. “Sorry,” JP said, his shifting the seat jarred Bobby. “I don’t know where anything is in this boat, and my legs are longer than mom’s.”

“Now. Tell me how all this happened. I’m not going to yell at you. I just want to know what happened.” They were waiting for the light at Nebraska and Nebraska to change, and when it did, JP turned left down Foxhall.

“I was shooting buckets at Friendship, and Harrison Bentley, the kid I slugged at Friendship and his buddy Rick Jenkins and these two goons I had never seen before ganged up on me. They got me down and started slamming me into the blacktop.”

Bobby’s voice was shaking, but he saw JP smile, and he said, “Take it easy.” They were at Foxhall and Reservoir now, waiting for the traffic on Foxhall to clear, and when it did, JP turned left down Reservoir.

“Okay,” Bobby said, “the worst part is this little weenie Bentley just stood back and let the others take their shots. After they’re through, the little snot acts like he’s been wailing on me all along.”

He looked up at JP, who smiled and said, “That Bentley kid was a girl to get other guys to do his dirty work, but that’s what guys like him always do. And no matter what, when you get into it with other guys, pay back is going to come, and you’ve got to ask: is it worth it?”

“And there’s nothing you can do about rich jerks like Bentley. They’re the worse kind. But jerks come in all sizes, shapes, and colors, and you can’t beat sense into them just because they look funny at you at a bar or you don’t like the pants they have on or something.”

When they pulled into the lot at Georgetown University Hospital, Bobby observed JP turn to him and look at him as if to ask if he got it, and Bobby smiled and nodded. JP parked the car. “Okay; we’ve got this boat docked,” he said. “Let’s get you patched up.”

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