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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Their Last Game, Chapter Two

shirley povich

Legendary “Washington Post” sportswriter Shirley Povich.

Bobby sat at the kitchen table the next morning at seven, and read about the Washington Senators in Shirley Povich’s column in the “Washington Post,” which even a kid could understand.

He thought a lot about the Senators’ planned move to Texas at the end of the season, but the red scratches above his knuckles concerned Bobby more.

His mom had bought the story about hitting his hand on a fence, but he suspected his dad only went along with it not to upset her.

Bobby heard the front door, and JP walked into the kitchen returning from a Friday night out. He was nineteen and had taken off from school to work construction.

6’4”, with a broad chest, and thick, muscular arms, he wore chinos, and brown Weejuns, and his receding black hair fell in ringlets over the collar of his crisp, French blue button down, and thick, long sideburns encroached upon his cheeks.

Bobby watched JP walk to the refrigerator and take out a half gallon can of Hawaiian Punch and rummage through a drawer and find a can opener and open the can. His brother stepped over to the cupboard and reached in and pulled down a glass and poured the drink unsteadily into it.

Some juice spilled on to the counter, and Bobby watched JP wipe the spill with a sponge on the counter and take a long drink of the juice and turn to Bobby and say, “How’s the boy?”

JP forced himself to be still and his eyes wandered away from Bobby, and his thick speech made Bobby wonder if JP was drunk. Bobby said, “Not bad.” And Bobby watched JP take another long drink, and slam his glass back to the counter, which startled Bobby.

Bobby clenched and unclenched his hand, and JP smiled and said, “What’s going on with your hand?”

“I punched this kid Harrison Bentley, and scratched my hand on his braces.”

“Did this Bentley kid get in any shots on you?”

“No.”

“Why the face?”

“I don’t want mom to know.”

“She won’t figure it out unless this kid squeals on you. Will he?”

“He’s too afraid of me.”

“You have nothing to worry about.”

“What about dad?”

“It won’t upset him if you’re fighting, if the kid had it coming, and he doesn’t want mom to know her angel is fighting.” His brother smiled and laughed, and said, “I’m going to hit it, buddy. Don’t sweat this thing.”

“Alright. Thanks,” Bobby said. Even if his brother’s words seemed to run together too quickly, Bobby still heard what he meant. And he watched his brother try to keep his balance as he left the room.

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