One Batter One Pitch: Entrepreneurship; the Action B Baseball League; the Penultimate Boston Sports Bar; and Reverend Green's Life Training and Development Center

Copyright © 2008 by Michael A. Connelly

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This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Prologue

Kevin Rocky Collins grew up in the fifties and sixties, in the primarily Irish and Italian Boston working-class suburb of Hyde Park. He was the only child of a large, rawboned, charismatic, tough, somewhat overbearing, right-wing-leaning and closed-minded—but still periodically heroic—Boston police sergeant, Frank, and Frank’s beloved opposite, Gracie; pretty, petite, sweet, bright, funny, inquisitive, and easygoing.

Rocky was a true blend of his parents, inheriting all of his mother’s wit and intelligence and determination, most of her good nature, but only some of his father’s size, athleticism, toughness, and overall presence. And, truth be told, a somewhat problematically small measure of the physically imposing Frank’s very rugged good looks.

Frank was also a bronze-star and purple-heart-winning veteran of almost four years in the Pacific, a virtually maximum WWII stint that had forever derailed a marginally promising minor league baseball career, to that point still in the lowest level of the Boston Red Sox farm system. Frank’s disappointment in his own baseball fortunes did nothing to diminish his lifelong obsession—locally hardly unique—with those of the BoSox. Frank had also, while still a senior in high school, won a local Golden Gloves heavyweight-boxing tournament and then had a spattering of mostly successful professional bouts before embarking on that far-too-brief baseball career.

Postwar, he became a well-liked and even more respected Boston street cop, winning numerous commendations. Unfortunately, unlike his wife and son, he’d never been much of a student, and despite several years of hard study and grimly valiant attempts at passing the annual exam to qualify for promotion to lieutenant, he remained on the street as a sergeant. That compounding disappointment kept money relatively tight for the small family and also did nothing to dampen Frank’s taste for a few beers at the local VFW Post with thoroughly compatible fellow vets and cops.

Frank had initially worked hard with Rocky on all major sports, but especially baseball and boxing. Baseball was Frank’s real love, but the boxing training had been particularly necessary because somewhat undersized young Kevin’s determination and sharp tongue had gotten ahead of his ability to defend himself. Kevin took the instruction enthusiastically to heart, although he never did become the youthful neighborhood force that his father had been when growing up in his much tougher South Boston neighborhood. Frank still took to calling him Little Rocky, in honor of Frank’s own boxing hero, Brockton Blockbuster Marciano. As Rocky got into serious organized youth baseball and, despite ardent and joyful effort, didn’t excel to the point Frank had hoped—or even to the level Frank himself had—and it became obvious that professional ball was going to be out of the question, increasingly frustrated Frank drifted back to the company of his fellow hard-drinking vets and cops.

It also didn’t help that inveterate reader Rocky had to start wearing ever-thickening glasses at an unusually young age. Or even less that Rocky, feeling his father’s keen disappointment, pushed cautiously back now and then with his sharp humor, which Frank was incapable of recognizing as anything but backtalk from his undersized but frenetic and feisty wiseacre of a son.

Fortunately, Rocky’s energy, wit, general spiritedness, good heart underneath his caustic and combative humor, and his passion for sports—especially baseball, boxing, and weightlifting—garnered him a solid group of likeminded, mutually supportive, young male friends. And then it was primarily his unrelenting follow-up that kept these diverse childhood buddies in reasonably regular contact into adulthood. This interestingly varied group of old neighborhood friends included a gregarious power-lifting bartender and bar owner; an aspiring author and Vietnam vet; a disappointed, ex-professional baseball player; a bodybuilding gym owner; a charismatic, philandering salesman; and one transcendent business superstar.

Rocky himself worked diligently—not only with his studies, but also in simultaneously earning six years’ worth of tuition and living expenses—to earn a master’s degree in accounting and started as a junior auditor at the large national CPA firm Peters and Cutler. Hardworking and intelligent, he quickly progressed to senior auditor and team leader. But then, required to professionally interact with client senior managers—who naturally sported the gamut of temperaments—on accounting matters oftimes mundane and tedious but almost as often complicated and controversial, Rocky’s street humor and quirky and combative Boston blue-collar personality did not serve him well.

Father Frank’s sudden and premature death from heart attack at age fifty-six—and Rocky’s still essentially unresolved relationship with him—in the midst of Rock’s early career crisis didn’t help, either.

Eventually, and now at times youthfully irresponsible and attention-diverted by buddies, baseball, barbells, beer, bars, beaches, and babes, he endured a surprisingly painful period of forced unemployment while in his late twenties. This period ended, ironically, when his occasional foil, heartthrob Ray Doucette—just as sharp-tongued, but on the opposite end of the personality spectrum when it came to precociously polished Ray’s easy, confident way with women, in contrast to Rocky’s rugged, feisty, frenetic, boxing and weight-trained manner of banging around with the guys—came through with a job lead and recommendation at Lambert Electronics, where Ray was a rising-star salesman. And where Rocky, at age twenty-seven, would finally get his business career headed in the right direction—at least for a while.

Especially in the sixties and seventies, a good deal of the Boston-singles nightlife seasonally migrated to Cape Cod—primarily Falmouth and Hyannis—where there were abundant summerhouse rentals available. Rocky and cohorts had been passionately participating since their college days. The late-seventies summer of Rock’s unemployment and general discontent, now in their late twenties and fearing that this might well be the last year that they had their unusually compatible group completely together, they decided to go all out. Most of them professional men then finally with a few dollars in their pocket, they rented a unique, new, four-bedroom, five-bath semi-mansion that they dubbed The Chateau HP.

The quirks in Rocky’s personality that had derailed his brief career in public accounting hadn’t served him much better in the singles bars—generally three or six beers too many not helping either—and, going into that summer, he’d been enduring a frustratingly long dry spell, even by his modest standards. Most of his more gifted and focused—and decidedly less caustically combative—friends were far more apt to provide satirical critiques of his missteps than sympathy. And Rock certainly had no right or inclination to expect anything else—at least not in this area.

But then the recklessly fun-loving group did that last summer up right; even Rocky getting in on an edgy youthful shenanigan or two in the first part of the summer. However, eventually that memorable last summerhouse became what they’d later call—affectionately—the surprising season of stumbling upon saviors long dreamed of but certainly not yet sought—and of watershed transitions and trade-offs.

And Rocky met Kelly Quinn, a recent Irish immigrant, who—looking past his beer-drinking; cynical, simultaneously combative and self-deprecating wisecracking; sporadic brawling; and, at that point, problematically lengthy unemployment—turned out to be uniquely receptive to his wit, energy, intelligence, determination, passion for fitness, and, underneath it all, reasonably good heart.

Kelly was herself a committed businesswoman, who hired on as a women’s wear merchant with Murphy’s department store in Worcester shortly after coming to the States and then quickly worked her way up to an assistant manager. In Ireland, in high school and college, she’d been a competitive cross-country runner and soccer player. In the States, she became a tennis player, often playing with Cheryl Curley, the wife of Rocky’s lifelong closest friend, Harvard Business School educated young executive Jack Curley. Kelly also became, almost inevitably through Rocky, an exercise enthusiast.

All in all, Kelly would turn out to be every bit the complementary positive influence on talented-but-erratic Rocky that his mother Gracie had thirty years earlier been on overbearing, war-hardened, hard-drinking, ultimately disappointed father Frank.

Rocky’s godfather, Charlie Kennedy, had been his father’s partner when they both joined the BPD shortly after returning from the war, and then his longtime closest friend and drinking companion. Charlie was a lot smaller, far less formidable in appearance, and much easier going than the overarching Frank, but he still had plenty of steel in his spine. Charlie got a kick out of Rocky, and even at times dared intercede with Frank when Charlie thought he was overreacting. Good-hearted Charlie made it a point to stay close to Rocky after Frank died. Later, it was Rocky and Kelly who got sad-and-lonely widow Gracie and lifelong bachelor Charlie together, finally convincing them both that there really was nothing inappropriate, and that it was, to all concerned, their happiness that mattered now.

Chapter 1

Lisa Collins’s Thirteenth

Birthday (1993)

CHAPTER 1 LISA COLLINS’S THIRTEENTH BIRTHDAY (1993)

As Rocky was cleaning his top-of-the-line, built-in Weber patio grill in preparation for daughter Lisa’s thirteenth birthday party, frowning hard and periodically swearing at the damn thing under his breath, wife Kelly said, "Lisa’s first birthday party as a teenager, and the first time we’ve had the whole old gang together in more than a year. Forget the business struggles for one afternoon, and see if you can remember how to fake a smile. Everyone, young and old, agrees you’re hard enough to take even when you’re in a good mood."

"Well, who knows; maybe savoring a cold beer or twelve while busting all over the old knuckleheads might cheer me up."

Kelly rolled her eyes and said, Your task of the day is to be a good host and a good father. No matter how badly you want to drown your sorrows.

"You know I can balance all three; and still with a little extra emphasis on the good father thing. So I’m thinking more dampening than drowning. But I really could get fired despite all the years of long, hard work and my innate genius … And even you might not be able to save Murphy Mercantile from demon Penmart and the other big-box retailers."

Kelly, sweeping the patio and moving further away so that she could only half hear her husband, replied, That’s the idea: get the whining over before the guests arrive.

"Knowing how my ol’ buds love to gloat, that would constitute being a very selfish host. But, man, money sure is underrated in flowery philosophy, especially when it comes to sleeping at night. Worst-case job scenarios really are the grown-up’s boogeyman."

Kelly frowned mildly at him, and then replied, "No, for sane parents with kids approaching teenage, negative peer pressure, abusive or obsessed boyfriends, drugs, and especially car crashes are the real grown-ups’ bogeymen. And personally, I’m much more worried about breast cancer than I am about losing my job. Speaking of tragic family history, you better keep up the good diet, and start focusing more on cardio than on overblown muscles and stupid bench presses. And most doctors recommend minimizing stress, rather than savoring it."

Rocky chuckled, and said, Thanks, honey. Nothing like a rusty fishhook rammed deep into the ol’ eyeball to take your mind off all your lesser troubles. Sort of like those companies that charge ya a great big fee to consolidate all your debts into one huge lump so you’ll know exactly when to blow your brains out.

But that’s just it, half-empty knucklehead. Big new house almost paid for, virtually no other debt, all that education and experience; and yet here you whine. On a sunny spring pre-party Saturday morning, no less.

Rocky said, Hey, if I wasn’t so worried about myself, I’d probably also be agonizing over the fate of thousands of employees and stockholders.

Kelly replied, "Literally millions of managers—not to mention business owners—have gone through this. Many with a lot more at stake than we have. John Murphy, for one. And, despite the fact that he’s seventy with no other options, somehow he never whines. Even to his wife."

"Old war hero John is a stoic, steel-spined saint. But what was that Clint Eastwood classic line in Unforgiven? ‘It’s a hell of a thing, putting an old man out of business. You don’t actually kill him. Just make his last years absolutely not worth living.’"

Kelly replied, "Well tweaked. But then, somehow John will be all right no matter what. And so will we, as long as we keep our heads."

Yeah. But then, John still has that remarkable perspective gained from piloting innumerable perilous combat missions over the Pacific before he was even twenty. That gives him such an unfair advantage over draft-lottery-winning cowards like me.

"You know you’ve done absolutely all you could at Lambert. Well, except for, as usual, that old relentless half-empty nonsense. Which, sick of it though I surely am, I still hope you keep to yourself until you get home."

"I generally do have that much executive good sense. And keep feeling free to kick me in the shins when your patience wears thin. But somehow, one way or the other, I, Kevin ‘Rocky’ Collins, have got to find a way to do better than this."

But then Rocky scowled all the harder as he pondered his current chasm between got to and able to. He did at least have the good judgment to first turn his face back to the balky, crusty grill, to leave his wife with just the fervent, borderline-optimistic "got to."

Lisa came out and said, Hey, former drunken foil of Mad Biker Dogs and Mafiamen! How come you have more boring old bums coming to my party than my cool kids who’ll be here?

Rocky, failing miserably to hold back his first real smile of the day, shook his head at Kelly and said to today-turning-thirteen Lisa, "Those cool kids won’t be bringing presents anywhere near as good as the old bums will! And then to Kelly, How’s the little goddess gonna respect the old man if ya gotta tell her every humiliatin’ thing ever happened to me?"

"Gotta tell her something. But it’s her thirteenth, not thirtieth; so how could it be anywhere near every?"

Lisa said, "Just make sure great-big Bruno doesn’t use my bathroom! And don’t drink twelve beers in front of my friends and start slurring dumb insults at them; they’re just kids. And don’t let that great grandfather guy Stan do it either."

Stan Pulaski had met the much younger, funny, and fun-loving Hyde Park group partying down the Cape in the mid seventies, when he’d been an old, diehard Cape veteran in his early forties, hanging in more for the humor and high-energy, beer-drinking camaraderie than for the abounding opportunities to chase young women. He’d clicked well enough with the Hyde Park group—and especially unofficial organizer Rocky—to still be part of it fifteen years later.

Rocky had later gotten the slightly self-destructive and recklessly dissolute Stan a solid, decent-paying maintenance job at Lambert—and talked him into taking it and, periodically, into sticking with it. Years later, as it became apparent that Lambert was in for some overall belt-tightening and layoffs, Rocky had worked with both Stan and Stan’s supervisor to make sure that Stan, already reasonably mechanically talented, took advantage of enough special training to ensure that he would be safely down the ladder on any layoff lists. Stan’s subsequent claim that, in all of that, Rocky had thereby saved his life was probably an exaggeration; his wife Rita’s opinion that Rocky had at least saved their marriage and Stan’s sanity probably wasn’t.

Rocky said, Softhearted Stan’s been bringin’ you presents he can’t afford for twelve years now. He considers you the sweet little granddaughter he never had. You can pretend you have a good heart a couple times a year, can’t ya?

Thought I was your precious angel—best little girl of all time, Dad. You been constantly lyin’ to your only daughter all these years, like you lie to Mom. Always tellin’ her she’s gorgeous, but then makin’ fun of her bum gettin’ bigger behind her back?

"Where else would her bum be getting bigger if ever it was; but it’s absolutely not! She’s just paranoid. And you don’t help."

He hugged them both, kissing Lisa on her long-blonde-haired head and patting Kelly gently on that butt, which was perhaps getting just slightly wider, despite valiant—but time-at-work-constrained—effort. Age and demanding job similarly taking their toll on Rocky’s old six-pack abs, he was hardly inclined to be insulting his wife. Especially since such repartee would inevitably eventually include commentary on his enduring appetite for six-packs of another sort.

Lisa’s first sort-of boyfriend, Ronnie Baer, knocked once and slipped tentatively in. Rocky said, Got that pesky relativity-quantum-unifying-theory thing sorted yet, Einstein?

Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Collins. School’s almost over. Been concentrating more on my tennis. Hard enough keeping up with Lisa as it is, never mind solving the universe’s mysteries while I’m at it. The definitive unifying theory’ll have to wait until next fall and high school. Can Lisa and I go hit a few, until the kids start showing up?

Rocky and Kelly watched the precocious young players smoothly rallying on the backyard court. Rocky said, Gangly little genius’s specs are almost as thick as mine were, and he couldn’t pick up a hundred pounds if it was crushing his poor mother’s brains out her ears. But he’s got the cutest and smartest little girl in the school. What’s this crazy, unfair world coming to?

Kelly said, Define got"! They just play tennis, go to the movies, go to the mall, study, and talk. That something you wanted to do with girls when you were thirteen?"

Right. I still don’t care what the head-shrinkers say; platonicating with girls too much too early’ll make ya far gayer than any off-kilter genes ever will.

Kelly said, "You need to ease up on the edgy joking with her. I asked her if Ronnie’d tried to kiss her yet. She sweetly reassured me absolutely not; hand jobs were as far as they’d gone. I had a serious talk with her about perception and reputation."

"Brother. You know that’s not even close to the kind of edgy joking I do with her. I’ll have her watch the classic rep-counseling scene in Rocky again, just short of the ‘Screw you, Creepo’ feedback. Already heard that one enough for this lifetime. Although I think slightly more from Little Frankie than from her. I hear ya, though."

Kelly said, "Remember how you struggled in your youth, with your pathetic excuse of a self-censor. Thought we agreed years ago that we don’t want them taking after the old man in virtually any way."

"Ah, adorable, sweet genius Lisa knows when to cool it a lot better than you think. Both of our young rascals have decent sense to go with the wonderful humor. And then they inherited that all-powerful, good-looks get-outta-jail-free card from their marrying-way-below-her-station mother. Anyway, what fun is it having kids if ya can’t manage a little imaginative groundbreaking in their upbringing?"

Well, for the ten thousandth time, stop leaving all the unpleasant stuff to me, please.

Ma and Step-Pa Gracie and Charlie came in with poor sick Irish Jimmy O’Farrell. Irish Jimmy had owned the small neighborhood watering hole that had basically served as clubhouse for Rocky and friends in their single days. One they happily shared with a group of hard-drinking—and in many cases, damaged or troubled—World War II veterans, who, along with Jimmy, provided the sometimes clueless young fellows with a helpful measure of perspective, wisdom, appreciation, and humility. Garrulous, acerbically witty Jimmy, over the years, became something of a second uncle to many of the group—and especially to the frenetic, funny, but sometimes-bumbling Rocky. Irish Jimmy’s Hyde Park Tavern had also sponsored the semipro baseball team that Rocky and Jack Curley had played for before they got married—and that ex-professional player Steve O’Brien had starred with for many years, to this day coaching and playing part-time.

Through the kitchen window, they all watched Lisa and Ronnie, now playing a competitive, competent, spirited, and insult-laden game. Ronnie came to the net prematurely, and Lisa drilled one at his face. He popped it back, but his hurried and awkward swipe knocked his glasses off, and then he didn’t even try for her vicious return pass. She yelled, while laughing, "It’s the nineties! Get contacts, ya cheap Jew bastard!"

Ronnie called back, I can never get over what a sweet girl and good sport you are, Lisa.

Gracie punched Rocky as hard as she could on the arm, and Charlie said, Doin’ a helluva job softenin’ the blow that Frank didn’t get to meet her, kid.

Rocky stared at Lisa and said sadly, There’s no softening that blow, Charlie.

Charlie also watched Lisa for a few seconds, and then said softly, "Guess there really shouldn’t be, Rock. I still can never look at Lisa or Young Frankie without immediately thinking of him." Rocky punched his stepfather very lightly on the shoulder.

Kelly said, Lisa’s got a heart of gold in there somewhere, like her old man. Just have to be an experienced and patient prospector to find it.

Irish Jimmy said, Nah, almost as easy to see as her mom’s, ya got a lick o’ damn sense about ya.

Charlie brightened, smiled broadly, and said, "Yeah, really, does she ever! Got her dad’s damn energy, too. Can’t get her to sit down or shut up. Last time I asked her what her favorite show on TV was, she told me TV was for fat, lazy morons. And that was about three minutes after I’d told her I’d been watching the damn thing a lot lately. Anyway, where’s my hero’s young namesake? Got somethin’ special for the young tiger."

Rocky sadly shook his head, and replied, "Finally April after another torturous Boston winter. Today perfect sixty-five cool and dry blessed baseball weather. And Frankie’s off playin’ two-handed hard-tag football for Chrissake! Bought the little maniac a top-o’-line Rawlings mitt and pitch-back that he’s hardly used. Gonna start tapin’ an official major league ball in his young yap ever’ night, he don’t start payin’ a little attention to our great national pastime. Couple years south of hair on his ballzack, and already bustin’ me ’bout some heavy bells for the basement, so he can be an eleven-year-old stud in Pop Warner."

Charlie said, Sounds like you’ll be thrilled to hear I got him this Wilson real leather Simms-autographed. He at that field down the street, as usual? We’ll go give it to him now.

Rocky got his godfather/stepfather—and late father Frank’s fellow WWII vet, Boston police sergeant, and longtime best friend—in his trademark mock headlock, until the pushing-seventy-three, long-retired old cop gently found the nerve in Rocky’s trapezius muscle. That sharp pain prompted Rocky to release his loose hold and yell, Whoa, why don’t ya just shoot me in the eye, ya flabby old cheap-shot artist!

On their way out to find Frankie, Charlie and Gracie greeted bar owner Bruno McCarthy and wife Sandy. Rocky said, "Don’t tell me Greaseball Boss Tony’s standing us up again. And I guess that Weight Watcher’s isn’t working out so well after all. But you look good Bruno, considering how Guiness-rewriting fat you might have gotten by now."

Sandy said, "Even the great Rocky’s bringin’ out the waist a bit, and trimmin’ down the old shoulders, I see. Now that we own the majority, sweet Tony spends more time on the golf course than he does at the bar. Course, I’m sure if you came charmin’ in more often, old ‘Mr. Suck-Em-Down and Drive-Em-Away,’ he wouldn’t be able to bear stayin’ away so much."

Bruno added, I’m afraid Tony likes old Rock even less now than he did when young Rocky was stumbling and drooling around his bar, insulting women, picking fights with big fat guys, and yelling at poor Sandy here that she wasn’t bringing him beers fast enough. Tony still swears that you tricked me into cheating him on my buy-in. And somehow magically ding him yet again every time you help me with the books. I actually did pass on the invite to this shindig. The look he gave me in response was yet another Tony classic.

Rocky said, "I’ve never nailed that arrogant, greedy guinea anywhere near as much as he deserves. And he knows it. Actually, probably saved his undeserving big ass as much dough as I have you over the years. So, how is Tommy B’s doing lately, anyway?

"Can’t begin to complain. Actually, your idea to have our sexy young waitresses and bartenders continually scope out the trendy competition on new drinks, prices, specials, pictures, décor changes, and such seems to be helping. But, hey Rock, cash-flow-and-capital-investment-wise, looks like we’re gonna blow that budget you did for us to hell and gone. I think we have two shaky bar stools to replace this year; double what we had to spring for last! Now I understand how business can keep you up nights."

Rocky moaned, "Man, the two gloopiest knuckleheads in Boston lucking into that damn goldmine. And here I am, barely a minute to breathe at my ballcracking job, and still providing the city’s highest-level financial counsel free of charge. What a damn catch-22: couple hundred free beers coming at Tommy B’s, and nary an available night to collect ’em … Whoa, speaking of arrogant, greedy guineas, here’s New England gym impresario Billy! Followed by lithe dancer Janie and Rossetti crew! Little guys, go catch up to Grandpa Charlie and Grandma Gracie. And teach Frankie how to really play football; gangster style."

Billy said, Damn, Bruno, you look like you’ve put on yet another sawbuck just since last week at the gym. You look great Sandy! ’Course, so would Roseanne next to Burlimungross here. Bigger clothes and fatter friends, Bruno—that’s your only hope now.

Rocky asked, "Do you really think they make bigger clothes, Billy? Or are you just being unnecessarily polite?"

Bruno growled, "Forty-freakin’-four, and pushed 515 last week; nothing hurtin’! Keep yapping, ya frail-boned, punier-by-the-week, girly old men."

Rocky said, "If there’s any justice at all, and sweet Sandy assures all and sundry there surely is, least your dainty dick’s still gettin’ ever less cooperative. Opposite end, I’d gladly give up a few blue-veined diamond-cutters per week for debris-free shoulders and knees. Feels like ya could build a small patio with what’s crunchin’ about in my disintegrating-old-fucker joints."

Kelly said, "I’d give up whatever’s left of my sexual needs in a heartbeat if it’d just cut down on the whining. Forty-three years old, couple great kids, big new house in the country, wife makes Joan of Arc seem like a hedonist, crises at both our jobs; and what do I hear about all night, every night? Stupid Sox in last place, and moron here can’t bench four hundred anymore! I’da been better off with Stan! Speakin’ of which, where are they?"

Rocky interjected, "Bruno, thirty-six-egg-omelet-eating rusky Vasily Alexeev was super strong, too; but what does Sandy think of you starting to look like him, only fatter and hairier? And Lisa says not to use her bathroom; it’s her birthday, and she deserves a good week or ten days."

Sandy said, As if it was confined to just the bathroom.

Rocky said, "But man, 515! My shoulders hurt just sayin’ it. Least you must have about the strongest flabby pecs in Boston. I wonder if they make push-up bras in a size sixty, with special holes in the strap to let back hair breathe."

Billy said, Hey, Bruno, too bad Jerry didn’t show Frank Costanza with his shirt off, in that man-boobs episode—give you something to compare yourself to.

Almost on cue, in stumbled Stan Pulaski and wife Rita, prompting Rocky to ask, "Who drunk-drove this time?"

Rita replied, Just a couple at home for me. Stan’d drive a saint to drink, speakin’ of Joan of Arc and driving.

Stan said, "I’m fifty-eight, married to a fifty-five-year-old woman, of all things I never dreamed of! And I worked forty-eight freakin’ hours this very week, which makes me really wish Rocky had left me in the gutter! I saw Charlie down the street. I wonder if he’s got his gun with him and could spare just the one bullet. I don’t wanna put a damper on Angel Lisa’s party by hangin’ myself in her shitter."

Rocky said, "Do the overdue, noble-but-messy deed out in the street. That’s expensive new sod in the yard, and I just cut the stupid grass. Again! Where’s a damn drought when you need one?"

Rita said, "One bullet! Be the only time Stan ever did anything right the first time, if ever he could pull it blessedly off."

Bruno said, Speaking of us entrepreneurial geniuses, Billy, how’s the king of capitalizing on failed New Year’s resolutions doing?

Hyde Park’s strugglin’ some with the changing demographics, as you well know. But Waltham and Norfolk are doin’ just fine, sir. And, man, do I love my business!

Wife Jane interjected, Right. Everything’s fantastic, except obsessive-compulsive here has to invest every available dollar in the very latest shiny exercise machine; space and need be damned. Sometimes I think we’re working a hundred hours a week just to have the most complete collection of weight-training equipment in the free world.

Rocky sighed with slumped shoulders. "Wow, sounds just about like heaven to me. But then, at the moment I have the high honor and privilege of spending my every waking moment as bad-news scorecunter for a suddenly struggling manufacturer of absolutely useless damn gizmos. Of course, the really important thing is, between Kelly’s and my salary, thank God we are able to possess all the latest electronic gear, right here in our handsome, mostly unoccupied home. And, even better, no more than half of it broken at any given time."

Kelly said, Might only be a quarter of it broken if my husband knew how to insert a battery. Talk about handy; you should hear him cuss trying to open a jar of pickles or pack of bologna. He thinks the whole packaging industry is out to get him.

Rocky replied, And not just the packaging industry.

Bruno, looking out the living-room window, said, Hey, Rock, it’s one thing to drive an eight-year-old car when you’ve got job worries. But you could at least wash the damn thing once in a while. Somehow a filthy, dinged-up, dreary old faded-beige Maxima decorating your driveway doesn’t fit with this fine house or the beautiful neighborhood.

Bruno’s wife, Sandy, added, Especially not next to classy Kelly’s immaculate new Lexus.

Kelly said, Forty-three-year-old Rocky’s still groping for that elusive middle ground between snob and slob. Not too hard to guess which side he errs on. All that effort to keep in shape, and he hasn’t bought a new article of clothing in about fifteen years. I can hardly get him to wear the classy stuff I buy him, so I’ve basically given up.

Rocky replied, "Hey, what I wear is neat, clean, conservative, and fits fine. I get a lot of satisfaction wearing well-tailored clothes I bought twenty years ago from a store that went under nineteen years ago. Fit and frugal. Fuck trendy."

Billy said, "I don’t know about trendy, but I’m pretty sure Ray Doucette once nailed a babe named Trudy."

Rocky replied, "Trudy is a bonafide female name, so he must have. Why should Trudy be the one base left uncovered?"

Kelly said, "Actually, knucklehead here really is a snob about not being a snob. The real problem is, I don’t think it helps his executive image at work, where he already has more than enough problems. But then, I can’t deny he is generous with me and the kids."

Billy said, Yeah, Rocky would be a saint if he wasn’t such an asshole.

Rocky said, "Stuff. Let the people who care about it have it."

Steve O’Brien came in with his latest girlfriend, fellow mid-manager Joanne. Rock asked, How ya hittin’ em, Ballgame?

What’s that damn cliché of yours? ’Bout like a four-eyed, left-handed-hittin’ pitcher facing Koufax in twilight shadow, gale-force blowin’ in, star-struck idiot ump givin’ Sandy the corners. Damn Dave dropped me to fifth! Even that’s patronizing an old, washed-up legend. Now I know how Robot Jack felt all them years, that damn warning-track power. Boy, do I and life ever suck!

Joanne said, Thanks, sweetheart. I’m so grateful myself.

Irish Jimmy moaned, "Tavern now half-full a’ young black gangbangers; most of the old heroes long gone. Tavern ball team in last place, and the great Stevie strikin’ out ’bout half the damn time. Boy, am I glad I’m dyin!"

Kelly, Sandy, Rita, and Jane all hugged him hard, and Rocky got him in a headlock and gave him a couple very gentle noogies.

Lambert sales executive Ray Doucette came in alone, sweaty. "Hey Rock, Frankie tells me go long, ‘really looong, Mr. Ray,’ to show me how far he can throw his new Simms! Take two steps, the rifle-armed little madman conks me good, square in the back of the noggin, with some little-kid football he had hidden in his back pocket. Sharp-pointed, stupid little thing end-over-end downfield right to Billy Junior for a touchdown. Chip off the Rock, straight down the line; he and his grandparents are all still sweetly laughin’ their sadistic heads off. Too bad he didn’t stick with the regulation-size Simms, knock me down and bust my skull open; give the Collinses a real kick. Least Lisa wasn’t around; be all I need."

Rocky said, Thanks for the glowing report to a proud papa. I’ll be sure to add my congrats to Ma and Charlie’s. Thought you were toying with the idea of bringing Fitness Queen Connie?

Ray replied, "Right, toying, that’s all I’m doin.’ She is down on her latest bodybuilder knuckleheaded boyfriend, though. And lately talkin’ that biological-clock, scary shit; always doin’ her foot-stompin,’ tight-butt-shakin’ impression of Costanza’s girlfriend Marisa … Does look and sound pretty damn good lately though. Especially compared to the empty-headed young nothin’s I been muckin’ about with."

Kelly said, Could just be time to grow up, Ray, at a precocious forty-three years old.

Rocky added, "Right. Every time I see a gaggle of ’bout fifteen sexy, slutty twenty-two-year-olds, I always say, ‘Bet ol’ Ray’s sick of bangin’ at least twelve of those.’ Last time I said it, Kelly’s sharp-eared ol’ monsignor spun around and begged me for a picture of Ray in his underwear."

Everyone glanced at Kelly, who said, "I gave up long ago. Pretty serious second thoughts about eternity together anyway."

Dennis Moore and wife, Janice, came in. Ray said, "World’s most flowery ad writer; Bay State Creative’s been late with a bunch of stuff lately. Straighten up!"

"I give Bay State about fifty torturous, albeit well-paid, hours a month, ya merciless illiterate. And I damn sure don’t get to decide what worthless junk I drivel about."

Janice said, "That is a low blow even for you, Ray. And Dennis’s editor’s got highest hopes yet for his latest."

Rocky said, Cheer up! Stephen King wishes he had your literary reviews. Not sure he’d like to go back to living in a trailer, though. Your editor’s right on those high hopes, maybe you’ll at least be able to afford paper and ink for your next lonely masterpiece.

Janice said, Where’s adorable Lisa? Let me give her a big hug and this present, and then we’ll be getting out from under all this uplifting old friendship.

Dennis said, All here but Robot Jack, I see. What a surprise. The Chairman of Wellesley Hills still gonna be slummin’ today?

Rocky answered, "Yeah, they’d leave Kell and me waitin’ a half hour on the corner in a blizzard without a second thought, but they won’t disappoint Lisa; at least not totally."

Lisa and Ronnie were coming back in, and Lisa said, "They have the most money and most class, and easily give the best presents. They better not be the ones standing me up! Plus me and Ronnie are gonna kick Bot Junior’s and Little Kevin’s butts in doubles; for serious money this time. Stay out of my bathroom, Mr. McCarthy! But whoa, what a relief! I see you finally won’t fit through the door! I’ve been looking forward to this day ever since I developed a sense of smell."

Little Frankie walked in with Charlie and Gracie, overhead the insult, and felt obligated to hit Lisa sharply in the butt with his new Simms-autographed; amazingly tight spiral for an eleven-year-old. She easily got him in a hard headlock and gave him several firm, well-instructed and well-practiced noogies.

Rocky swept her up and held her like she was a six-year-old. She sweetly sat in the crook of his right arm for a few seconds, kissed him gently on the cheek, and then snarled, "Wait a minute! How many stupid beers is that, ya fat, stinky-breathed alky? I’m gonna finally rip your fool head clean off! And she squeezed his still-corded thick neck as hard as she could; then kissed him again on the cheek. When he gently put her down, she said, Hey, did ya notice I didn’t swear in front of all this fat, old, irrelevant company? There are so many better things I could have said. Dad, do not have another beer for at least a half hour!"

Rocky said, "Famous line from The Lost Weekend, 1945. ‘One drink’s too many. And a hundred’s not enough.’ Daddy likes to tweak that to, ‘Two six-packs aren’t enough. But three’s just right.’ But don’t ever let me catch either of you kids drinking, even after you’re all grown up."

Little Frankie said, "Mr. Rossetti, now that you see how my big sister turned out, you’ll really understand why I need those weights and steroids to go with my punching bag. My birthday’s in June, in case ya forgot; you know, being Italian and all. My dad says you’re barely smarter than Mr. McCarthy and Mr. Pulaski."

Gracie said, Rocky!

Rocky replied, What, Ma, ya want another drink or somethin’? Careful. Charlie said it’s your turn to drive. When I gave him his twelfth beer.

Charlie groaned, Oh Lord, do I wish my gut could still handle a twelve-spot! Those were the days.

Irish Jimmy said, "They all were the days!"

Meanwhile, weightlifters Bruno and Billy affectionately picked up young wiseacre Frankie and passed him back and forth, simultaneously flipping him upside down and around and back upright a few times. When they let him go, dizzy Frankie purposely stumbled hard into his sister, prompting a brief but energetic wrestling match on the floor.

When Lisa was finished with Frankie, she went over and sat in the neat-white-bearded old Irishman’s lap, saying softly, How are you today, my wonderful old Santa Claus? She talked quietly to him for fifteen minutes, then went to her Bruno-unsullied bathroom to dry her eyes and cheeks. When she came out, her local crowd started arriving. Some joined her and Ronnie at the backyard court for round-robin mixed doubles, and a few accompanied Frankie and the Rossetti boys for some more two-handed hard-tag football down the street.

Jack and Cheryl and their three tennis-star sons finally showed up. The two oldest immediately joined the round-robins out back, and the youngest went down the street to join Frankie and company.

Superstar Robot Jack was now president and CEO of Harrison Technologies, a $500 million, privately held manufacturing conglomerate that he’d joined upon graduating from Harvard Business School twenty years ago. Cheryl had partly owned real-estate agencies in both Boston and Falmouth on the Cape when she met Jack during that last memorable Cape summer; she’d sold them when they started having children. She now expertly managed their considerable investments in apartments, area strip malls, and small office buildings.

Rocky said, "Executive secretaries should be best of breed. Apparently, yours can’t even relay one out of every ten messages."

Bruno said, Bot’s not exactly one of those rich and famous who keeps himself grounded by bein’ a regular guy with the old buds.

Ray added, "You morons used to call me a snobby aristocratic fuck!"

Dennis said, "We did some great, unusually creative new ad work for the arrogant, condescending dick; he still nitpicks a bunch of bullshit deductions from the bill. Course my boss yells, ‘This petty skinflint’s an old friend of yours?’"

Billy said, Bet Bot can’t bench one-fifty. And that thirteen-year-old Billy Junior could kick his scrawny, high-society ass. And has most righteously been instructed to do so at the first discreet opportunity.

Rocky said, I can’t believe I never properly strangled Jack, all those hard-drinking, most-deserving years. Hope those instructions to Junior include that overdue permanent sleeper hold at the end, Billy.

Steve said, "Who’d have ever thought heartbreaker Frogger Ray’d turn out to be a better friend than pompous pune Robot Jack? But who gives a shit about that … What I wanna know, Jack, Billy, especially you, Rock: seven sons amongst the lot of ya, and not a real baseball player in the bunch. I should report you all to the DSS as unfit parents."

Rocky shook his head, and said, "Does keep me awake nights. Sure not for a lack of trying. Least with Billy’s boys and my Frankie, it’s football."

Cheryl said, "Tennis and golf they can do for the rest of their lives. Most sane fellas give up baseball and football when they get out of high school. The boys love tennis. And that’s what the kids do in our neighborhood."

Rocky said, You mean in your proper blue-blooded circles, Your Highness.

Jack said, Let’s give Lisa her presents and have the stupid cake. I have a meeting of the Executive Council of New England, at the Top of the Hub restaurant, that I don’t wanna be late for. Plus, I’m already bored out of my mind. Feel like I’m back at that stupid Chateau on the Cape, for Chrissake.

Bruno gently put him on the floor. Rocky got him in a headlock, not quite as mock as usual. Stevie kicked him just a little too hard in his highbrow butt, then twisted his foot to leave an appropriate print on the seat of Jack’s hundred-dollar trousers.

When they were done, Stan said, Hey, Jack, can I wash and wax your gorgeous new Beemer for twenty bucks and a couple bottles of Daniels?

The Saturday-afternoon Sox game was on TV, and after the guys had watched that for just about fifteen minutes, restless Rocky brought out a big cooler of icy beer, his well-oiled old glove, a couple brand-new Rawlings official major-league balls, and three top-of-the-line, flame-hardened, wooden Louisville Sluggers; two thirty-four-inch, and, Rocky’s favorite, a slim, surprisingly light thirty-five-incher, Mark McGwire model. He said, We ain’t totally crippled yet; except maybe Stan. A little four-on-four ‘lines’ action down the street. Let’s show those young baseball-belittling football players of ours the glory of a towering four-hundred-foot drive.

Jack said, "Well then, guess we better let just Stevie do all the hitting."

But they had all brought their gloves, even grumbling old Stan. They proceeded to play a hustling, spirited, and competent game—for a bunch of guys in their mid forties. And not just Steve, but also Rocky and Bruno hit high drives at least within arguing distance of that four-hundred feet. Still, the youngsters playing hard-two-handed-tag football nearby paid the loudly wisecracking old fellas virtually no mind.

On the walk back, Rocky said, Man, damn knees don’t like that at all anymore, even without running bases. And they’ll be barking a lot louder tomorrow.

Bruno said, "Can’t begin to deny that I have the privilege and responsibility of being the disgusting fat fuck of this aging crew. But I really do feel great all over! Including my ugly old three-hundred-pound-supporting knees! And still comfortably squatting four hundred pounds for reps."

Rocky said, "None of us have ever denied that you’re an absolute freak, Bruno. But look at us old Tavernian drunks here. Executive superstar Jack. Who’d-a-ever-thunk-it successful entrepreneurs Bruno and Billy. Ray and I at least corporate management; for the moment anyway. Dennis multi-published and an ad exec. Even Stevie O’Brien, of all people, actually bossing around a totally humiliated underling or two. And, of course, the biggest overachiever of all, Stan, just by not spending his nights sleeping in toasty-warm puddles of urine on Boston Common. And all of this without any evil, supernatural help from Pennywise the clown."

After the Saturday afternoon/early evening party ended, Rocky and Kelly took a walk around the neighborhood, as they almost always did on weekend nights—and on the painfully infrequent weekday nights when they both got home from work at a semi-reasonable hour.

Each had worked long and hard and had done reasonably well, and their two-year-old, four-bedroom colonial was their third house over the fourteen years they’d been married. The house was typical New England upper-middle-class, with the one special—and fortuitous—feature that it had, on the second floor, three full baths along with the four bedrooms, thereby enabling the Collinses to skirt constant "I gotta get ready, get out of the bathroom right now" squabbles between Lisa and Frankie. Their new colonial was also at the end of a cul de sac, and in a large, new, nicely landscaped, hilly development with surprisingly broad sidewalks on both sides of the many streets. Perfect for walking. Especially on a relatively warm New England spring night, with the trees just beginning to blossom, and the universally well-trimmed lawns getting greener by the day.

Rocky said, I do feel better, mother. At least for the moment. Hey, other than poor Jimmy, all seem reasonably okay these damn getting-old-and-fat, achy-knee days. Including Lisa and Frankie, and Ma and Step-pa.

"Yeah, but what a tragic ‘other than’ that is. Somehow, no matter how busy we are, we need to see poor Jimmy more often, before it’s too late."

Rocky said, Was emotionally thinking that same thing myself earlier today. Man, I do miss those old Tavernian days before everything started changing. Playing for the Tavern Nine; Jimmy and the old WWII heroes halfway sane and healthy; our jobs under control; heftin’ heavy without a handful of Advil; Ma and Charlie getting together.

"Well, but now we have Lisa and Frankie becoming real people. The Circle of Life. Trade-offs. I think Ray and Steve want and need to be married. Stan wants to be retired, and Rita wants him to drink less—I think a lot less. And Dennis is forever unhappy that he hasn’t been successful enough to write full-time."

Rocky replied, "Steve and—especially—Ray have had far more than their share of opportunities. Maybe this Joanne will finally be the one for The Ballgame. And I think Connie is May to Ray’s Marcher, ala The Beast in the Jungle. But I’m only gonna offer the gentlest of advice on that perilous subject. I’ve already told Ray ‘best