Page 25 of On Fire Island

“So go back out,” the guy crying about his childhood dog chimed in, still teary-eyed.

“Jesus Christ, I can’t deal with this today.” Matty turned around and left without another word.

I couldn’t blame him. It was madness.

Outside, the same guys were still running batting practice with the addition of a few more. Les Jr. passed by in a golf cart and stopped to say hello as Matty reached the corner.

“Hey, Matty.”

“Hey, Les.”

The last time Matty saw Les anywhere near the field was during his last year in the majors, when he surprised everyone at the Homeowners’ Game. The other team joked it would only be fair if he batted blindfolded, and so he did. They tied a bandanna around his eyes, spun him around a few times pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey-style, and he still batted it out of the park. It was hysterical, and if Les’s career had not ended as it did, the story would have been shouted from the Bay Harbor rooftops for years to come. Now it was only occasionally whispered.

“Looks pretty quiet out here. Don’t have enough for a game?” Les asked.

“Half the guys are in Ben’s house crying.”

“Itiscrazy. Both Julia and Caroline in such a short time.”

“I know, but they should come out. They’re making them feel worse.”

“Want me to try?”

“Couldn’t hurt—I guess.”

We went back in with Little Les. The guys were now looking intently at Rico, a longtime Fire Islander and professional trumpet player.

“So ‘drop dead’ was the very last thing you said to him?”

“I’m afraid so.”

Rico looked down to avoid eye contact. The others commiserated as Les attempted to bust up the party.

“What’s going on in here, guys?”

The room responded with general grunts, “Hey, Little Les” and other assorted nonanswers.

“Just a little morning mourning,” Shep volunteered with a smirk.

“I heard you’re trading sob stories. Want to hear mine?”

To that came a resounding “No.” They all knew it, and to this group, Les’s baseball trajectory was beyond tragic.

“Come on out to the ball field. You can even pitch a few to me... blindfolded.”

This perked them all up.

“Shep, come watch,” Matty added.

The men looked to Shep for direction as he was widely considered the unofficial Commissioner of the Ball Field—it was even rumored that in the old days he took it upon himself to mow the lawn every week. He stood and everyone followed. I knew these guys were a bunch of nuts, really, but this morning’s histrionics were next level. And though Ben and Shep had no intention of playing yet, with Ben still figuratively sitting shiva and Shep fully in his court, they made it out to the field to watch. I sat right between them. Shep whispered to Ben.

“I saw Little Les tossing a ball to his son a few times this spring. But I never thought I’d see this again.”

Me neither, I said, slapping the old man on the back to zero reaction. I guessed that having a kid who wanted to play catch put a wrench in Les’s plan to never pick up a ball again.

Eddie pulled his bandanna off his head and tied it around Les’s eyes. He took the plate, and the show began.

“Careful not to hit me, Roger—no more extra avocado in your sandwiches if you do,” Les warned as the catcher set him up perfectly.

---