“You were always a good two-strike hitter, Alex.”

I dropped the bag of ice and looked at him. “Say that again?”

“You were always a good two-strike hitter.”

“Randy, we played a whole season together. Were you ever watching when I went up to the plate?”

“Of course.”

“How many times did you see me go after a bad pitch with two strikes?”

“Offhand, I don’t think I can remember you ever doing that.”

“How about at least once a game, sometimes twice, sometimes three times. Hell, I remember doing it four times once. Swinging at a ball a foot outside and striking out. In fact, if you had to pick one reason why I never made it as a ballplayer, Randy, just one reason, that would be it.”

It was all coming back to me, and after already taking one in the eye that day, it wasn’t doing much for my mood. I was good behind the plate, I was great with the pitchers, especially the headcases like Randy, and I had a decent throw to second base. But I never batted over. 240, mainly because I struck out swinging too much. It didn’t take long for the pitchers to find out. If they got two strikes on me, I was dead.

I guess that says something about me. Two strikes and I’ll try too hard to protect the plate. I’ll swing at anything.

“Well, okay, then,” Randy said after a long moment. “Here’s your chance to make up for it.”

“Seriously,” I said. “We gotta talk about this.”

“Hold that thought,” he said. “I gotta hit the little boys’ room before we go.” He spun off the bar stool and started singing. “L’amour, l’amour, oui, ya da da…”

“Where’s Jackie?” I said. “I need more ice.”

“How does it go?” Randy said, and then he started singing it again. “L’amour, l’amour, oui, son ah something… What’s the next line?”