Eli’s rant brought a smile to Shannon’s lips. “I’ve got to ask you about that Bucky Fucking Dent jersey of yours. If you’re wearing it for my sake, you’re wasting your time. In seventy-eight, I was only eleven and living in Sacramento. Back then I was a big California Angels fan.”

“My condolences.”

“Thanks. If you want to rub my nose in it for being a Sox fan, do something a bit more creative like get yourself a tattoo of the ball going through Buckner’s legs.”

“Who showed you a picture of my ass?”

Shannon smiled at that. “So why are you always wearing that jersey?”

“Two reasons my friend. First, to make sure no one confuses me with an expatriated Californian, of which there’s nothing lower here in Colorado, except maybe Texans. Even ex-New Yorkers are higher on the food chain -”

“Yeah, but you’re from Jersey.”

Eli made a face. “Whatever. Reason two, this shirt reminds me of the most joyous day of my life. October 2nd, 1978. A little pop fly that ends up in the screen above the Green Monster, crushing the hopes and dreams of Red Sox fans everywhere. What could be a better day than that?”

“Eli, you’re a cruel man. If you keep wearing that jersey I might have to get a T-shirt made showing A-Rod slapping the ball out of Bronson Arroyo’s glove.”

That brought a chuckle from Eli. “The curse of A-Rod,” he said. “Who would’ve thought it would come to that?” He leaned back, stretching. “Are you planning on catching any games now that the dreaded Red Sox are in town?”

“I’m thinking of it. Any interest in joining me at Coors Field tomorrow?”

Eli made a face. “Interleague play’s a blight on the game. I have no intention of encouraging it with my attendance.”