And I can’t believe you’d sit there scratching your ass and calling our catcher next door to a congenital idiot, I thought, but you did.

I took my wife out to dinner that night, and we had a very nice time. Danced to Lester Lannon’s band, as I recall. Got a little romantic in the taxi afterward. Slept well. I didn’t sleep well for quite some time afterward; lots of bad dreams.

Danny Dusen took the ball in what was supposed to be the afternoon half of a twinighter, but the world as it applied to the Titans had already gone to hell; we just didn’t know it. No one did except for Joe DiPunno. By the time night fell, we knew we were fucked for the season, because our first twenty-two games were almost surely going to be erased from the record books, along with any official acknowledgement of Blockade Billy Blakely.

I got in late because of traffic, but figured it didn’t matter because the uniform snafu was sorted out. Most of the guys were already there, dressing or playing poker or just sitting around shooting the shit. Dusen and the kid were over in the corner by the cigarette machine, sitting in a couple of folding chairs, the kid with his uniform pants on, Dusen still wearing nothing but his jock-not a pretty sight. I went over to get a pack of Winstons and listened in. Danny was doing most of the talking.

“That fucking Wenders hates my ass,” he says.

“He hates your ass,” the kid says, then adds: “That fucker.”

“You bet he is. You think he wants to be the one behind the plate when I get my two hundredth?”

“No?” the kid says.

“You bet he don’t! But I’m going to win today just to spite him. And you’re gonna help me, Bill. Right?”

“Right. Sure. Bill’s gonna help.”

“He’ll squeeze like a motherfucker.”

“Will he? Will he squeeze like a motherf-”

“I just said he will. So you pull everything back.”