by Liza Ketchum
“Cat and Quinn,” I tell the group. “As you know—he’s Cat’s brother, not mine.”
Cat’s tune ends with a flourish as Leo says, “Talk about opposites.”
“Next slide,” Mom calls, in her best fourth-grade teacher voice.
“Yes, ma’am. Get ready. Here’s the dad I knew best.” The music changes to “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.” The first photo shows me perched on Dad’s shoulders, somewhere near the Pesky Pole. Next is Pop’s picture of me dressed in full Sox regalia, when I was probably nine or ten, followed by a few slides of Fenway itself, taken off the Sox website.
“Bring us some peanuts and Cracker Jacks…” Everyone sings, even Mom, but I can’t. Marty reaches for the lights as the music dies down but I shake my head. “Not yet. I added a few more.” I breathe deep. “Now comes the man I hope to know better.” I click the Forward button to a photo of a crowd standing in the light of early evening, holding candles. Hundreds of yellow lights blur the faces, but everyone looks somber, determined. “March, 2004,” I say. “Photos by Uncle Leo. Who was there.”
I click to the next slide. Dad holds a candle under his chin. It spreads mottled light and shadows across his face. A Stop the War button is pinned to Dad’s chest. He looks determined. And peaceful.
“This is the candlelight vigil that took place all over the world,” I say, “to stop us from going to war in Iraq. Dad asked me to come with him. I begged off.”
“It’s okay,” Mom says quickly. “He understood.”
“No. He was disappointed.” I leave the image up and pull Rachel’s flier from my pocket. “There’s a vigil Saturday at noon,” I say. “There’s one every month, but I wasn’t paying attention. Now I am. I’ll be there, if anyone wants to join me. And that’s it for tonight.”
The room goes so quiet we hear the news broadcast from the apartment next door. I glance at Marty. “Heavy stuff,” he whispers. Pop puts his arm around Mom, and Cora takes Leo’s hand.
Finally Janine blows me a kiss and Tony slings an arm across my shoulders. “I’ve never met Brandon’s dad—but I have a feeling, if he were here, he’d say his son pitched a perfect game. No hits, no walks, no errors.”
Everyone claps, Marty flicks on the lights, and Mom gives me a tight hug. “Thanks, Bran,” she whispers. “That was hard to watch, but beautiful.”
I can’t speak. Chairs scrape behind us, and Uncle Leo saves me. “The smell of fresh bread is killing me! Let’s eat.”
Déjà Vu All Over Again
Saturday dawns sultry, with thick humidity and thunder rumbling in the distance. A bad sign? Still, I promised myself I’d show up at the vigil. Mom begged off: “Too many memories.” Fine with me. Not even sure why I’m going. Is this really about Dad, or a pretty girl? Maybe both.
Speaking of pretty girls: I spot Rachel right away. She and two middle-aged guys are wrestling with a banner. A gust of wind catches it and it billows up over their heads. I run across the street as one end twists away. The plastic snaps like a towel in the boys’ locker room. I grab the corner and pull it down. “Thanks!” Rachel says, and gives me a quick second look. “Brandon, right?”
“You got it.” She remembers. Score one for me.
“Hold it for a second?” She tips her head toward the two guys helping her. “Charlie, Raul, meet Brandon.” Rachel wrestles a dowel into a sleeve at my end while Charlie—the guy on the far end—does the same. Raul lifts the banner in the middle and we stretch it out tight. “SUPPORT OUR TROOPS: STOP THE WAR,” it says.
Rachel smiles at me. The pink circles on her cheeks match her tank top. Her arms are buff; she looks like an athlete. “I didn’t think you’d show up,” she says.
“Guess I’m the wild card.”
“Speaking of which—”
“I know. One and a half games ahead. How sweet is that?”
We’re both grinning. “You okay holding the banner?” she asks. “I’ll hand out fliers.”
A small crowd gathers. Everyone seems to know each other; people share hugs, chat as they pin on their anti-war buttons, sip their iced coffees. Lots of gray-hairs here, including a tall, balding guy with John Lennon glasses who seems to be in charge. He hands out posters stapled onto stakes and sends people off in pairs to the four corners of the intersection. No sign of Marty, or anyone else I know. Good. This is my thing.
By 12:15, the group feels organized. We hold the banner near the crosswalk, and Rachel hands out fliers about the New York event. Everyone is quiet, peaceful, though a few cheers erupt whenever a car honks in solidarity. We get a few nasty catcalls, but people just keep smiling. The heat is intense; sweat trickles down my back.
“Excuse me—Brandon, is it?”
It’s the guy in the middle of the banner: Raul. He’s a swarthy, older Latino; his cap says “Vietnam Veterans for Peace,” and he’s got some medals pinned on his denim shirt. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he says. We shake hands. “What brings you here?”
“My dad—used to come. Thought I’d see what it’s like.”
“Who’s your dad?”
Damn. Why didn’t I prepare for this? “Patrick McGinnis.”
“Pat’s son!” His smile reveals a missing tooth. “Where’s he been? Haven’t seen him around.”
“He—he passed away.”
Raul crosses himself and slides close to grip my shoulder. He smells faintly of cigarettes. “Man. That’s terrible. I haven’t come in a while. Was it quick?”
“Very. Heart attack.” Easiest way to explain.
He shakes his head. “A fine man. But you know that.” He lowers his voice. “Your pop hardly knew me—but he gave me information; told me how to work the system at the VA, you know? Helped me get treatment. I’m sober six months now.”
“That’s great.” I mean it. I heard similar stories at the wake. I never know what to say. This time, the wind rescues me. It snatches my Sox cap and blows it along the sidewalk. I dive for it, but miss. The cap scuds past Rachel, who stomps on it with her sandal.
“Go get it,” Raul says. “I’ll hold the banner.”
Rachel hands me the cap. “You don’t want to lose that.” She’s suddenly shy. “I didn’t think you’d come.”
“Neither did I. Not sure if I belong. It’s kind of strange. Raul knew my dad.”
“A lot of these folks probably did. I must have seen him, too. Is that weird?”
“Not really.” If only Dad had told me about Rachel. Or maybe he did, and I didn’t pay attention. Thunder rumbles again, a little closer. “You have rain delays at a peace vigil?”
She laughs. “That’s up to Ed.” She points to the bald guy.
“Rachel, over here!” Raul calls. “Let me hand out fliers. I get stiff, standing here.”
He winks at me and takes off, leaving us to struggle with the banner. I glance at Rachel as we try to keep it tight. “Does this do any good? Standing here with signs?”
“I don’t know. It’s better than doing nothing, pretending the war doesn’t exist. What did your dad think?”
Ka-boom! Lightning and thunder suddenly erupt, seconds apart. Brochures and fliers swirl in the wind and the clouds open up. In seconds, we’re drenched. Everyone scatters. “Fold the banner!” Rachel cries. We roll it awkwardly around the dowels and I hoist it under my arm.
“The tunnel!” We race for the narrow archway—the entrance to the parking lot behind the stores—and press our backs against the bricks. Thunder and lightning crash at the same instant. I jump and Rachel grabs my arm. I try not to look at her chest; her tank top is soaked through.
“It’s not always this dramatic!” Rachel nudges me. “What’s wrong with Raul?”
He’s huddled near the tunnel entrance, hands clapped over his ears, shoulders hunched, shaking. Rain sluices like a curtain in front of him and a river runs from the street across his boots. I drop the banner and slosh through the water toward him.
Is it PTSD? Dad talked about that all the time, the syndrome no on
e understood when Vietnam vets first came home. He told me how sudden noises bring the trauma back: a car backfiring, firecrackers and—apparently—a clap of thunder. Dad’s words come back to me now: “Wait and see. We’ll have guys coming back from Iraq with PTSD. Déjà vu all over again.” He was quoting Yogi Berra, but it wasn’t a joke. I touch Raul’s elbow, shouting above the racket: “Can I get you anything?”
Raul turns, his eyes vacant. He rubs his hands together, swears softly in Spanish, then focuses on me. “Coffee would be nice. When it stops.”
Thunder rumbles again, but in the distance. As suddenly as it started, the rain fades to a drizzle. Cars swish past, spraying the sidewalk. I beckon to Rachel. “Let’s take Raul for a coffee.”
We emerge from the tunnel. Ed stows the banner and posters in a shopping cart while other volunteers stuff wet fliers into garbage bags. “Thanks for coming,” Ed calls out to everyone.
“Don’t forget to sign up for the bus!” Rachel cries.
Peets is crowded and steamy inside. Raul takes one look and shakes his head. “I’m off.” He touches his cap. “Will we see you again?” he asks me.
“Maybe.”
“We have a bake sale in a few days,” Rachel says, “in front of Devotion School. To raise money for the buses.”
I laugh. “You’re relentless. I’ll make bread. How many loaves?”
Rachel’s eyes open wide. “How many can you make?”
“Four. Eight. Whatever you need.” You have to be nuts to bake in this heat, but I’m in it now.
Raul smiles. “A baker? Where’d you learn that?”
“My dad,” I tell him. “He taught me everything I know.”
And how.
Bottom of the Ninth: Top of the Fourteenth
“The ultimate purpose of baseball is to bring pleasure to the American people.”
—A. Bartlett Giamatti
Mr. October
It’s October 19th, Game Five of the ALCS. This game wasn’t supposed to happen. We aren’t supposed to be here—after all, no team has ever come back to win the division after being down three games to zip—no one. Ever. But the Sox beat the dreaded Yankees in game four, long after midnight. We were already wrecked and hoarse from watching at home until two in the morning—and then Tony’s pair of tickets magically turned into four seats, just beyond the Pesky Pole, with a great view of the outfield. So here we are: game five, Fourteenth inning, still alive.
Big Papi’s up, Damon and Ramirez are on base, and all thirty-five thousand of us are screaming. Fans in the front rows lean over the railings, pounding the wooden boards. The rest of us are on our feet, yelling our heads off. Ortiz already hit a home run in the eighth. Forget Reggie Jackson: Ortiz is Mr. October now. Can he win this again, the way he did last night?
Slow and deliberate, Big Papi begins his walk to the plate. In spite of the din, I hear Dad’s voice: Look how he ambles. Like he’s got all the time in the world. Papi starts his routine, spits on his glove, claps his hands together, digs his toes into the dirt as he anchors himself at the plate.
“Go, Ortiz!” My voice sounds like gravel. I glance down our row. Mom’s on her feet, down parka zipped tight to her chin, Dad’s old Sox cap turned backward like half the fans around her. She looks like a kid as she chants, along with everyone else, “Pap-eee! Pap-eee!”
Pop stands next to her, feet planted, wearing his padded electrician’s coat. He claps steadily, catches my look and rolls his eyes, as if to say: Can you believe this? My daughter is insane. And beside me Rachel jumps up and down like a jackrabbit, screaming at the top of her lungs—yes, Rachel of the peace vigil and the demonstration in New York, Rachel who is in my life more than I ever expected, who makes me laugh one minute, challenges my values the next—“Kill ’em, Papi!” she shouts.
“Some pacifist!” I yell.
She elbows me and keeps screaming.
Papi drives us bananas. He fouls one off, then another.
“This is it!” Tony appears in the aisle beside me. He brandishes his security radio. “I’m working!”
“Sure! Great seats—thanks!”
Tony shrugs, eagle eyes on the field. When his radio crackles, he ignores it.
Ortiz fouls it off again—and again—including one that comes screaming right at us. Rachel scrambles onto her seat and lunges, but the ball lands on the wrong side of the Pesky Pole. I catch Rachel while the guy who fields the ball goes bananas.
Loaiza winds up for pitch number ten—and then it happens. Bat and ball connect, Jeter misses, the ball shoots between him and Cairo, Damon flies home—
And we’ve won!
“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Rachel cries.
“We’re still alive!” I grab her, kiss her on the lips, once, twice. People wail, jump up and down, hug their neighbors. The hefty lady behind me grabs Tony around the neck and plants a smackeroo on his lips. He throws up his hands, signaling: Help! Mom embraces Pop, who hugs Rachel.
Pandemonium; total joy at Fenway Park and out in the streets, where car horns honk and wail. The Standells’ “Dirty Water” thumps into our bones—
And I drop into my seat, bawling.
This is what Dad wanted, all his life. We’ve won, we could be on our way to the Series—and all I can think is that it’s so friggin’ unfair. Dad should be here.
Rachel grabs my hand while Tony hands me a handkerchief, the big old-fashioned kind. He bends down, yells into my ear. “He knows. He’s up there with my bro, celebrating. They both know.”
If only.
Then it hits me. The cardinal. The bird shows up at our window, day after day. The cardinal is red. It even tells us to “cheer, cheer, cheer.” Of course Dad knows. If anyone is “Mr. October,” it’s Dad.
I leap up, throw one arm around Tony, reach behind Rachel to grab Mom’s hand. Mom links arms with Pop. The five of us sway with the crowd, singing at the top of our lungs. “Ooo, Boston, you’re my home!”
As if he’s in the line-up with us, I hear Dad shout: “Ya gotta believe!”
I do, Dad. Believe me—I do.
Author’s Note
On December 1, 1969, millions of young American men and their loved ones sat, riveted, in front of their televisions, or huddled near their radios, as the country held its first draft lottery since World War II. These men waited in an agony of anticipation, while a Selective Service employee pulled small blue capsules—shaped like pills—from a glass bowl. He opened one pill at a time, unrolled a piece of paper, and read out its date, as if announcing a door prize. For a man aged 18 to 26, hearing his birthday called early in the evening was the reverse of winning a Powerball game. He would be drafted immediately and—most likely—sent to fight in Vietnam.
Already, thousands of young men—and some women—had died in the conflict. The Vietnam War, fought on the far side of the world, was tearing the country apart. Some Americans said the war was necessary to stop the spread of communism, while others felt the war was fought on shaky moral or legal grounds. Most Americans were shocked by the violent images of death and suffering that appeared on the evening news.
Protests against the war were escalating. Americans wrote angry letters to newspapers and members of Congress. Some burned their draft cards or organized sit-ins at universities and draft boards. The month before the lottery, two million people marched on Washington, demanding an end to the conflict.
Before the draft lottery, many Americans, including members of the military, felt that the system was biased. Men from poor urban neighborhoods and rural areas were far more likely to be drafted; they also suffered higher rates of casualties and death. Meanwhile, college and graduate students as well as those in service jobs—such as teaching, serving in the Peace Corps, or medical research—received deferments that allowed them to avoid the draft. Some men with political connections escaped combat by joining the National Guard or the Army Reserves. The lottery was reinstated to make the process more equal.
Most men who were drafted went on
to serve with courage and honor. Some men, who opposed the war on religious or moral grounds, became conscientious objectors. They were allowed to do community service instead of fighting. Others, however, went into hiding, or refused induction and went to jail. And tens of thousands—like the father in this novel—left the country, fleeing across the border to Canada. They called themselves “resisters,” while others labeled them “draft dodgers,” or worse. Many of these men became Canadian citizens. Others came home during the Amnesty proclaimed by President Jimmy Carter on his first day in office: January 21, 1977.
Many books and movies have told the stories of the soldiers who fought in Vietnam. Maya Lin’s beautiful memorial in Washington, D.C., honors the 58,000 American men and women who died in the conflict. But what happened to the war resisters—and the women who went with them—once they crossed the border into Canada? What was life like for those who came home? I often write novels to explore questions I can’t answer. Out of Left Field is no exception.
I also wrote this book to honor my cousin, Marine Corps First Lieutenant Edwin Augustus Keeble, Jr., a helicopter pilot who was killed while rescuing wounded soldiers, and our family friend, Army Lieutenant Robert C. Ransom, Jr. (“Mike”), who died of wounds suffered near Quang Ngai. Their deaths changed my life. I became politically involved, joined peace marches, and worked for anti-war candidates. I have been haunted by the Vietnam War since the Sixties. In 2004, when our government launched a second war in Iraq, I decided it was time to write this story.
For Further Reading
Books for Young Adults:
Myers, Walter Dean. Fallen Angels. New York: Scholastic, 1988.
