Fenway Fever

by John Ritter

  He fumbled for his inhaler and took a shot, but it only provided momentary relief. After a while, he slipped off again into another light and restless doze, all the while trying to ignore the most likely culprit—namely, a series of nerves that had been damaged by a severe fever Stats contracted when he was only two.

  The vagus nerve system, which runs from the base of the brain, through the neck, past the heart, lungs, liver, and into the gut, affects your whole life. “Vagus” comes from Latin, meaning “wanderer.” And if your wandering or “vagabond” nerve is altered, as was Stats’s, it can impact everything from talking (it sparks the tongue) to blood pressure (it sparks the heart) to digestion. For when the vagus nervous system balks, signals get dropped. It’s like the faulty wire that causes a lightbulb to blink when it should burn steady. You stutter, your brain clouds up, your heartbeat slows to a crawl, and you can sweat up a storm.

  Sometimes, the lights go out.

  That’s when you faint and fall to the ground, which is no way to wander. Stats—and the poor heart he traveled with—had done it all.

  Upon awakening sometime later, he felt as if all the air had vanished from the room. It felt as if he were underwater, deep down, at the bottom of a black lake.

  He fought to pull in a breath. He kicked and swam as hard as he could to reach the glinting light at the surface. Finally his mouth popped open and air rushed in. The night sky spiraled above. And then it was over.

  He was awake, drawing in huge wheezy breaths, and feeling as though he were on fire.

  “Mark,” he said between gasps.

  “Yeah?” Mark’s voice sounded surprisingly clear.

  “I’m having … trouble … breathing.”

  “I know. I was listening.”

  Stats could hear his brother sit up.

  “What do you need, Freddy? Your inhaler?”

  “No, I—Not … doing any good.”

  “Want me to prop your feet up?” That was one tactic to help the heart pump easier. “What can I do?”

  For some reason, merely hearing his older brother ask those questions, using his most delicate and reassuring tone, made Stats’s eyes well up. Before he could answer, though, his throat closed again. He lay against his pillow, taking in short, quick puffs of air, and wept.

  Mark bounced off the bed and stuffed his pillow under Stats’s ankles, then dashed out of the room.

  In a few moments, Pops knelt at the bedside, holding Stats by his thin, moist wrist. The wide-eyed look that quaked across his father’s face was enough to make Stats work as hard as possible to breathe normally. He turned his head to the side to help open his throat and coughed.

  It seemed like peanut butter was chugging through his heart, the beats came so slowly.

  “Here,” said Mark, handing something to Pops. “It’s nine-one-one.”

  It was the last thing Stats would hear that night that made any sense.

  CHAPTER 12

  Stats heard no sirens, no boot soles bounding up the stairs. His first sensation of the events surrounding his drifting in and out of consciousness was being thrust out into the cool night air, flashing red lights hitting the double-decker wall of the house, and a group of men maneuvering him down the stairway on a wheeled stretcher.

  The hiss of oxygen filled his ears as the gas funneled into a clear rubber mask, streaming its way up his nose, down his throat, and into his lungs.

  The men talked to each other in firm gruff bursts. He did not remember an ambulance ride. He could not remember hearing the familiar swack of the sliding glass doors as he entered the hospital or the room’s electric hum. He remembered a falling star.

  He saw tall glowing angels in white gowns gliding about. One became a doctor, one a nurse, another an ice cream man, or so it seemed.

  At a certain point he woke up out of a dead sleep inside a dimly lit hospital room amid an array of small green, red, and blue lights. Oxygen tubing ran into his nose. Another tube had been taped to his arm, leading to a clear glass bottle that dangled above his bed. It was a familiar environment, and he lay in it awhile, alone, enjoying the ease of breathing. A few moments later he heard a familiar voice.

  “Hey, Stat Man. Got here quick as I could.”

  Billee? Here? That was crazy. How did he know?

  “Who, uh, who called you?” Stats asked.

  “One of the night nurses. Everyone knows me down here, from all the fund-raisers. They said you were asking for me.”

  “I was?” He lay motionless, looking at the ceiling, which had suddenly brightened.

  He heard Billee scoot a chair toward the bed. “How you feeling, big guy?”

  “Fine. I still don’t—everything seems weird. Is my dad here?”

  He tried to lift his head from the pillow, but it made the room swirl. He settled back down.

  Billee leaned close. “Your pop’s down the hall with Mark, resting. Want me to go get them?”

  “No, that’s okay. Let them sleep.”

  “All right.” Billee turned his head slightly to eye the doorway behind him, in the same indirect way he might check a base runner on second. Turning back, he said, “I gotta tell you what I found out. Man, it was so obvious, I should’ve figured it out sooner.”

  “What out?”

  “A long time ago, the ancient Chinese discovered a life-force energy that flows through everything on earth.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s what connects us to everything else. It’s like the wind, only it can pass right through a mountain.”

  “Okay.” Stats decided he could go along with that.

  “This energy has a certain positive feel to it, a certain upbeat rhythm, you could say, like the way good music makes you feel. Anyway, the Chinese found out that when it gets disrupted, bad things happen.”

  Stats had trouble imagining that. “If it passes right through everything, how can it be disrupted?”

  “Great question. The only thing that can affect energy is energy, right?”

  Stats had never given the concept much thought, but in his present condition, it seemed to make sense. “I guess.”

  “Okay, take music. If the musicians play out of tune or a singer sings off-key, it ruins the song, right? Same thing with what the Chinese call your life-force energy. If the harmony is disrupted, by negative off-key energy, let’s say, that’s when bad things happen.”

  “I got it,” said Stats. “Makes sense.”

  “Right on. And now the big news. Just before I came here, I had a dream.”

  Billee held both palms toward Stats as if framing the scene. “I’m floating in the air, high above Fenway Park. But below me, the land is filled with all this bulrush and swamp grass and these ponds of water. The ballfield was there, I could see it, chalk lines and all, but everything was underwater. So instead of the field being some manicured lawn, it was this boggy swamp. And out in the middle of center field there was this huge oak tree. And way up in the tree I see a bird’s nest built out of all these long leaves of grass and foxtails and twigs.”

  “A hawk’s nest?”

  “That’s what I figured, but it was empty. So I turn around and I see the modern-day press box we have right now, full of tall windows, high above home plate, with that metal catwalk running along the base of the glass.”

  “Okay.”

  “But then I look closer and I see a red-tailed hawk sitting on the edge of the catwalk. But no nest. And then this huge dark cloud rises up above me.” He waved his arms in a slow circle. “Casts a shadow over everything. Then when I look back down, the hawk is gone. Vanished. Nothing. That’s when I woke up.”

  Billee sat back with his hands on his knees. “So now I know what the walls said to us. Through the hawk.”

  “You do? Out of that dream?” No way did Stats see a connection. “What?”

  Billy brought his hands to his mouth in the shape of a narrow cup and softly called, “Chee. Chee.”

  Stats slumped. “Ha ha. Yeah, right,
I heard that, too.”

  “No, but wait. Here’s how it all ties in.” He leaned even closer. “Guess what the ancient Chinese word happens to be for that special life-force energy.”

  Stats stared into Billee’s misty gray eyes. Did he really think Stats would be able to answer that? He made the only guess he could. “Chee?”

  “Exactamundo, Stat Man. You got it. It’s spelled ‘c-h-i’ or sometimes ‘q-i.’ But it’s pronounced ‘chee.’”

  “Really?” Stats stared into the ceiling tiles as he processed all this new information. He closed his eyes. He saw lightning cut across the Fenway sky.

  “I used to take tai chi classes,” Billee continued. “To help my focus. That’s what made me think of it.”

  “Mark did, too,” said Stats, remembering where he’d heard that term before. “So what does it all mean?”

  “Well, for one thing, it means we have to keep our energies focused. The ballpark is out of whack. And once we find out why, all we gotta do is whack it back in.”

  Oh, thought Stats. Is that all?

  Billee shuffled in his seat. Stats took a moment to focus his energy, then wiggled onto his side. He opened his eyes.

  The room was dark.

  CHAPTER 13

  Stats caught a little more dreamless sleep before two nurses came in to check on him, double-check the oxygen tubes, and offer a meager breakfast.

  “You have a visitor,” said one.

  In walked Mark, smiling, full of energy. “How’s it going, Freddy? Doc says you’re gonna live. How’d you sleep?”

  “Fine. Sort of. Did you know Billee was here?”

  “Billee Orbitt?”

  Stats nodded. “A couple of hours ago.”

  Mark shook his head. “Not likely. It’s only six thirty in the morning. You must’ve been dreaming.”

  Still feeling a bit groggy, Stats offered no protest. “Where’s Pops?”

  “Coming. He’s getting coffee.”

  Mark pulled the blackout curtains open, and sunlight exploded all around. “There, that’s better.” He turned. “Holy cheese, Freddy, you look like you dove headfirst into home plate.”

  “I do?”

  “Don’t worry. Doc Roberts said you’re gonna be all right. Rough night, that’s all. Said they have to do some tests.”

  “I know I’d feel a lot better if the Sox started winning again. I hate it when they get swept by the Yanks. Did they say when I get to go home?”

  “I think you’re staying one more night.”

  “Oh, man. Look at that little TV.”

  Mark glanced up. “Gonna have to do. Doc Roberts also said your heart rate was down to thirty-three beats per minute.”

  “Yeah, well,” he answered slowly. “Tell the doctor I’m saving them up for later.”

  “Always calculating something, aren’t you, bro?”

  Stats grinned. “My all-time record is thirty-one.”

  “Yeah, well, try not to break that one anytime soon.” Mark looked around. “You gonna eat your oatmeal?”

  Stats gave the white bowl a quick look. “It’s got raisins.”

  “Can I have it?”

  “Sure.”

  A moment later, Pops came charging into the room juggling three sweet rolls, two cups of juice, and a hot coffee. “Sorry I took so long. First the insurance papers all over again, since our plan changed from last time. Then I saw the doctor in the hall, so I grabbed him. And then I thought you boys might be hungry.”

  Stats had never seen Pops act so nervous.

  “Doc Roberts says you’re doing fine. You feel fine?”

  “I would if I didn’t have all these tubes and wires all over me.”

  Pops shook his head. “They gotta stay. Your oxygen level was down to eighty-one percent last night. They’re not taking any chances.”

  “So when do I go home?”

  Pops looked away as if avoiding Stats’s eyes. “Doc’s gonna see. Everything’s, you know, step-by-step. That’s how it’s gotta go. He’s waiting on the first tests to find out if he has to run some more.”

  “Oh, man.”

  Mark tried to help. “What’re you complaining about, Freddy? You know how hot your nurse is? I think I might check in just for a sponge bath.”

  Stats cracked up. It felt good to laugh. That is, until he coughed.

  Pops glared at Mark. “Hey, hey, don’t get fresh. You’re not in the dugout here. Show some manners.”

  Mark grinned sheepishly. “But Freddy looked so sad.”

  “Alfredo,” said Pops. “You’ll come home as soon as possible. Don’t worry. Everybody’s just being careful.”

  “I know.” What he really knew was that the Sox had a travel day today, so there was no game. But if he didn’t get out by tomorrow night, he’d be stuck watching their road games in here. No good-luck popcorn in his lucky bowl, sitting in his lucky chair, wearing his ’07 World Series hat with his favorite photo of “The Kid,” aka Ted Williams, stuck inside. How could he start a rally without his KidLid? It was horrible timing to be stuck in this place, and besides that, he had no idea which nurse Mark had been talking about.

  He bit into the sweet roll while keeping one eye on the door.

  CHAPTER 14

  Pops was right about the tests. All afternoon, Stats was wheeled around the cardiac floor, where they not only took blood from his arm, but measured how fast the blood pumped into the little glass vial when they took it. He had breathing tests, stress tests, reflex tests, and heartbeat tests.

  None of it was any fun.

  Pops and Mark had stopped by for another visit, but Stats felt so tired, they left when he dozed off after dinner.

  The next morning they were back.

  “Test results look fine,” said Pops, who did not quite sound as if he believed it. “A couple more today, Alfredo, then you should be coming home tomorrow.”

  “I was afraid of that.”

  “Doc says your heart is always running on low. That’s why you can’t exert yourself. He just wants to figure out the best thing to do for it.”

  Stats nodded. What could he say?

  “See the sports page yet?” asked Mark.

  “No.”

  “A guy at the Boston Globe thinks the Sox are falling into the same scenario they had back in 1919, when The Curse began. A few years of success, then boom, the big collapse.”

  “He said that? Where? Can you get me a copy?”

  “Be right back.” Mark hustled out.

  Pops settled himself into a chair against the wall, then scooted it forward, but in so doing, he dropped a small pile of papers from his lap.

  Stats could not see what the papers were, but the calculator among them caught his eye.

  “Whatcha working on, Pops?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just doing a little figuring.”

  “That’s my department. What do you need to find out?”

  “No, forget it. Not important.” He tried to gather and sort the pages, placing a couple on the breakfast tray, then folded the rest up small enough to stuff into his shirt pocket.

  Stats saw dollar signs. “Is that how much all this is gonna cost?” He knew about medical bills. Mark once mentioned that even though insurance paid most of Mama’s bills, it still cost the family a ton.

  “Oh, no, no.” Pops shook his head. “Insurance is so much better nowadays. This is …”

  Mark walked back in, distracting him a moment as he tossed the sports pages onto the bed.

  Stats did not take them. “This is what, Pops?”

  “Oh, like I say, it’s nothing.” Pops quickly folded the remaining pages into another square. “I just thought maybe our season tickets could help me pay down some of that debt.”

  Stats and Mark exchanged glances.

  “How much are they worth?” asked Mark.

  Pops seemed resigned to addressing the subject. He sat back. “Well, they’re not cheap. They run about eleven thousand dollars a year.”

  “Oh
, my gosh!” Stats cradled the sides of his head with his hands. “I never knew it was so high. That’s five thousand five hundred dollars each!”

  Pops shook his head. “No, no. Eleven thousand—that’s per seat. It adds up to over twenty-two thousand potatoes a year.”

  “Whoa!”

  “Well, they are very good seats.”

  “Does that include play-off and World Series tickets?” asked Mark.

  “Oh, those. Don’t ask.”

  Stats took a moment to imagine all the money Pops shelled out for the tickets. No wonder he couldn’t afford to meet his bills.

  Pops slumped. “Problem is, we need a lot more than those tickets are worth.”

  Stats thought a moment, knocking the numbers around his head. “Well, maybe not.”

  “Oh?” Pops smiled. “What do you suggest?”

  “I know.” Mark already had a plan. “Why don’t you give the tickets to the bill collector to sort of ‘lose’ your file? He’s gotta be a Sox fan, right?”

  Stats appreciated the ease of that solution. “Yeah, bribe the guy.”

  “Ah, geez,” said Pops, “what am I raising, a couple of mobsters?”

  “Well …” said Mark. “It could work.”

  Stats kept figuring. “No, but wait, Pops. I was thinking something else. What if you sold the tickets for what they’re really worth?”

  His father looked at him with a start. “They’re worth more than what I pay?”

  “Pops,” said Mark. “These days? With the Sox selling out every game, every year since May 2003? If you sold those tickets on the open market, you could get, like, a thousand bucks a game. Maybe more. And there’s eighty-one games a year, not counting the play-offs.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  “Yeah,” said Stats. “The seats all around us get resold all the time. And I’ve heard the buyers talk about the prices they paid. Never less than four hundred dollars per seat. And sometimes a lot more.”