Fenway Fever

by John Ritter

  Pops only grinned while tapping his knuckles against his head. “Knock on wood.”

  “Let us try it out next,” said Stats.

  “You bet,” said Pops. “I’ll have a new batch ready tomorrow. Oh, and Alfredo, don’t forget. We have that doctor’s appointment in the morning.”

  “Yeah, I know,” he said, although he had, until then, forgotten.

  They each exchanged tired good nights and headed to their rooms. On the way, Stats sneaked a glance at the upside-down folders on the shelf, though they remained a mystery. Was Pops working on another plan to raise money? he wondered. What would he think of selling this time?

  True to his word, Pops had both chili dog buns and hotcakes ready for Stats and Mark as they stumbled out of their room the next morning.

  “And, hey,” said Pops, once the boys found their way to the table, “there was something I forgot to mention. After you two left to go inside the park last night, a couple of the Boston Red Sox people stopped by. They said they wanted me to record one of those centennial messages for the Fenway Fever celebration.”

  “Whoa, Pops!” Mark drummed the table. “That is huge. What are you gonna say?”

  “I said I’d think about it and let them know.”

  “No, no,” said Mark, “I mean on the JumboTron. You definitely have to tell the Sox you’ll do it. You just have to figure out your message. We can help.”

  “Yeah,” said Stats, “it’ll be fun.”

  “Well, see, that’s what I want to talk to you boys about.” Pops made his way around the table, a griddle full of Wenham Lake blueberry pancakes in one hand and a spatula in the other.

  “Those Fen-Cent messages, I’ve seen a bunch of them. They play ’em on TV during the games, and I’m always thinking, the problem is, it’s all grown-ups. I keep wishing they’d get some kids up there for some of those announcements instead of all these old people talking about the old days all the time. To you boys, someday these will be the old days, eh?”

  He dumped a leaning tower of hotcakes onto Mark’s plate.

  “So what I decided was, I’m passing the honor on to you two. What do you say?”

  Mark hunched forward, head bent. He held the hot maple syrup tin by its wooden handle, but did not pour. “You sure you wanna do that? I don’t exactly have any stories to tell.” He looked up. “You’re the guy who runs the best hot dog stand in Boston. Zillions of people know you. Come on, Pops. You do it.”

  Pops turned to Stats. “What say you, Alfredo?”

  Stats cut down into his buttered stack with a fork edge. “I’ll do it.”

  “You will?” Mark stared wide-eyed.

  Stats shrugged. “I love Fenway, I love the Red Sox, I love baseball. I could come up with something, I guess.”

  Pops cast a reading glance. “It’s up to you, Alfredo. No one is saying you have to.”

  “I know. But it’ll be sort of like a webcam, right? You just stare at the camera and talk. I’ve done stuff like that before.”

  “So should I call Mr. Lucchesi and tell him?”

  “Yeah,” said Stats, stabbing his cuttings and raising his fork. “Go ahead, let him know.”

  The worst I could do, he figured, is fall flat on my face. But, hey, the way the Sox are playing, who’s gonna notice?

  CHAPTER 22

  Stats and Pops arrived at Doc Roberts’s office ten minutes late for an appointment neither was in a hurry to attend. Today there would be no tests. Today they would receive no new results. The facts were in. This meeting centered on prognosis—that is, what to do next.

  “As I have said before,” Doc began, “vagus nerve disorders can be tricky.”

  Strewn across the cluttered desk in front of him, Stats could see medical charts and printed material, as if Doc had done some recent research on the matter.

  “In children,” he continued, “we generally let things go forward awhile because in many cases they can improve on their own.”

  Strike one, thought Stats. His “defects” were still in their near-original condition, as far as he could tell.

  Doc focused on Pops. “In this case, Angelo, we see that Alfredo’s condition is actually slipping somewhat. That is to say, the episodes of heartbeat irregularity seem to be increasing.”

  Strike two, thought Stats.

  “So what can we do?” Pops shifted in the small chair and leaned forward, pressing his palms into his knees.

  “One fairly common approach is to implant a pacemaker. A simple regulator will catch the arrhythmia right away and signal the heart so it returns to a normal beat rate.”

  “A pacemaker?” said Pops. “That’s for old guys, isn’t it? They use those on kids?”

  “In some cases we do, and the results can be exactly what we want.”

  “But they might not be …”

  “In children there are some risks that most older patients don’t face.”

  Strike three. Stats already felt defeated.

  Finally, Doc Roberts looked at him. “Alfredo is in the bottom five percentile for kids his age in weight, and he’s in the bottom ten percentile for boys his age in height.”

  Stats knew these stats by heart, so to speak. The old height-weight data. Yes, he was a flea, the tiniest kid in his class. So what? That condition by itself did not affect his happiness. What affected his happiness was when people pointed it out.

  Pops cast a sideward glance. “He’s slight, I know.”

  Slight was a nice word, thought Stats. Pops always knew how to go easy on a guy.

  “Right,” said the doctor. “And that’s not uncommon for a boy with bradyarrhythmia. That is, a slow heart rate. But once a strong steady rate is established, it would go a long way toward allowing Alfredo here to attain a more normal stature and enjoy a more active lifestyle.”

  Would it allow me to play baseball? Stats wondered. He did not dare ask, however. Even though Doc would probably say yes, there was no way he would be imagining the kind of baseball Stats had in mind.

  “Risks, though,” said Pops. “You said there might be risks.”

  “A while back the Boston Children’s Hospital and the Department of Pediatrics at Harvard Medical concluded a twenty-year study looking into long-term outcomes for children with pacemaker implants. They found that younger patients, specifically those under the age of twelve, had significantly higher incidents of complications.”

  Technically, I’m over the age of twelve, thought Stats, who was born on Valentine’s Day in the year 2000.

  He quickly calculated his exact age at 12.3333 years, his last birthday having been precisely four months ago.

  “And the number one factor,” Doc continued, “contributing to problems is the physical size of the patient.”

  Stats slumped and folded his arms.

  “Another contributing factor is future growth that may cramp or dislodge the unit. Overall, physical activity tends to increase, which is good, but with that comes the risk of displacing the unit’s electrical wiring where it connects to the heart.”

  Pops sat back. Stats studied the floor, deciphering what he had just heard. A pacemaker connects straight to the heart? Well, he guessed it would have to, in order to send the electronic impulses that sparked the heart when the vagus nerve didn’t. But was it always coming loose? Would he have to have operation after operation for the next ten years? If so, then wouldn’t it be best if he just waited until he was older?

  “So what are you saying, Doc?” Pops, too, needed clarity.

  “There’s no clear-cut course of action here, Angelo. Every patient is unique, with a host of considerations.”

  “But …”

  “But, all in all, I’d like you both to consider going ahead with the implant. In the long run, I think it would be best.”

  “What about all the risks?”

  Doc nodded. “Even taking them into consideration, I see a pacing device as the better choice.”

  “Better than … ?”

  �
��Better than doing nothing.” Once again he turned to Stats. “Freddy, up until now, we’ve always taken a wait and see approach. But as it is, things are not improving.”

  Stats knew that as well as anyone. This year had been the roughest yet, no matter how much he had tried to downplay it.

  He just needed to be clear on one thing. “If we go ahead with the pacemaker,” he asked, “what’s the number one risk?”

  “That it fails when you really need it.”

  Stats nodded. “And if we just let things go along the way they are?”

  “To be honest, Freddy, the biggest risk is still the same. Your heart fails when you really need it. Of course, that happens to everyone on earth eventually. The only thing is, without the operation, that failure would most likely come sooner than later.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Wrapping up a quick series with the Rays—with three devastating losses—the Sox again hit the road, this time to Minnesota, where they won two in a row against the Twins to finally snap their losing streak at ten games.

  “Too bad it had to happen in Minnesota,” said Mark as he joined Stats at the kitchen table to finish off a carton of rocky road ice cream before going to bed. “Sox fans need to see a few good ones like that right here, close-up.”

  Stats agreed, but knew it was better than nothing. “Maybe playing away from all that booing helped. Especially if they can string a few more wins together and get things figured out.”

  “Unless they’re just plain cursed,” said Mark. “Then no matter how good they look, even if they climb back on top, they’ll never win the Big One.”

  “Don’t have to remind me. But to be totally honest, I’d settle for a heartbreak season, even another 2011, over no chance at all.”

  Passing through the parlor, Stats noticed Pops was once again busy with a file of papers.

  “What’re you working on?”

  This time, Pops made no effort to hide his project.

  “I ran into Anton Martinelli the other day. Turns out, his brother-in-law is a big-time business lawyer. So I told him about this mess I’m in.”

  “We’re in,” corrected Mark, who had fallen in behind Stats.

  “Yeah, everybody, I suppose. Any rate, he phones up his brother-in-law right there in the street and gives him the quick lowdown. The guy tells him I have two options.”

  “You’re not going to sell the seats, are you?”

  “Wouldn’t help if I did. He says in my situation, I can either walk away from everything and declare bankruptcy or I can sell off my business interests and hope to get enough to pay off my debts.”

  It took Stats a moment for the news to register. The “business interests” would be Papa Pagano’s Red Sox Red Hots, which had been in the family even longer than the season tickets.

  “What does he mean, declare bankruptcy?” asked Mark.

  “It means we go belly-up. Lose everything we have except the house.”

  “What if we just take out a loan or something and pay the bills off over time?”

  “Markangelo, I’m borrowed up to my eyeballs as it is. Look, I got the whole lowdown. If I don’t pay these guys off, the business goes to auction. And an auction won’t bring anywhere near as much as I could get if I sold out now under my own terms, without the pressure.”

  “Now? As in … ?”

  “As in this week. ASAP. I don’t have a choice. We got things coming up.”

  “Things coming up” was Pops’s way of saying that he and Stats had decided to take the doctor’s advice. Stats was scheduled to go into surgery on Tuesday, June 26, less than two weeks away. And insurance would not cover everything. As Pops had learned with Mama’s illness, he would need any extra money that the sale of Papa Pagano’s would provide in order to help with the additional expenses.

  “How much is the business worth?” It seemed so strange to hear Mark voice that question—the idea felt so absurd. But now that it had been proffered, Stats wanted to know, too.

  “That’s what I’m working on tonight. Getting all my income and expenses sorted out. The guy I talked to said if my receipts are what I say they are, he could get me something like a hundred fifty thousand dollars. Two hundred, tops.”

  “Whoa,” said Stats. “That’s a lot of money.”

  Pops let out a sigh. “Seems like it. But afterwards, we end up with no income at all and only a little bit of cash.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Mark. “Which guy told you this? The lawyer?”

  “No, no, I saw a business broker on Friday. Another buddy of Anton’s. But, listen, the guy is sharp. So was the lawyer. I know I could go all around town and get everybody’s opinion, and this and that, but they’d all say pretty much the same thing. Sell now, at your price. Pay off that mountain of debt. Start over. Breathe easy.”

  “Start over doing what?”

  “Who knows? Open up the grocery store.” He shrugged. “I mean, we keep the house, if we can still make the payments. And that’s part of the house.”

  Whether Pops was serious about that idea or not, the mere mention of the store took most of the fire out of Mark. “We’ll make the house payments,” he said. “Even if I have to go out and get another job.”

  “Me too,” said Stats.

  Pops shook his head. “No, no, no. Look, we’re getting ahead of ourselves here. Let’s just take it step by step, and we’ll figure everything out.”

  Stats let it go. So did Mark. Pops had made a reasoned decision. Stats hated the idea of selling Papa Pagano’s. But Pops probably did, too. At any rate he had weighed all the options.

  Maybe it was just like the lawyer had suggested. It’s time for Pops to breathe easy.

  CHAPTER 24

  Sunday, June 17, was Father’s Day, and as they had done for the past three years, Mark and Stats took Pops out to lunch at Angie’s Ristoránte for her specialty, spaghetti and pork chops.

  On the way there, they passed a neighborhood regular, Frazzled Harry, who tended to haunt the alcoves of vacant storefronts while subtly “asking” for money.

  “Good day, Mr. Pagano. Say there, boys.”

  “Frazzey Harry,” said Pops with a lilt in his voice, “you’re out bright and early this fine day. Any sure bets coming up at Suffolk Downs this season that a fellow might ‘invest in’?”

  Harry squinted into the sunlight. “No, no. None yet.”

  Years ago, Frazzled Harry trained thoroughbreds at the famed racetrack in East Boston and had produced several winners. Then he hit a rough patch “down the stretch,” as Pops called it.

  “But I’ll keep my ear to the ground,” said Frazzled Harry. “Meantime, I’m just happy to greet my lady friends heading to mass at St. Francis. You know, they never forget a friend.”

  What everyone knew was that Harry could always glad-hand a few dollars smiling at the church crowd on Sundays, which was the only day Stats ever saw him.

  “Well, good luck to you,” said Pops, who extended his hand. Harry did the same. They shook.

  Stats could not figure out when Pops had managed to palm a folded twenty-dollar bill, but somehow in the last few steps, he had done exactly that. Upon hearing paper rustle, Stats caught a quick glimpse as Pops slipped Harry the money during the handshake.

  Nothing new there. Pops rarely missed a chance to help a guy out who had hit a rough patch. In fact, he had always told his sons to “take care of your family—that’s why God gave them to you.” The only problem Stats could see with Pops’s philosophy was the size of his family. Even now, when he knew he was deep in debt, anyone he met was automatically in it.

  At the restaurant, Angie was all smiles, as if she’d been waiting for them to appear. Of course, she had been, since Mark had stopped in the day before to set things up.

  “Happy Father’s Day,” she said while hugging her black vinyl menus against a silky red top. “Your favorite table is all set.” She led them to the front window.

  “Angelina,” said Pops, “every table in her
e is my favorite.”

  She beamed, then passed out the menus as everyone took a seat. “Tell me now, Mr. Pagano, how is it coming with the dog pockets? I am ready for a new batch to bake.”

  The hot dog pockets Pops had been trying to perfect were often test-baked in Angie’s commercial oven, to give him an idea of their quality in a large run.

  “I’m hoping to get you another batch this week,” said Pops. “This time I’m adding rye flour. I read it helps the ingredients bond together better. Hold their shape more.” He rolled his fists around each other.

  “Umm, this process sounds to be so scientific,” she said, nodding, matching Pops in her earnestness.

  She stepped back. “I bring the water.” She left.

  “Pops,” said Mark. “I think Angie’s got a crush on you.”

  “Yeah,” Stats teased, “you’re so scientific.”

  “Hush, hush, now, with all that.” He looked toward the kitchen to judge Angie’s distance. Satisfied, he turned back. “She comes to this country, opens her own place, just like your grandfather, eh? You gotta admire that. And she—she simply appreciates a fellow entrepreneur.”

  And though he knew perfectly well what he wanted, Pops puzzled up his forehead and gazed down at the menu to signal this discussion was now finito.

  “Well, her English is improving,” said Stats, not sure what else he could say.

  “Yeah,” said Mark.

  “Which reminds me of a story,” said Pops.

  Mark made a dramatic groan. “When does something not remind you of a story, Mr. Scientific?”

  Pops shook his finger. “I tell them to you boys so you will not go stumbling out into this world completely ignorant of how things work.”

  They sat a moment while Angie set out the water, took everyone’s order, then grabbed the menus and whisked away.

  “We know, we know,” said Mark, who loved to needle Pops, but also had a great sense of when to pull back.