Chapter 1

I know, I know, they say you can't go home again. But after all those years... there I was, in my hometown for a day or two with nothing much to do, it was mid-October of 1999 and snowing lightly, not sticking to the streets, but the grassy areas were already a pretty white.

I'd heard Lynch's Bar & Grill had reopened, so I dropped in. It wasn't the run down beer joint I had frequented years earlier and I doubted any of the old crowd would be found here, but I was thirsty and sat down at the bar. This place catered to what my good friend Howie Freeman called the "Fern" crowd. Yuppies and wanna be yuppies, sorry, just not my kind of crowd at this point in my life. But the music was tolerable and it was lively enough with the under thirty women showing some leg and enough cleavage to keep me interested. I had made up my mind to have a second drink before leaving when a familiar face walked in the door. I rose up and greeted him by name.

"Hey! Aren't you Sammy DiGenero?"

"Yeah? And you know me?"

"It's been a long time, but do you remember playing baseball and touch football in the park?"

"Yeah?" His facial muscles strained with the effort to recall my face.

"Jim, Jim Farrell," I said with a smile.

His eyes lit up. "Farrell? No shit!"

Sammy's multi-diamond-ringed hand shot out to clasp mine.

"Christ... what's it been ten... twenty years?"

"More like twenty-five Sammy."

"Shit!" He said, beaming now, and I guess I was too.

"Let's get us a drink," he called to the slim bartender with a shaven head, "Teddy, two drinks over here."

Teddy refilled my scotch and soda and made Sammy a martini, dry and on the rocks. I glanced up at the television and saw that Phillip Morris, the world's largest cigarette manufacturer had admitted that smoking causes lung cancer and other fatal diseases.

"That's something ain't it," I said.

Sammy stamped his cigarette out, and promptly lit another, inhaled deeply and said, "That's not exactly news. Well the fact that they admit it is. But people have known for years that you get the big "C" from too much smoking."

"Think of the law suits to come, Sammy."

"Aw, fuck that! We got some reminiscing to do big guy," Sammy said pulling a stool out and sitting down next to me. "You look great! Keep in shape eh?"

"I try to take care of myself Sammy. What have you been up too?"

"Me?" He said pointing a finger at his plentiful belly. "Well," his voice dropped an octave or two, "ya know, I never was to good in school, in fact I dropped out my junior year. Never went back. Those nuns and priests, ya know, drove me nuts."

He smiled broadly. His teeth were good and he knew it. "But I manage to do okay," by now his arm was draped over my shoulder as he closed in and whispered in my ear, "I make book on the sports, ya know. The "vig" makes it pay pretty good."

"I understand how it works Sammy," I said, as his arm returned to his side.

"Sure, sure ya do. Last I heard you'd signed with the Cardinals am I right?"

Here we go again, I thought.

"Naw, the Cardinals used to own the Red Wings. I signed with the Orioles."

"Yeah, yeah," he nodded as though that corrected his error.

"So tell me, what happened? I mean, you were good. Shit, you were very good."

I shrugged his compliments off. They meant nothing to me anyway. But Sammy deserved an answer, so I obliged him.

"Okay, I was signed out of college after my second year. Uh, better make that my second season. The grades and I... we didn't mesh, know what I mean?"

"Oh, yeah, sure. Looka me, Tenth grade, right?"

"High school was where they noticed me first, I mean we won the state championship three out the four years I was there." He had me reminiscing now. My mind's eye watched the faces from the past float by, Sneaky Leo, Wisnewski, Big Nick, Sally, Corvath, Blimp Maston, and Hezzy.

"Sammy?"

"Yeah?"

"What the hell ever happened to Hezzy?"

His eyes clouded over in thought for a moment until it hit him.

"The fuck! Hezzy Bettis... of course, I'm sorry Jimmy, I forgot all about that poor son-of-a-bitch."

"Well?"

Sammy emptied his martini. I caught Teddy's eye and motioned for another round.

"Yeah," he said sounding remorseful. "Old Hezzy. Fucker could throw a football."

"And his fastball wasn't shabby either as I recall."

"Sure, sure," Sammy was still trying to recapture Hezzy in his mind as the drinks arrived and he took a quick sip. "Got it!" He said, startling the young woman next to him as she traced her pencil liner over her lips, enlarging them with lipstick instead of collagen.

"Musta been his senior year. You were gone by then I think."

"That's right. I graduated two years before old Hezzy, but as I recall he brought the team into the championship a year after I left."

"Right. They lost that game by two points, close finish though. If I got it right, the clock ran out with Hezzy getting stopped running for the extra points that would have tied it. And the next year he was carrying a shitty football team on his back," he looked into my eyes. "I mean it. The team had nothing. No defense not much offense either, except for what Hezzy and a kid named Bones Barrington brought. A skinny wide receiver," he added for my benefit. "They were something like six and three. Last game of the season, let's see, I was there, who was it they played?" He mused, before snapping his fingers. "Got it! It was against St. Michael's, Union City, a tough opponent that year. Shit, they were tough every year."

"Hezzy was tough too," I said quietly, having played with and against him.

"The second quarter it was," Sammy said quietly before his voice faltered.

"So what happened?"

"It was a busted play. The runner stumbled and missed the hand-off. Hezzy decided to run with it himself." Sammy took another swallow of the martini. "They creamed him, Jimmy. They fucking creamed him. One guy hit him high and another low. I heard the first crack from my seat in the stands. And more bodies hit him after that 'cause the bastard wouldn't or couldn't go down."

"Christ," I muttered, visualizing the scene.

"Aw, it was awful. His leg was fractured a couple a times. Ya know... he never walked right after that. Kids called him Gimpy. Fuckin' kids got no respect anyways."

"Damn," I said. So that ended his chance of either college or pro ball."

"Hell yeah. Guy's lucky he can move along the street."

"So what's he doing these days?"

"Well, I'm sorry to say I think he's a wino or a crack head, or both."

"God damn it," I said under my breath.

"You got hurt too, didn't cha?"

"Yeah, I got hurt too. But not like that."

"Least ya got some money for ya troubles," he commiserated. Then curiosity got the better of him and he asked, "So what happened to you?"

I rolled out the canned version for him. "Early seventies. After leading the nation in hitting at dear old Rutgers, I dropped out, the grades... well they weren't getting any better. Anyway, I signed with Baltimore and went to their rookie school in Florida. I did just fine there. Led the fucking team in hitting and pitched fairly well too. They had me playing short when I wasn't pitching."

"Who was some of the guys there?"

"Actually it was the following season I really met some players I grew to know and like," I said, " like Al Bumbry, Jim Fuller and Roric Harrison. That fucker struck out 16 guys one night at Toledo."

"Any major leaguers?"

"Well Bumbry played center for several years and Bobby Grich was there too. I think he was pretty good."

"Sure was," Sammy conceded.

"That first spring training found me doing very well and they bumped me up to Double A ball for my first year. After adding some muscle, I began to hit with a little more power and as the season wound down they promoted me to Rochester." I finished my drink. Teddy was right there with another. He was a very good bartender. I reminded myself to leave him a generous tip.

"So," Sammy nudged me, "You reached Triple A your first full year, huh?"

"I did. The big leagues beckoned to me. I could almost taste it. In fact, I pitched against the Orioles in an early season exhibition. Went four innings, allowed two hits, a walk, and zero runs. Not to shabby, and, I got a double off Palmer. Hit the top of the left field wall. I can still see Marv Rettemund chasing after it as I rounded first."

"Wow!" Sammy said, impressed.

"Oh, yeah." I almost growled, "But two weeks later I got hit in the face with a line drive. That ended it."

"No!" said Sammy.

"Almost lost my eye. Had double vision for about fifteen months. It came and went mostly, but I didn't dare play ball. I'd have gotten killed."

"Gee, that's tough, Jimmy."

"Yeah thanks," I said and looked around the place, signaling Sammy that I'd had enough of this talk. "It's funny, there were a couple of us got hit like that, Herb Score, Conigliaro..."

"Conigliaro?"

"Remember, the Red Sox star, Tony C.? Hit a ton of home runs, he was killing the pitchers, didn't matter who was throwing... then he got skulled. And an older fuck who came up with the Dodgers, way back in the early fifties, couldn't beat PeeWee Reese out of the shortstop job, name of Zimmer, who's managing the Cubs these days. Has a steel plate in his head. Damnedest thing is we get together every other year or so and commiserate."

"Yeah, yeah. So what do you do these days?"

Evidently Sammy had some tact and I was grateful he changed the subject. "I sell transportation services. Don't ask. It's a living."

"I hear ya," he smiled; obviously he had something else in mind.

"So ya hear from any of the old crowd?" Sammy asked.

"Not fair Sammy, I was gonna ask you that question."

"Ahh, I ain't seen nobody in years," he said with some disgust.

"What about Georgie T?" I asked.

"Nothin'," he said.

"The Bone?"

Sammy laughed. "Fucker got married. Last I ever heard of him."

"Swallowed by matrimonial bliss, eh?" I laughed.

"Yeah, yeah," He shrugged his shoulders, "all them guys and the girls too. They married and left the city. And no one ever sends me Christmas cards, so I don't or can't keep track of 'em."

We were quiet for a minute or so and I began to check out a petite brunette seated directly across the bar from me. We made eye contact and it looked promising, then Sammy asked, "So Jimmy, who was the wierdest fucker ya knew growing up?"

It was a reasonable question and it took me back into the past. We were a crazy group back then. I gave it some serious thought before answering, and lost interest in the brunette.

"Sully was."

"Sully? I woulda thought maybe J-Boy, or The Bone. Shit, there are a couple others I can think of... I never would have thought of Sully. Didn't he go to The Prep?"

"Yeah he did, and maybe that's why you don't recall much about him, but I sure as hell do."

"All's I remember is he left town and some people was looking for him."

"True enough, but there was more to the story than just leaving town."

"We got time. So tell me about Sully."

"Okay," I said, and put a match to my Camel, inhaled, then watched the smoke soar away towards a ceiling vent. "Some of this I know 'cause I was there. Sully told me a lot too, being a close friend and well... umm, Sully liked to brag especially about his... sex life."

"Hoo, boy, this is gonna be a good one, I can tell already," Sammy grinned and adjusted himself as though preparing to get laid.

"And," I continued, stamping my Camel out in the plastic ashtray, "his sister Megan also filled in some missing details. So don't mind if I find myself telling this as if I were Sully himself."

"Like I give a flying fuck. Come on already, give with the details."

I lit another cigarette, took a drag, then placed it down in the ashtray. The details rushed together as if it were yesterday.

Jack Sullivan was his name. Smart son of a bitch. Everyone called him Sully though. He had a big fucking ego Sully did, a really big ego. I recall as a kid of maybe nine or ten, he thought he could fly, and to prove it, he leaped across several rooftops in succession. Of course, the rest of us egged him on. He kept jumping until he missed. Luckily he only fell ten feet before landing awkwardly on a fire escape. Broke his leg. I remember signing the cast.

We were best buddies until he went off to The Prep. After that we always hung out during the summer, playing baseball, he was a good outfielder and had decent power. We were always talking about the girls we'd nailed. None of which was true except that I was boinking his sister, Megan from the time she turned fifteen. But I couldn't tell Sully that.