Chapter 39: Passing of the Torch

July 2, 1983

"Tell me ... how did you manage to come across eight front-row tickets to a World Series game?" Inez asked me, her voice full of curiosity.

"My dad somehow got his hands on them, but he never told me the full story," I replied with a laugh. "I'll have to bug him about it sometime. He said his boss had connections. I think he probably knows someone in the Phillies' front office."

It was early in the afternoon. We had a gig at the beach that evening, and planned to begin making our way down there in an hour or so. Evie was out running a few errands, which left Inez and me by ourselves in their apartment, discussing our newfound mutual interest.

"So, coming from Florida, which major league team do you root for?" I asked her. "You don't have any local team down there. Not yet, anyway." And she was quick to reply.

"The Yankees."

"Aah!" I cried out, as if in pain. I clutched my chest as if I'd been shot, and let my head fall down until it was resting on the table. Then I looked up, smiling at her. She was giggling uncontrollably at my reaction.

"Say it ain't so," I added, still trying to sound wounded.

"It's so," replied Inez, still battling fits of laughter. "I take it you don't like the Yankees?"

"I don't have anything against the team or the players. What I don't like is some of their fans, who can tell you in a flash how many world championships they've won, but actually don't care all that much about the game of baseball."

"And what makes you think I'm not like that?" Inez said with a smile.

"Because you're much too nice for that sort of thing."

"Me? Yeah, I'm nice, I guess." Then, she partially covered her mouth with her hand, and said under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, "Twenty-two world championships."

Both of us cracked up again. When the laughter subsided, Inez asked me, "Your team is the Phillies, right?"

"Yep. Ever since I was a rugrat in the other life," I grinned in response.

"That's cool, I guess. At least it's not the Red Sox. So, tell me this, Mr. Predict-the-future. How will the Yankees do between now and 2007?"

"They'll be up and down over the next ten years or so. But they'll have a mini-dynasty in the late nineties. They'll win the World Series four times in five years, I think. But you'll need to enjoy that while it lasts, because in 2004, you'll be eating some serious crow." And I went on to explain how that year, her Yankees had gone up three games to none in a playoff series against the hated Red Sox, and in a collapse of historical proportions, had then lost four games in a row.

"That sounds horrible," replied Inez. "But it seems like I'll have plenty to celebrate before that happens, right?"

"You will. But there's something I need to program into you, starting right now. Maybe I'll need to keep doing this for ten years or more. Repeat after me: Derek Jeter is not God."

"Who the hell is Derek Jeter?"

I couldn't help but laugh heartily at that remark. "Believe me, you won't be asking that question in fifteen years. He's one hell of a good player, among the top shortstops of all time. But if you talk to some Yankees fans in 2000 and later, they'll have you believe that he sits at the right hand of God Almighty. Plus, he'll be real popular with the ladies. So, repeat after me: Derek Jeter is not God."

"No freakin' way! I'm not repeating that," Inez squealed, then started to laugh along with me.

"I need to find a medallion of some kind," I grinned. "I'll resort to hypnosis if I have to."

Eventually, the discussion turned in a slightly different direction. I got to talking about baseball games I'd attended in the past, mostly in Philadelphia. All of a sudden, a thought shot through my brain.

Two days from now – July 4, 1983 – in the other timeline, I'd gone to a game in Philly. I remembered it being the Fourth of July, because of the fireworks display afterward. And I was sure I had the right year, because I'd gone with Larry Weatherby and a couple of other buddies, and 1983 was the year I'd worked with him in the other life. And this had been a memorable game; I was able to recall a few details.

I had a chance, in just a couple of days, to show off my knowledge of the future! And not that I ever had reason to doubt Inez's trust in me, or Evie's for that matter, but a little actual proof of my time-traveler status would do wonders for all of us. I proceeded to set the scene for Inez. And, of course, I hammed it up.

"I'm about to demonstrate my amazing, incredible ability to predict the future. In my other life, I went to a Phillies-Mets game in Philadelphia on July 4, 1983. That's two days from now. I remember it well. The Phillies will win that game by a score of 4-0. Steve Carlton will pitch a complete game shutout. There will be a double steal sometime in the middle of the game, with Mike Schmidt stealing third. Plus, the game will end on a ground ball double play."

Inez regarded me with a vague but fetching smile. She tilted her head a little bit sideways, and began to twirl a strand of her hair around her index finger.

"Okay, Nostradamus. Let's see how you do."

July 4, 1983

It was about seven-thirty on Independence Day. We'd just finished our third show at the beach in three days. This one had commenced in the late afternoon, unlike the two previous gigs, which occurred in the evening. As always, the six of us had a blast performing and playing together. But at the same time, we all were tired, and were looking forward to going back home and crashing. None of us were the hard-partying types often associated with rock bands of even middling quality. Even Dave had turned over a new leaf after his recent slip-up.

I, however, had just resisted a different type of temptation. Groupie temptation.

In the other timeline, our band didn't stay together for that long. However, even though we weren't in existence long enough to attract a large group of fans, the occasional groupie would still offer herself to me, or one of the others. And yes, I did indulge from time to time. That was, after all, the old me. But those groupies were typically nothing more than college girls with stars in their eyes and a slight buzz on.

The groupies we were encountering now were, to put it mildly, a whole 'nother breed.

We were a far more polished act than the ragtag outfit we'd been in the other life. We'd amassed quite a following. Plus, during the summer at least, we were becoming regulars at the beach, a place where hormones go into overdrive. And given the way that musicians like us tended to be over-romanticized, it stood to reason that fantasy-seeking temptresses in sexual heat would begin to emerge from the woodwork. And emerge they did. They were imaginative, creative, and above all, persistent.

Up till now, I hadn't seen any evidence of the male groupies that Inez had spoken of, which left the three guys in our group to deal with lusty female groupies. But the thing was, Paul just wasn't the type to attract them. (Groupies never go after bass players, anyhow.) As for Dave, he certainly was a good-looking dude, but it was apparent to all who watched us that he and Eileen were a very serious item. As a result, the groupies seemed to leave him alone, as well.

So who was the number one groupie magnet in our band? You got it. Yours truly, by a long shot.

The previous two evenings, I'd been hit on two or three times right after the show, and I spurned all advances. At that point, I had a strong aversion to my alter ego in the other timeline, and all he stood for. Tapping groupies is something he would have done proudly and shamelessly, and as I said before, actually did on many an occasion. But there was more to it than that. My kid sister was in our band, and on top of that, I'd simply fought too hard to win the respect of my bandmates. I didn't want anything to jeopardize that.

But at the same time ... I hadn't had sex in over two months. I was only human. And I didn't know how much willpower I had.

On that particular day, I'd just emerged from the rest room after taking a leak. My bandmates had gone on ahead of me, making their way toward the parking lot. And who was waiting for me? None other than Felicia, the busty blonde who'd nearly been beheaded by a jealous Julia a few months back. Felicia had seemingly rematerialized out of the ether. This time, I was on my own, and Felicia knew it. Looking as if she'd come straight from the beach, clad in nothing but a skimpy baby-blue-and-white bikini, her ample assets were on devastating display.

"I heard you and the little bimbo broke up," she said saucily, her eyes focused on my crotch. I wondered how she'd heard about that development; the groupie grapevine had clearly done its thing. "Want me to kiss your cock and make it better?"

Mustering up all the inner strength I could manage, I told her curtly, "No thanks." I moved to push past her, but she was having none of that. It happened in a split second. She brazenly put her hand between my legs, and started to fondle my family jewels through my pants.

At once, I broke away from her and started to walk away briskly, trying to think about nuns playing baseball. She called out after me, "Now, I've touched it. Next time ... I'm tasting it."

I fled from the area with no further engagement. I'd managed to ward off temptation. This time, anyway.

I caught up with the rest of the gang as soon as they got to the parking lot. We'd once again borrowed the van which belonged to Holly's dad. Dennis was back with us; he'd pretty much taken over the role of driving the van. Of course, Mayra was right by his side. Eileen was planning to stop over at Dave's place for a little bit before going home; the two of them rode in Paul's car. Inez and Evie got into my car for the ride back to New Brunswick, a trip of about forty minutes. Inez sat in the passenger seat, while Evie slipped into the back. No sooner had we closed the car doors than I looked at both of them with a big shit-eating grin. I, of course, had an agenda during this little trip, and I knew the timing was perfect.

I turned on the radio, switched it to AM, and began to flip from station to station. Finally, the distinct buzz of a baseball stadium crowd could be heard. I'd found one of the New York stations; it was the Mets' local radio affiliate. The opponent, of course, was the Phillies, and this game was taking place in Philadelphia. It was the game I'd mentioned to Inez a mere two days ago; the one where I'd made a few bold predictions. I mean, I had no doubt that Inez and Evie believed my time-travel story. But even so ... this was gonna be fun.

"Mike Schmidt coming to the plate for the Phillies, with two out in the bottom of the seventh," said the announcer. This was the Mets' broadcasting team, and I wasn't familiar with them. But, for this purpose, I didn't care. "Last time up, he drew a walk, and believe it or not, ended up stealing third base as part of a double steal."

I gazed over at Inez with an exaggerated, toothy smile. Her eyes were as wide as saucers.

"Not bad," she told me, sounding quite impressed.

Schmidt finally struck out to end the inning. "We go to the top of the eighth," said the play-by-play man, "with the score, the Phillies four, and the Mets nothing."

"No freakin' way!" exclaimed Inez. "But wait a minute. They've only played seven innings. The score could change."

"It won't," I said confidently.

"You two baseball nuts are gonna have to clue me in here," laughed Evie. "What's going on? Did Pat predict the result of this game, or something?"

"I went to this game in person in the other life," I explained. "I remember it well, and I told Inez a couple of days ago exactly what would happen."

"And so far, he's been right on the money," added Inez.

I drove slowly on purpose, wanting to make sure we were still in the car when the game ended. Luckily, Steve Carlton, the Phillies' future Hall of Fame pitcher, was a quick worker. He retired the Mets in order in the top of the eighth. In the bottom half of the inning, the Phillies put two runners on base.

"If they score here, you're out of luck, buster," grinned Inez.

"But they won't," I said with all the self-assurance of someone who'd watched this happen before.

And they didn't, of course. The game went to the top of the ninth; last chance for the Mets. The first batter promptly singled.

"He's got 'em right where he wants 'em," I said with an omniscient smile.

Next up for the Mets was Keith Hernandez, who was a pretty damn good hitter. Carlton promptly struck him out. As the play-by-play man introduced George Foster as the next hitter for the Mets, I turned to Inez and grinned smugly.

"Here it comes. Game-ending double play."

The announcer droned on, "Carlton into the stretch. Here comes the pitch to Foster. Ground ball to second, fielded by Garcia. Flip to DeJesus for one, relay to first ... double play! And the Phillies have defeated the Mets by a score of four to nothing, as Carlton goes the distance for a complete game shutout."

I chose to play it cool. I merely gave Inez a tight-lipped smile, and raised my eyebrows. But she was nevertheless spellbound. It took her several seconds to finally say what she was thinking.

"I mean, I never doubted you, Pat. But there's a difference between having you tell us about it, and actually watching you prove it. It's creepy, in a way ... but it's also very cool."

"I take it he was right?" Evie asked Inez, as I pulled the car up in front of their place.

"He was dead-on accurate," confirmed Inez. I put the car in park, and turned around to gauge Evie's reaction. She, too, appeared to be flabbergasted.

"As I said the other day," Evie asserted, "we're gonna have to adjust our views on what's real, and what's possible, because your secret is forcing us to do that, Pat. But it's sure making my life a whole lot more interesting these days. And don't get me wrong, that's a good thing."

I smiled at Evie, and then turned to Inez. I was about to put forth a longer-range prediction.

"Want to go to a World Series game in Philadelphia in October? I'll bet my dad can land us some good tickets."

Inez replied with a disbelieving giggle. "Now you're just messing with us. The Phillies are, what, just barely hanging on to second place? They'll be out on the golf course in October."

"So you say," I told her, as the same shit-eating grin from earlier reappeared on my face. "But the Phillies will be in the World Series this year. And when they make it, you'll be saying, 'Damn, Pat, you were right again.'"

Inez gave an adorable little laugh in response, and turned toward her roommate. "It's like I said before, Ev ... he's way too smug for his own good."

July 13, 1983

"Come on, Paul," Dennis groaned in annoyance. "Any year now, okay?" Paul continued to squint at his cards, not sure whether to stay in or fold.

Wednesday evenings – we rarely ever did shows on Wednesdays – had morphed into poker nights at our apartment. Tonight, as always, it was the four of us: Dennis, Dave, Paul and myself. The girls had willingly agreed to find other things to do on Wednesdays, permitting us this one night a week of male bonding. Once school started, it was doubtful we'd be able to continue doing this on a weekly basis. So, we'd decided to take full advantage of the opportunity afforded to us by our leisurely summer agenda.

Paul, the aspiring engineer among us, was proving to be an extremely frustrating poker opponent. He played everything strictly by the book. Whenever it was his turn to bet, he spent an inordinate amount of time thinking things over, while we waited impatiently for him to make up his mind. It was apparent that he was actually trying to calculate probabilities in his head.

"If it will help you get the lead out, Paul," I told him wryly, "then I'll go into my room and fetch my calculator."

"No need for that. I just need a few more seconds," Paul replied, still deep in concentration, while Dave, Dennis and I looked at each other and shook our heads.

Finally, Paul elected to fold, and threw his cards across the table. "Odds are, I'm not winning this hand. So, fuck it."