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Fine! Tell him I'll make no claims on him beyond my grandmother's trust.... He will? Then that's it. Oh, and Tom, once this is settled, why don't you connect my mother up to your investment person? She's a complete dip when it comes to money."
    They spoke a few minutes more before I went off to change my clothing.
    When I arrived back in the living room, my parents were on the sofa, sitting on either side of Alistair, my mother holding his hand.
    "You'll be able to see him if you want, won't you?" my mother was asking.
    "Twice a year, Fourth of July week and the week after Christmas."
    "When do they expect the paperwork to be done?" my father asked.
    "A week, week-and-a-half. Can I impose on your hospitality a little longer?" Alistair asked in a small, pleading, sad voice.
    "Of course you can," my mother said, and hugged him to her breast. Both she and my father looked solemn and sad, the way grown-ups looked at funerals and whenever the accountant came by.
    "Don't forget we have a ball game at two," I shouted.
    "Are you up to going today?" my mother asked Alistair.
    "He promised to catch," I reminded him.
    "It'll help me forget," Alistair said in that same fake, melancholy tone of voice.
    I could have puked right there.
     
    The ball game was not the disaster I'd feared. Despite having had a sports tutor, Alistair's batting was nothing like the .340 average he claimed. He did get off a couple of exciting pop flies and batted two men home. His catching was better—quiet, almost professional, unextravagant. Until, that is, Augie got up to pitch.
    We had a roster of pitchers: Augie, Ronny, and Bob Cuffy were the top. If one of them couldn't make a game, Tony Duyckman, Randy McGregor, I, and even Kerry White were listed. I was. a fair pitcher. At least my astigmatism didn't get in the way, as I could compensate for it by control of the ball. But we were seldom given the chance in a real game, and that was okay by most of us. Of the three best, Augie was the ace. There was something about that oversized, unkempt boy turning from hippo to gazelle on the pitcher's mound that staggered strangers we played and continually amazed his friends.
    Imagine, then, my surprise when in the middle of the eighth inning, Alistair called time, stood up, and went to the mound to talk to Augie. Though the diamond was hardly regulation size, I was still far enough away from them in the backfield to not hear a word they said. What I saw was Augie's initial acceptance of criticism, his subsequent surprise, and the way he angled out his chin slightly to the left as Alistair went on talking. I'd learned that that jaw angle meant "No! Absolutely not! Not on your life."
    Evidently Alistair didn't read the silent protest. He went on jawing a while longer then returned to home plate. I could see his fingers working signals behind the mitt so intensely the batter had to have seen too. Alistair was asking for a curve down. Augie threw a straight ball. The batter missed. Alistair asked again for a curve down. Augie threw a side curve. The batter struck out again. Alistair almost poked holes in the dirt under his fingers demanding a curve down. I could see Augie shift his stance as he did whenever he felt overpowered by someone. He threw a curveball down, and the batter smacked it dead on. The ball flew fast enough and tantalizingly low enough for Augie, the shortstop, and me, running at top speed, to grab at and miss it. It hit the streetlight pole on the corner of Vanderveer Street so hard it shattered the glass—yards from where it hit—and left the pole strumming like a tuning fork.
    Augie moaned, then turned over the mound to Ronny. Ronny pitched well, but we had only an inning to make up for the three runs Augie had allowed on that homer, and we just couldn't do it.
    Still, the game had been exciting, and nearly twenty of us sauntered up the street into the local White Castle for soda and burgers in pretty high spirits. Augie and I hung back so I could