IRA SADOFF
531
Thomas laughs and his 280-pound body shakes, almost quivers.
"No," he says, shaking his head. "You still want the autograph?"
"Sure, why not? " The woman sitting next to me gives me a look
then goes back to her drink.
Thomas scribbles his name on a napkin , saying as he writes, "It's
never too late, right?"
" Right, " I say, "right. Listen, tell me what it was like going out
there every day and playing for a last-place club. I mean knowing it
didn't make any difference. Just curious, that 's all."
The heavy man sighs and shakes his head. "That was twenty years
ago, buddy. I hardly remember."
"Of course. No offense. I wouldn't want you to spit on my napkin
or anything."
Thomas laughs. "You're not taking your kid to the game?"
"That wasn't my kid," I say. "No, I'm nobody's father," I add, a
little bit sad but just as glad not
to
be Ross. I turn
to
the woman next to
me. "You know ," I say, "he was an awfully good ballplayer."
The woman tilts her head
to
the side and shrugs, then goes back to
her drink. I drink my bourbon and water, which feels good and warm
going down, and get ready to go to the game: the fresh air and the time
by myself will dame a world of good.
