Not Perfect

By Bill Perry

Not Perfect is about the tragic chain of events that occurs after a major league baseball player misses a fly ball. Bo Pearson plays for the Boston Red Sox. He is in right field during a sure perfect game thrown by rookie pitching sensation, Jake Lang, who is the darling of Red Sox Nation. But, a catchable line drive sails over Pearson's head in the ninth inning, ruining Lang's perfect game.
The misplayed line drive causes a furious reaction among fans and teammates, especially Lang. Pearson knows his life will change because he caused such an uproar within Red Sox Nation. He never could have imagined, however, how dramatically his life will be devastated by that one mistake.
Red Sox Nation fanatics want retribution, and they get it. Pearson's home is set on fire. His wife and only son are killed in the blaze. Having no faith in the police investigation of the murders, Pearson is determined to bring to justice those involved in causing the fire.
Not Perfect delves into the destructive nature of fanaticism as it takes readers on a ride through gritty neighborhoods in and around Boston. It explores themes of love, revenge, and redemption as Pearson tries to find those responsible for murdering his family. This journey into the dark side of dangerous and complex human behavior poses the question: What is a person's capacity for vengeance in the face of evil? The novel reminds the reader that the answer to this question is as complex as the people involved.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bill Perry
• Release date: Dec 7, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311840097

Bill Perry

Cindy married Bill Perry over 50 years ago and together they are lifetime Christians who are now rejoicing in retirement God’s way. Bill has written over 50 books including several for Christian children including “What Does God Look Like?” He is an Elder in the Presbyterian Church. Cindy was a professional volunteer until she and Bill started a very successful business in IT quality. They sold the business after 30 years and retired. Both are lifetime philanthropists. The gift they are most proud of is a twelve-room pavilion attached to the Dr. Phillips Hospital in Orlando. The Perry Pavilion is a place for out of town visitors to stay while their loved one is in the hospital. Bill and Cindy are members of St. Luke’s United Methodist Church in Windermere.Bill and Cindy are currently developing additional products to empower Christians to build a more meaningful life based on God’s way versus the world’s way. These products will include a self-study course and a disciple-led course based on their book. In addition, there will be articles, video clips and other resources available on the lives of Christians retiring God’s way. For more information visit: RETIREMENTGODSWAY.ORG

Book preview

Chapter 1

The soon-to-be killer was sitting at a work bench in the garage. He lived in an apartment on the south side of Brockton, Massachusetts. The building had three apartments, and he lived on the top floor. An old building but well kept. All the apartments had two bedrooms, one bathroom, kitchen, living room and bonus front room. All three apartments had a front and back porch and a washer and dryer. There also was a one-car garage at the end of the black-top driveway in which the owner allowed tenants to store stuff. Each tenant had a section of the garage for use. The workbench that the soon-to-be killer was standing in front of was shared by all the tenants as needed.

Even though he was pouring gasoline into a plastic 16-ounce Coke bottle, he had no idea that he would soon be a murderer. He loved the internet. You could get all kinds of information from it, even directions on how to make a Molotov cocktail. Not that making one was all that difficult. Fill the bottle with gas, soak a piece of cloth in gas, stuff it into the top of the bottle, light it, and throw the son-of-a-bitch. He got the gas from the three-gallon container that the landlord used for the lawnmower. She’d never miss it.

A not so chance meeting at a bar started the chain of events that ended up with him killing people. A guy came up to him at Griffin’s on the east side of Brockton near Saint Coleman’s Catholic Church and sat one seat to his right at the bar. Griffin’s is a small concrete building covered with gray stucco. In front, there’s a door and two smallish windows on each side of the door. Above the door, a sign reads, GRIFFIN’S in Times New Roman font. Inside, there’s a bar on the right and booths line the wall on the left. No real tables, just a few pub high tops. The place probably held 25 people. Same crowd every day, regulars and their acquaintances. Not many strangers strayed in alone.

There were two other men sitting at the bar. Not a busy night. Little Lion Man by Mumford & Sons was playing quietly in the background. On a busier night, the regulars would be singing the refrain, raising their bottles of Guinness, and the music would have been louder. It was not your fault but mine. And it was your heart on the line. I really fucked it up this time. Didn’t I my dear? Didn’t I my dear? This guy next to him started talking the usual bullshit. What’s up? You live around here? How do you think the Sox are gonna do this year? As if the-soon-to-be killer gave a shit.

The guy next to him said that he was from out of town visiting some people in Dorchester but knew people in Brockton. Said he thought they had a mutual acquaintance. The soon-to-be killer thought that he was full of shit, but then he mentioned the Scarecrow. The guy saw surprise in his face and smiled. It was obvious that he liked to drop little bombs like this and see how people would react.

He said his name was Eldorado Jenks. He said that he had a business proposition he wanted to discuss with him and suggested they move to a corner booth. What the fuck, the soon-to-be killer thought. I could use a little work. Funds were getting low. Not making all that much at Shaw’s.

He said, How would you like to make a fast $500?

It depends, the future killer said. What do I gotta do?

Did you hear about that almost perfect game that Jake Lang pitched?

Now, he didn’t give a flying fuck about baseball or the Red Sox, but you’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind not to have heard about that game. The news was everywhere, and it lasted for days.

Yeah.

Well, there are certain individuals who think that the d-head who screwed up the game, Bo Pearson, should be sent a message.

He thought, You gotta be kidding me, d-head? But said, What kinda message?

You know, Bob Stanley-type damage. Some property damage to get his attention.

The soon-to-be killer didn’t know who Bob Stanley was. What kind of property damage? he asked.

You know, maybe you could set his lawn or shrubs or a tree on fire, Jenks said. That would get his attention. Kinda like the Klu Klux Klan has moved into his neighborhood." As he said it, he really liked that idea.

How do I do that?

I don’t know. Use your imagination.

I’ll tell ya what. Let me think on it. How ‘bout we meet back here tomorrow at about 9.

Okay, but don’t f with me. I need to know whether you’re in or out. There are plenty of others who could use an extra 500 bucks.

I’ll let ya know tomorrow.

The soon-to-be killer was no fool. He’d check it out with the Scarecrow and then decide.

The next morning, Saturday, was his day off, so he swung over to the Scarecrow’s place. It was about 11. He knew the Crow was really a night owl and would still be home, probably sleeping. He never answered his phone in the morning. Didn’t want to be towing cars until later in the day. He rarely returned calls or text messages.

As he pulled up to the Scarecrow’s house, he saw the tow truck in the driveway and his white Mustang next to it. A good sign. He went to the front door and knocked. No answer. He knocked harder. No answer. He went around to the back porch. There was the Scarecrow on his porch couch, drinking a PBR.

The soon-to-be killer said, Have you gone deaf on me Crow?

Naw, I heard you. I figured anyone who wanted to talk to me would have sense enough to come around back. Looks like I was right.

The soon-to-be killer walked up the steps to the porch. The Scarecrow never offered him a beer. The soon-to-be killer didn’t want to sit on the nasty couch or anyplace else on the porch. He just stood looking at the Scarecrow as he took another swig of beer.

I met a dude last night at Griffin’s who said he knew you.

Let me guess. A black guy, about five nine and a hundred fifty pounds.

Sounds about right.

He offa’ed you some work.

Yep.

That’s Eldorado Jenks. He’s from Phoenix but has relatives in Dorchesta, on Norton or Bowdoin Street or Olney, I think. I’ve known him for a while. Met him at some Polish bar on the north side. Funny thing about the Polish bar, there were mostly black dudes drinking there. He has a lot goin on here and in Phoenix. He had a job he wanted done. What he wanted seemed to fit your expertise, so I mentioned you to him, described ya, and told him where he could probably find ya. How’d I do?

Well, he found me.

He’s a legit guy. Does what he says he’s gonna do. But, don’t fuck with him. He’s a little unstable. If you think ya can’t handle the job or don’t want to, just tell ‘im. He’ll find somebody else. Ya don’t want to fuck around with the guy and ya don’t want to fuck up if ya take the job.

I just wanted ta check it out. I’m curious, what was your findas fee?

I don’t know whatcha talking about. I’m just doin you a fava. One thing. We neva had this conversation. He said that he wanted ta scare someone. I don’t know the details and don’t want ta know. If you take the job, that’s between you and him.

Of course, everything the Scarecrow said was a lie. He was hired to find someone to do the job. Not wanting to be directly involved, he sought out Jenks and recommended the soon-to-be killer. He had received four thousand, had kept a thousand for his cut, and had given Jenks three thousand. His involvement was over. He didn’t want anything to do with the operation. As always, he wanted to make sure there was distance between him and the crime. Being the middle man, he got less money but slept a lot better at night.

Right, said the soon-to-be killer.

Are ya gonna take the job? asked the Scarecrow.

That’s between him and me.

Right, I don’t want ta know.

Right.

He took the job for $700. He argued that he needed to get a car and that was risky business. He asked for $1000 and Jenks gave him a look that made him wish he hadn’t asked for more money. After a pause that seemed forever, Jenks said, You got a lot of pills asking for more money. I like that, so I’ll tell you what, I’m going to give you an immediate raise. Don’t let me down. The soon-to-be killer was relieved. After that look, he thought for sure Jenks was going to do something crazy. Violently crazy.

So, here he was in his landlord’s garage putting together the materials to make Molotov cocktails. He and Jenks had decided the best course of action that night at Griffin’s. He got the address and was given $700, literally under the table. He thought that was strange. Not that he got the money under the table but that he was given the entire amount. With most jobs, you got half and then the rest when the job was done. Jenks gave him the entire amount saying, I’m not worried. I know you’ll do the job to the best of your abilities. If not, I’ll find you, and we’ll discuss repayment.

He had already scouted the area. Norwood was a nice little town, and Pearson lived in a nice little subdivision. That wasn’t good because in subdivisions everybody knew everybody. Strange cars in the neighborhood stood out. He knew he couldn’t pull this off in his shitbox Ford Escort. He’d have to go shopping at the Westgate Mall for a more appropriate ride. He also planned to test the fire bomb to see how it would work. Then, he decided against a test. He thought, Where the fuck can you test a fire bomb? What’s the big deal anyhow? How difficult can it be? Go there, throw a couple of bombs on the lawn, and get the hell out. Easy money.

A few days later, with all his ducks in a row, the soon-to-be killer drove a late model Nissan Altima to Norwood. Light gray, leather seats, a nice sound system, a nice car. One of these days, he might want to get one of his own. This one had been borrowed from the Westgate Mall parking lot. It was amazing how many people left their cars unlocked. Don’t they know how dangerous that is? And then there were the people who on hot days cracked their windows open while they shopped. He appreciated that. It just made it easier to break in, bust the ignition, and use the wires to start the car.

He didn’t randomly choose a car. He observed. Watched people as they parked. Watched where they were going, mall entrance or store entrance. It made a difference. Most people who went into the mall entrance would go to a lot of stores, spend a lot of time at the mall. Those who went into the store entrances might only shop at that one store and then be back to the car. If they went into the food court entrance, they may not be there long. A fast-food meal and back out to the car. The killer always chose the cars of mall entrance people. He’d watch a number of shoppers as they entered the mall and then check out their cars all the time looking as if he was trying to find his own. Like he forgot where he parked it. The Altima was an easy target. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Back driver-side door unlocked. He had his surgical gloves on when he touched the door handle. No finger prints. He wore the gloves throughout the job. Not that finger prints were a problem. He had no record and had never been finger printed. They’d never find his prints in the system.

It was now about 8. He’d drive the car to his place. Swap plates. He got up-to-date plates from the Scarecrow, who somehow was able to obtain them from someone he knew at the registry. Once the Scarecrow got the plates, each year he paid for decals. Phantom plates, phantom, decals for a phantom vehicle. The Scarecrow had no registration or insurance card because there was no vehicle. That was okay, though, because those weren’t necessary for his use. Nothing was free in this business, especially where risk was involved, and the guy at the registry was taking a big risk. The soon-to-be killer was sure the plates and decals weren’t cheap, but that was the cost of doing elicit business. No doubt the Scarecrow was getting a good return on investment. He didn’t usually lend them out but for some reason made an exception for this job. And, even more surprising, he didn’t charge the soon-to-be killer for using them.

Hopefully, no one from the apartment would see him with the Altima. If they did, he’d tell them he was thinking about buying it. He’d put the plastic bottles filled with gas in the truck with the caps on tight. He’d soak the cloth at the location and jam it into the bottles. He’d carry everything in the Shaw’s cloth bag. He’d make sure the dome light and trunk light were off. He’d get to Norwood about 11. Do the job. Drive back to his apartment. Put the original plates back on the Altima.

Tomorrow, he’d return the Altima to the Westgate Mall in broad daylight and pick up his Ford Escort that he had parked in a nearby neighborhood. Just one more car parked on the street. No one would notice it, especially in that neighborhood. Then be off to his shift at Shaw’s on the south side. Nothing out of the ordinary. A normal day. He chuckled. The car would be reported stolen. The police would check it out. Yup, not there. The next night, probably after hours, the car will be found in the parking lot. The owner and police would scratch their heads until the Altima is examined, and someone sees the broken ignition. Pretty funny.

He took the 15B U.S. 1 South Norwood exit off 95. He drove through and around the subdivision becoming comfortable with the area in the dark and looking for a place to park the car. It had to be close enough so that he could get to it quickly after the job was done. It also had to be far enough away from the house so that no one would connect it with the fire. He wasn’t all that worried. This was just a little property damage, and he would be on his way.

His second time through the subdivision, he shut off the headlights and cruised to his parking place about a block away. There were other cars parked on the street, so the Altima shouldn’t stand out. He grabbed the cloth shopping bag from the trunk with the two bottles of gas and the cloth he would use for a wick. He got back into the car and made the fire bombs. Once they were made, he got out of the car. He casually walked to the Pearson home dressed in all black. He was invisible, blending in with the night. His eyes were continually moving, looking for something unusual that might be a problem. He saw nothing. A dog barked. The soon-to-be killer crouched next to a hedge. The owner of the dog, who was taking the animal out for his final piss before they both went to bed, looked around. Satisfied that the dog was barking at some animal, the owner meandered in the yard as the dog finished up. They both went into the house and soon the house was completely dark. The soon-to-be killer came out from the hedge and continued his stroll to the target house. When he got there, the lights were out in the Pearson house as well as the neighboring houses. Some people left their outdoor lights on others didn’t. Pearson’s house was completely dark as if no one was home. Not much front yard to the street. It would be an easy toss.

With his surgical gloves still on, he took the bottles out of the cloth bag, keeping the bag on his left arm. He turned both bottles upside down to make sure that the cloth jammed into the top of each was thoroughly soaked with gas. He lit and threw the fire bombs in rapid fire, one right after the other. The first one landed in some bushes, and they went up in flames faster than he thought they would. Must be the dry weather they were having. He got a little too much on the second throw. Adrenalin no doubt. The bottle sailed and he heard glass breaking. He had thrown it right through the front picture window into the dining room. As he turned to leave, he saw flames spread inside the house.

His walk back to the car was anything but a leisurely stroll. He didn’t want to run for fear of drawing attention, yet he needed to get out of there fast. His pace was like he was walking for exercise. His arms pumping as he made his way to the car. He smelled of gas. Just as he opened the door to the Altima, he heard the sirens blaring. He got in. Connected the ignition wires to start the car, making sure his shirt sleeve didn’t get near a spark, and slowly drove away. He knew this was going to be bad. He never saw the fire trucks. He was sort of in a dream state. Had lost touch with reality. He found himself on 128/95, driving towards 24 south. He was staying about five miles above the speed limit to make sure he didn’t draw attention. Driving the speed limit draws attention. Driving too far over or under the speed limit draws attention. Five miles over, just right. He had no idea how he got on the highway. He was just glad to be well on his way back to Brockton.

Chapter 2

Top of the ninth. Things were going well for Jake Lang, the rookie sensation. They were going extremely well. In fact, they were going perfectly well. No hits. No walks. No errors. Twenty-six batters up, 26 batters down. He was pitching a perfect game with one out to go. It was five to nothing.

The fans were on their feet—yelling, clapping, high-fiving each other—as the final out walked to the plate. The bleachers were crazy, even more than usual. Guys taking their shirts off and waving them. Screaming, pumping their fists, congratulating each other as if they were the reason for the perfect game. Fans were taking pictures of other fans with the field as the background to preserve the moment of this special occasion, to have a record that they were here on this historical day—the first perfect game at Fenway since Ernie Shore did it on June 23, 1917. And that wasn’t a real perfect game. Shore had replaced Babe Ruth in the first inning after Ruth walked a batter and then was thrown out of the game for arguing with the umpire. Shore caught the runner stealing for the out. He then retired the next 26 batters.

Not only would Jake be the first pitcher to retire 27 batters in a row at Fenway Park, at 21 he would be the youngest pitcher to ever pitch a perfect game. The bleachers were crazy with excitement and anticipation. As Tom Petty sings in Runnin’ Down A Dream, It felt so good like anything was possible.

I was in right field having a pretty good game myself. Two hits, a double and a single with a run batted in and two putouts. Not bad for a guy who had been up to the show for only two months, playing his third complete game. Sure, over the two months, I had been in a few innings here and a few innings there, but my starts were limited. After toiling in the minors for years, I had finally made it to the show when Drew went down again with a back injury. He was on the 35-day, and there was no telling when or if he would be back. And I was doing okay—260, 5 RBI’s, 1 homerun, no errors, a couple stolen bases. If I didn’t stick this year, I knew I had a chance next season to be at least a backup, maybe even a starter if the planets aligned properly. I was learning how to sit on the fastball and then adjust for the breaking pitch and getting better at it all the time.

The crack of the bat. A line shot was headed in my direction. Right at me. This is going to look good on my resume, I said to myself, making the last putout of a perfect game at Fenway Park.

I came in a few steps. Shit! The ball had a little more juice on it than I thought. That’s okay. One of the reasons you’re in the bigs is because of your speed. You can adjust.

But the ball kept sailing. It was like I was in slow motion. I could see the ball slowly go over my head. I was stretching for it. I couldn’t even get a glove on the ball. I was helpless to do anything about it as it went pass my out-stretched glove. It was a bad dream that I would relive a million times and never get over it. One misjudged line drive to right field, and my life was changed forever.

I played the ball as it bounced off the wall in front of the bullpen and hit the cutoff man as the batter reached second base standing up. A clean double, the perfect game was now an imperfect one.

The bleachers went quiet for a minute, and then the uproar began. I was in a fog, but inside the white hot noise, I could hear my name or should I say names.

You dickhead! Where did you learn to play ball?

This is the big leagues, asshole! Go back down to single A!

You suck, Pearson! You blew the perfect game!

The next batter got up. He was a right hander. Strike one and then a weak pop up to second base. He was trying to go to the opposite field, taking advantage of the broken outfielder in right. No luck. The game was over.

My thoughts became irrational. I wanted to scale the 17-foot center field wall and escape so that I didn’t have to go back to the dugout. Of course that was impossible, and even if possible, once I got to the stands, I would have been beaten, probably to death. After all, this was Boston. This was Fenway Park. These were Sox fans. The most rabid baseball fans in the world. Actually, they weren’t really fans. They were card-carrying members of the Red Sox Nation. While other teams had fans, the Red Sox were followed by a nation of fanatics.

I could envision the Boston Police investigation after I was killed.

Anyone see what happened?

No. He must have tripped and hit his head.

Yeah, that’s what it looks like—a tragic accident.

Then, I thought that maybe I could climb into the bullpen and make my escape that way. The bullpen wall was easily scalable. About five feet high. One problem—the relief pitchers and others were still there gathering their stuff, giving me side-long glances every few seconds. Nothing but disdain on their faces. Imagine me climbing the green wall, plopping over the top, landing on my back on the spit-covered ground? I’d probably be bludgeoned to death before I got to my feet, covered with spit, gum, sun seed husks, and wrappers. Probable cause of death? Broken neck from the fall when he hit the ground. No inquiry necessary.

No, I would have to go through the dugout into the clubhouse and face the players. As I slowly walked to the dugout, head down, the fans were still railing at me, now throwing plastic beer bottles, cups, popcorn boxes, cardboard treys with stuff still in them, half-eaten hotdogs and rolls, anything they could get their hands on.

Then someone started a chant of Bo blows! Bo blows! Bo blows! It caught on like the wave, getting louder and louder.

My name is really Robert Mitchell Pearson. But ever since I was a young kid, everyone called me Bo. I got the name from my younger sister. When she was a toddler, she couldn’t quite say Bob. No matter how hard she tried, it came out Bo. The name stuck. From about the age of four, everyone in my family called me Bo, and the rest is history. Even Mitch, my six-year-old son, sometimes called me Bo because he was so used to hearing it. I liked the name. It had a much better ring than asshole, which would become more prevalent in the upcoming days.

As I made my way to the dugout, I knew three things for sure. First, my teammates were going to make their displeasure known to me, especially Lang and the catcher Watson. It was going to be ugly. I just had to take it. No excuses. Second, my major league career just took a huge hit. This was Boston. This was Fenway Park. This was big business. This was Red Sox baseball. These people—owners, management, players, fans, media—didn’t forgive and forget. Third, Bill Buckner and Bob Stanley were celebrating somewhere. They were off the hook. There was a new goat in town. Me.

The first person to greet me as I walked through the tunnel into the clubhouse was Lang.

What were you doing out there? Playing with your dick? My grandmother could have caught that ball. Do you know what this is going to cost me in bonuses? What about my place in baseball history? Now instead of being a first, I’ll be a footnote. You really fucked me good asshole.

Everyone was quiet. Standing around at their lockers. Waiting for my response.

I’m sorry. I really thought I had a bead on the ball. It just sailed. I tried to catch up with it but couldn’t. It just kept sailing.

You’re sorry! That’s all you’ve got to say is that you’re sorry!

As I was being berated by this 21-year-old kid, other players in various stages of undress began to gather, a few with just towels wrapped around them—many upset about the game but still quiet—some seemed amused at the scene taking place.

No media were allowed in and that was a good thing.

I had reached my limit. What did Lang want me to do? Get down on my knees and beg his forgiveness. Kiss his smelly feet? This little shit was playing high school baseball while I was playing professional ball at double A Portland. Here he is dressing me down in front of nearly the entire team. I had enough. I could feel the explosion coming as it sometimes did.

No, I have more to say than I’m sorry. I meant to say I’m sorry you self-absorbed, arrogant, immature little prick. I was playing professional ball when you were still in rubber cleats. So you can go fuck yourself. By the way, nice pitch. A fastball right down the middle of the plate to a left-hander. What did you think was going to happen? You’re lucky the ball didn’t end up in the bullpen, which it almost did. Then, not only the no hitter would be gone but the shutout too. Asshole.

So much for being contrite and taking it like a man, with no excuses.

Well, my little speech to Lang really got things going. Watson, the catcher, came at me from out of the crowd and got right in my face. He took exception to me questioning his pitch selection.

What are you talking about? Jones hadn’t gotten around on a fastball the whole game. It was a perfect pitch to end a perfect game. Oh yeah, except some piece of shit right fielder couldn’t catch a line drive.

I got your perfect pitch right here, I said as I grabbed my cup. And by the way, you and Lang can take your perfect pitch and your perfect game and shov’em up your ass.

Not too original, I have to admit, but it was all I could think of in all the excitement. And it was getting exciting. As I said those words, I gave Watson a shove, just to put an exclamation mark on my point. He took a swing at me, and all hell broke loose with me swinging back and some other players shoving and pushing to get at me. Their bottled-up emotions were coming uncorked. As I was doing my best to defend myself and to get a few more shots at Watson, I noticed that Lang was in the back of the crowd, watching the melee, still yelling at me. But I couldn’t hear what he was saying with all the racket. Of course, he wasn’t going to get into the fray and risk hurting himself.

After a few minutes, some coaches, a few veteran players, and the team captain intervened, pulling players away and telling everyone to calm down. The fight broke up. Everyone was spent, they had enough. Everyone except Lang, that is.

This isn’t over Pearson! One of these days I’m gonna find a way to get back at you for wrecking this game! You’re gonna regret this day ever happened, you fuckhead!

I was too tired to respond. I just wanted to get out of there. I took off my uniform. Put my stuff in my locker and got dressed without showering.

With Lang’s parting verbal shots ringing in my head, I walked out of the clubhouse to the parking lot, my eyes darting in every direction to make sure I avoided any media and fans.

Little did anyone know that Lang’s words would prove to be prophetic. I would regret this day for the rest of my life.

Chapter 3

I got back to Norwood around midnight. Norwood is nice little town close to Boston and not too far from Pawtucket. I had a feeling that I would be back driving on 95 south to Rhode Island, probably sooner than later. We lived in a nice colonial—four bedrooms, two and a half baths, a two-car garage, wood shakes painted grey and white trim—modest by professional baseball standards, but my baseball salary was still very modest, and Tess and I were practical people.

Mitch had just finished the first grade. Tess was back to teaching. She taught gifted children at a local elementary school, and she was a natural at it. A gifted teacher for gifted children. The school was lucky to have her, and they knew it.

Tess taught at a different school than the one Mitch attended and that was fine. In fact, she preferred it that way. She didn’t want to have any conflict of interest, and Mitch needed to be independent. His school had an exceptional afterschool program, which he loved. Tess would pick him up at the end of her day, a nice arrangement for everyone.

It was July, though, and school was out for the summer. Thank God for that. It was bad enough that Mitch’s neighborhood friends would be talking with him about the game. We didn’t need an entire school accosting him about his father’s bonehead play. Hopefully, by September things would cool down.

She was waiting for me as I walked into the kitchen.

Not your best game, she said with a sad sympathetic smile. How you doing?

It never failed. Even after seven years of marriage, whenever I was with her, I immediately felt better. No matter how bad I was feeling—and on a scale from one to ten, I was about a minus five right now—I felt special because of her. Like I could really accomplish something important. She gave me confidence and always did wonders for my usual low self-esteem. I thought about the song I Run to You by Lady Antebellum because that’s what I always did. When I needed comfort or support, I ran to her. I really needed her a lot. More than she knew. Even more than I knew.

She had light brown hair, about five feet six, with a great body. Not a skinny model body, but more of an athletic one. She had these blue eyes you would swear couldn’t be that blue. You’d think that she was wearing those color contacts to make her eyes bluer, but she wasn’t. There was nothing artificial about her. She was genuine to the soul. What you saw is what you got. Not only was she beautiful but she was smart, outgoing, sensitive, and under control. Everything I wasn’t. I couldn’t believe she was my wife. I was madly in love with her.

I feel like shit, I said, and I really don’t want to talk about it.

We’ll talk in the morning. On Saturday, things are always better. We’ll also need to talk with Mitch.

Yeah, I know.

She got into bed. I showered, dried off, put on my boxers and slipped in next to her.

I couldn’t sleep and finally got up around 4 a.m. Tess was still sleeping as I slid out of bed successful in not waking her. She was right about two things but couldn’t have been more wrong about the other. It was Saturday alright, and we definitely would have to talk to Mitch, but things weren’t better. They couldn’t have been worse.

I got on my laptop to read the sport pages. I’m not sure why I wanted to punish myself. Maybe I thought it would be good therapy or maybe I thought I needed to be punished. What better way to self-flagellate than to see what the Boston Herald had to say about last night’s game. As I expected, it wasn’t good. I knew it was going to be bad, but this bad?

In typical Herald fashion, the headline read: Pearson Pukes on Perfect Game. With the subtitle: Lang Loses Bid to Make History. The article described how masterfully Lang had pitched, not missing the opportunity to praise the young talent in virtually every paragraph. It pointed out how he would have been the youngest pitcher to ever throw a perfect game, explaining that Vida Blue at 22 was still the youngest to achieve that feat. It cited what happened in Ernie Shore’s game, making the point that Lang’s would have been the first true perfect game ever pitched at Fenway. No asterisk necessary. And,