“I can’t. I promised.”
“Promised?”
He was screaming now, drawing more looks. He dropped his voice. “Promised? You made a promise to someone you just met to keep some kind of secret from
me
? What is that about?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Stevie,” she said. “I just can’t tell you. I’ll tell you this much: there will come a time when you’ll understand. But please, don’t ask me about it again.”
She turned and walked away. Stevie watched her walkbehind the batting cage in the direction of the Red Sox dugout. At that moment all he wanted to do was go home. He didn’t even care what Susan Carol’s secret was.
All he knew was that she and David Doyle had a secret and that he felt sick to his stomach. And it had nothing to do with the four slices of Regina’s pizza he had eaten that afternoon.
8: SUDDEN STAR
STEVIE WASN’T SURE HOW LONG he spent staring at the players in the batting cage without actually seeing them before someone put a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Peter Gammons standing there.
“Steve, I’m Peter Gammons, have you got a minute?” he said.
“Sure,” Stevie said, wondering why in the world Gammons would want to talk to him. No one needed to confirm the Doyle story anymore, so what could he possibly want?
“I was just talking to Bobby,” he said. “He was teasing me about the crawl this afternoon, saying I couldn’t confirm your story. I just wanted you to know I feel badly about the way it was worded and the fact that my network didn’t even give the
Herald
credit for the story.”
Stevie was surprised. He had always been a fan of Gammons’s, but Kelleher had convinced him that just about everyone in TV was evil. Gammons was a print guy who had become a TV guy. Maybe that was different?
“Don’t worry, Mr. Gammons—”
“Peter,” Gammons interrupted.
“Peter,” Stevie continued. “I never thought you wrote the crawl.”
“I didn’t, but I still feel badly.” He put out his hand. “No hard feelings, I hope.”
“Of course not,” Stevie said. “I know how these things work.”
Gammons clapped him on the back. “You know a lot of things, apparently,” he said. He walked in the direction of the batting cage, where Terry Francona, the Red Sox manager, was standing, calling his name. Being Peter Gammons, Stevie decided, was a pretty cool thing.
Alone again, he tried to act as if he was intently watching Dustin Pedroia, who had stepped into the cage. But his mind was still on his conversation with Susan Carol. What secret could David Doyle have told her that she couldn’t share with him? Why had David told
her
? Actually, that wasn’t too hard to guess. If Stevie were a fourteen-year-old boy with a secret to share, he’d certainly want to share it with Susan Carol. Well, he
was
a fourteen-year-old boy. He just didn’t have a secret.
Mearns walked back over to him, her TV interview concluded. “You look like you just got terrible news,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he said. “No bad news. I’m just a little bit tired.” The truth was he had
no
news at all. And in this case, no news felt like bad news.
The night was about as perfect as one could hope for in late October in Boston. Even though the game didn’t start until 8:35, it was still sixty-two degrees when Daisuke Matsuzaka threw the first pitch. As he had done during game one, Stevie sat in the auxiliary press box, which was located way out in right field, with Susan Carol on his left and George Solomon, the Sunday columnist emeritus for the
Washington Post
, on his right.
Solomon was short and had thick glasses. Tamara had explained to Stevie that he had been the
Post’s
sports editor for twenty-eight years and had retired to write a Sunday column. Now he had been brought back from complete retirement for the World Series. He had been friendly on the first night but kept making football references throughout the game.
“Fourth and ten for the
“Promised?”
He was screaming now, drawing more looks. He dropped his voice. “Promised? You made a promise to someone you just met to keep some kind of secret from
me
? What is that about?”
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, Stevie,” she said. “I just can’t tell you. I’ll tell you this much: there will come a time when you’ll understand. But please, don’t ask me about it again.”
She turned and walked away. Stevie watched her walkbehind the batting cage in the direction of the Red Sox dugout. At that moment all he wanted to do was go home. He didn’t even care what Susan Carol’s secret was.
All he knew was that she and David Doyle had a secret and that he felt sick to his stomach. And it had nothing to do with the four slices of Regina’s pizza he had eaten that afternoon.
8: SUDDEN STAR
STEVIE WASN’T SURE HOW LONG he spent staring at the players in the batting cage without actually seeing them before someone put a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Peter Gammons standing there.
“Steve, I’m Peter Gammons, have you got a minute?” he said.
“Sure,” Stevie said, wondering why in the world Gammons would want to talk to him. No one needed to confirm the Doyle story anymore, so what could he possibly want?
“I was just talking to Bobby,” he said. “He was teasing me about the crawl this afternoon, saying I couldn’t confirm your story. I just wanted you to know I feel badly about the way it was worded and the fact that my network didn’t even give the
Herald
credit for the story.”
Stevie was surprised. He had always been a fan of Gammons’s, but Kelleher had convinced him that just about everyone in TV was evil. Gammons was a print guy who had become a TV guy. Maybe that was different?
“Don’t worry, Mr. Gammons—”
“Peter,” Gammons interrupted.
“Peter,” Stevie continued. “I never thought you wrote the crawl.”
“I didn’t, but I still feel badly.” He put out his hand. “No hard feelings, I hope.”
“Of course not,” Stevie said. “I know how these things work.”
Gammons clapped him on the back. “You know a lot of things, apparently,” he said. He walked in the direction of the batting cage, where Terry Francona, the Red Sox manager, was standing, calling his name. Being Peter Gammons, Stevie decided, was a pretty cool thing.
Alone again, he tried to act as if he was intently watching Dustin Pedroia, who had stepped into the cage. But his mind was still on his conversation with Susan Carol. What secret could David Doyle have told her that she couldn’t share with him? Why had David told
her
? Actually, that wasn’t too hard to guess. If Stevie were a fourteen-year-old boy with a secret to share, he’d certainly want to share it with Susan Carol. Well, he
was
a fourteen-year-old boy. He just didn’t have a secret.
Mearns walked back over to him, her TV interview concluded. “You look like you just got terrible news,” she said. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” he said. “No bad news. I’m just a little bit tired.” The truth was he had
no
news at all. And in this case, no news felt like bad news.
The night was about as perfect as one could hope for in late October in Boston. Even though the game didn’t start until 8:35, it was still sixty-two degrees when Daisuke Matsuzaka threw the first pitch. As he had done during game one, Stevie sat in the auxiliary press box, which was located way out in right field, with Susan Carol on his left and George Solomon, the Sunday columnist emeritus for the
Washington Post
, on his right.
Solomon was short and had thick glasses. Tamara had explained to Stevie that he had been the
Post’s
sports editor for twenty-eight years and had retired to write a Sunday column. Now he had been brought back from complete retirement for the World Series. He had been friendly on the first night but kept making football references throughout the game.
“Fourth and ten for the
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