Dad had secured tickets in the nosebleed upper deck, but at the last minute, a business associate gave him two tickets three rows behind the Red Sox bench. For some odd reason—and to the horror of the rest of his family—Brad was a Red Sox fan. Actually, the reason wasn’t all that odd. Carl “Yaz” Yastrzemski was Brad’s first baseball card. That might not seem like a big deal, but Brad was one of those little kids who became fiercely loyal to his firsts.

Once they sat, Dad produced the great seats with a magician’s flourish and showed them to Brad. “Surprise!”

He handed the tickets to Myron. Dad would stay in the upper deck, sending his two sons down to the box seats. Myron held an excited Brad’s hand and made his way down. When they arrived, Myron couldn’t believe how close to the field they were. The box seats were, in a word, awesome.

When Brad spotted Yaz scant yards away, his face broke into a smile that even now, if Myron closed his eyes, he could still see and feel. Brad started cheering like mad. When Yaz got into the batter’s box, Brad truly lost it. “Yaz! Yaz! Yaz!”

The guy sitting in front of them whirled around, frowning. He was maybe twenty-five and had a scruffy beard. That was another thing Myron would never forget. That beard.

“That’s enough,” the bearded guy said to Brad. “Quiet down.”

The bearded guy turned back to the field. Brad looked as though someone had slapped him in the face.

“Don’t listen to him,” Myron said. “You’re allowed to yell.”

That was when everything went wrong. The bearded man spun back around and grabbed Myron—Myron who was ten years old at the time, a tall ten-year-old, but ten nonetheless—by the shirt. The man bunched the Yankee emblem tee in his adult fist and pulled Myron close enough for him to smell the stale beer on the man’s breath.

“He’s giving my girlfriend a headache,” the bearded man said. “He shuts up now.”

Myron was stunned. Tears pushed their way into his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them out. He felt his chest hitch in fear and, strangely, shame. The man held on to Myron’s shirt for another moment or two, then he pushed him back into his seat. The man turned back to the game and put his arm around his girlfriend. Afraid that he’d cry, Myron grabbed Brad’s hand and hurried back to the upper deck. He didn’t say anything, not at first, but Dad was perceptive and ten-year-old boys are not the world’s best actors.

“What’s wrong?” Dad asked.