Ever the discomforted Dodgers fan, Pat moved to the bar. One beer became three in short order, and it was time to eat lunch—just past noon—but he wasn’t ready. He had no appetite, just thirst. Unable to catch a buzz, Pat was tired of this. And tired of being tired of this. He sipped his beer and brooded.

And that’s when Mickey Charles Mantle hobbled into the bar and perched two stools down from him.

“Howdy.”

“Hi.”

Holy Jesus. It took Pat a minute to make sure it was him, and he spotted that lopsided, bucktoothed grin as the Mick ordered a white wine, then changed it to a bourbon. But there was something Pat didn’t recognize about the man until he stretched, the way he used to unlimber with a bat behind his back. Gone were the cut-from-marble muscles, the broad shoulders and fire-hydrant neck; instead he kind of plopped and sagged onto the bar stool. Pat tried not to stare. The Mick’s hair was graying and thin, and he took out a pair of dime-store reading glasses that did nothing but magnify the road map of tiny broken blood vessels spread down the slope of his nose and etched around his once-hawklike eyes. He squinted through his specs at the lunch menu and kept looking around. Uneasy alone, Pat thought. The Mick hunkered over his double bourbon, and Pat pretended to read the paper. They were the only two in the Dugout.

“How’d the Yankees do?” the Mick asked.

“Off. In Milwaukee tonight.”

“That’s a win.”

After an impatient five minutes of the Mick craning his neck to look at the front of the house, his lunch date walked in. Pat peeked over the sports page—it was the sportscaster, the one who had been the kicker for his goddamn Giants. His arrival relaxed the Mick and let him settle in. The sportscaster ordered a matching bourbon in his honey basso.

“Why the hell we ain’t at the club?”

The Mick shot him a disappointed look. “Bunch of rich cocksuckers—can’t get any peace to play holes.”

The old kicker didn’t buy it. “So they threw you out?”

“Oh yeah.” The Mick smiled.

“What for?”

“Buck naked at the buffet.”

“Jesus, kiddo.” The sportscaster snorted. Preston Trail Golf Club, all boys, just a couple veers up the tollway.

“Fuck that place. I hold the club record. Twelve lost balls for nine holes.”