The two of them started to drink and shoot the shit, and Pat tried not to be aggravated at the irony. Like a South Bronx Fabian waiting out an occupying enemy, he had suffered through the entire Wonder Boy campaign. For eighteen years he couldn’t escape the Captain America idolatry. Pat pried himself from the bar to use the john. He had let go of the Dodgers, but the second-best thing that could still happen in the box scores was the Yankees losing. Pat’s left leg tingled out of numbness and he hop-stepped past the bar. The Mick noticed.

“Bad knees, fella?”

“Bad everything,” Pat muttered.

“I hear ya, I got near nothing holding this one together.” He smacked what was left of his famous right knee. “Sore all the time. Like a real dull toothache.”

Pat nodded as he got his feet working, and he shuffled off to the bathroom. He stood in the cool, damp stink of the porcelain and thought back to the ’56 series and the Mick outrunning a drive by Hodges to left center. Backhanded in Death Valley at full speed; it was a great fucking catch for a guy who played with bum knees. The wall was at four eighty in center then. Deep and lonesome. What no one remembers: the Duke made a better catch the inning before, diving in on a Yogi line drive. But no, it was the Mick’s catch that kept Larsen’s perfection going. The goddamn Mick.

When Pat came back from the john he was finally ready to eat. A burger. A club sandwich. Something. Instead he found a bourbon neat by his beer.

“Compliments of the gentlemen.”

Pat caught the eye of the Mick, who nodded like a shortstop at second to cover. Pat saluted and downed the shot. “To the Duke!”

“Oh shit.” The Mick’s aged face puckered as he elbowed off the prow of the bar. “I’m buying a drink for a Brooklyn bum?”

The DJ in the next room tested his speakers with the country station. The catgut fiddle of “Pissin’ in the Wind” came jangling through as bourbon snuck its way into Pat’s bravado.

“Actually grew up in the Bronx, near the stadium.”

The Mick signaled for another round. “The Bronx, yeah, I spent my summers there. Hey, what was the name of that big building out past right? Corner of 161st?”

“The courthouse?”

“Yeah. You know, some asshole used to get up there with a big mirror and shine it in our eyes. It was a long ways off, but it was like lightning.”

“That was me.” Pat pushed aside the lunch menu and welcomed another shot of bourbon.

“I believe you.” The Mick chuckled. “Well, here’s to making it out of the Bronx.”