Pat forgot to order lunch and kept at it with the beer and bourbon back. As they continued to get lubricated, he tried to leave the Mick alone but kept getting pulled into the gravity well of his stories. Of all the famous ballplayers I had to run into. Pat held his tongue as his thoughts went back. Sure, the Mick and Willie were great, but don’t forget: no one hit more home runs in the 1950s than the Duke.

Just then a kid, a few years younger than Dan, and his mother came over from their table on the patio with the gleaming hide of a red-stitched Rawlings. The mother was a piece of work, tight jeans, fluorescent blue T-shirt, and a kind of Texas shandy tan that matched the yellow of the Mick’s jaundiced skin. The Mick frowned at their interruption.

“Can I help you?”

The mom began her plea. “We are so sorry to bother you.”

“No bother.” He gave the mom a lupine grin and borrowed a pen to spell out his name in that famous Palmer-method signature. Finished, he rolled the ball down the bar at the kid.

“Thank you.”

“You’re lucky, kid, your mom has nice tits.”

The country music station was playing some Bob Wills rag now. Pat watched the mother and child blush and laugh through the bad taste. And the Mick turned away. There was your evidence—He’s a cocksucker—but Pat figured otherwise: his best defense was being offensive. He’s signed a million baseballs, and all they want is that stupid third-grader signature.

“You know, I led the league six straight years in the crabs.” The Mick continued his crude assault as he turned to Pat. “Did you know that? Major league record.”

The sports announcer rattled the ice in his glass and set up the punch line. “Still hold it?”

“Still hold it! And my wife was second four times.”

Mantle howled with laughter. And through all the drinking, Pat recognized this was and wasn’t the Mick. This wasn’t the Wonder Boy swinging with ballistic efficiency. That guy is in a cemetery called Cooperstown. This guy acts like a hick and a drunk. And I’m a drunk. And as his drunkenness coagulated around this sad realization, Pat was terrified of being sober. He had to get out of the Dugout. Away from the fading half-life of the Mick. Pat laid four fives on the bar and slid off his stool. His leg was completely stiff. The Mick jawed another line about shitty knees, but Pat wasn’t listening. And some other Dovie’s customers came over and the Mick was repeating the lost-golf-ball joke and then a new one about Steinbrenner giving Billy Martin a million-dollar contract—one dollar for a million years. Goddamn Yankees. As he passed by, the Mick caught Pat’s glance with rat-red eyes.

“Adios, pardner.”