Father Brady interrupted and said, “I better get to this form.”

Without waiting for a reply, he turned away from the woman and began filling out the questionnaire. The form asked the following questions: (Name) Daniel Patrick Brady, (Occupation) priest, (Age) almost 45, (Address) Cathedral of St. Peter and St. Paul, 222 North Seventeenth Street, (City) Philadelphia, (State) Pennsylvania, (Zip) 19004, (Likes and dislikes) the priest skipped this, (Family members) none, (Pets) none, (The one subject you consider yourself to be an expert in is?) Catholicism, (Names, number of beneficiaries, and their relationship to the contestant) none.

During the time Father Brady was filling out his questionnaire, a tall, skinny young man wearing too-short jeans walked into the waiting room holding his own clipboard. He yelled out, “Mrs. Vera Bundle!” as if there were a large, noisy crowd and he was compelled to make himself heard. DP Brady wondered if all young people in New York made it a habit of speaking loudly.

“I’m Vera Bundle,” answered the only woman in the room.

“My name’s Jimmy Joel Jenks,” said the young man. “Welcome to The Big Question. Would you please follow me?”

“Haven’t we met before?” asked Vera Bundle, looking at the man in an odd way.

“I don’t think so.”

The woman disappeared on the other side of the waiting room door behind the boy named Jimmy Joel Jenks.

Friday night, September 14, 2012, was the night of the heavyweight championship fight.

That afternoon, Billy Constable was talking to Gil Rogin, a writer for Sports Illustrated magazine. The two were standing not far from the boxing ring, centered where second base would normally be on the Yankees’ playing field. That was when Billy saw the raindrop land on the shoulder of Gil Rogin’s blue-and-white-striped seersucker sport coat.

Rain meant postponing the outdoor event, which translated into a potentially huge loss of income. Promoter Sonny Lieberman picked a Friday night for the simple reason that Fridays were paydays and fight fans would have cash in their pockets. By Saturday night a lot of those paychecks would have evaporated in the city’s barrooms. That’s why the spreading gray spot on Gil Rogin’s shoulder caused Billy to gasp.

“What’s the matter, Billy?” Gil asked, concerned. “You’re white as a sheet.”

“Rain,” moaned Billy Constable, pointing to the splotch on Gil Rogin’s shoulder.

And rain it did.

It came down in buckets.

Later that afternoon, Billy Constable was sitting in the Yankee dugout with the team’s groundskeeper, Carl Canzona Sr.

Sonny Lieberman called Billy every hour on the hour and asked, “Any chance?”

“Any chance, Carl?” Billy would automatically ask the elderly groundskeeper.

Carl Canzona Sr. was a nice guy but a bit of a grump. He had been with the Yankee organization for forty-six years. Every time Billy asked Canzona what the conditions were, Carl would mumble some curse words, heave his hefty, disheveled body up off the dugout bench, walk out into the rain holding his suit coat over his head to keep himself dry, push the toe of his shoe into the soggy turf along the first base line, then shake his head no.