“Point taken, sir.”

Babe said, “And we’ve got some time. It’s not for six months, my anniversary.”

Dominick poured them each another drink and raised his in toast. “To your unbridled optimism, Mr. Ruth. It’s what makes this country all that it is today.”

They drank.

“Have you ever seen what water does to wood? To ivory keys and wire and all those little delicate parts in a piano?”

Babe nodded. “I know it won’t be easy.”

“Easy, sir? I’m not sure it’ll be possible.” He leaned into the bar. “I have a cousin. He does some dredging. He’s worked the seas most of his life. What if we were to at least establish the location of the piano, how deep it actually is in the lake?”

“The pond.”

“The pond, sir. If we knew that, well, then we’d be somewhere, Mr. Ruth.”

Ruth thought about it and nodded. “How much will this cost me?”

“Couldn’t say without talking to my cousin, but it could be a bit more than a new piano. Could be less.” He shrugged and showed Ruth his palms. “Although, I make no guarantees as to the final fee.”

“Of course.”

Dominick took a piece of paper and wrote down a telephone number and handed it to Ruth. “That’s the number of the bar. I work seven days from noon to ten. Call me Thursday, sir, and I’ll have some details for you.”

“Thanks.” Ruth pocketed the number as Dominick went back down the bar.

He drank some more and smoked his cigar as a few more men came in and joined the two down at the other end of the bar and more rounds were purchased and toasts given to the tall, glamorous one, who was apparently giving some kind of speech soon at the Tremont Temple Baptist Church. Seemed like the tall man was big noise of a sort but Ruth still couldn’t place him. Didn’t matter—he felt warm here, cocooned. He loved a bar when the lights were dim and the wood was dark and the seats were covered in soft leather. The kids from this morning receded until they felt several weeks in his past, and if it was cold outside, you could only imagine it because you sure couldn’t feel it.

Midautumn through winter was hard on him. He never knew what to do, couldn’t gauge what was expected of him when there were no balls to hit, no fellow players to jaw with. Every morning he was confronted with decisions—how to please Helen, what to eat, where to go, how to fill his time, what to wear. Come spring, he’d have a suitcase packed with his traveling clothes and most times he’d just have to step in front of his locker to know what he was going to wear; his uniform would be hanging there, fresh from the team laundry. His day would be mapped out for him—either a game or a practice or Bumpy Jordan, the Sox travel secretary, would point him to the line of cabs that would take him to the train that would carry him to whichever city they were going next. He wouldn’t have to think about meals because they’d all been arranged. Where he was going to sleep never crossed his mind—his name was already written in a hotel ledger, a bellman standing by to transport his bags. And at night, the boys were waiting in the bar and the spring leaked without complaint into summer and the summer unfurled in bright yellows and etched greens and the air smelled so good it could make you cry.