“Sorry, man. Get your own.”

“Come on, Seamus. A sip?”

“I had to stand in line for this, Doug.”

Why argue? I could see that Seamus’s tumbler was all but drained. He was down to broken ice. A full-strength libation, mixed to order by the excellent Clayton, was what the onset of night called for. And it was, in the deepest sense, night. Freezing drafts seeped in. Gales outside gained swiftness. Damn that garden gate. Seamus raised his vodka glass, and ice clinked down the glass toward his mouth as, cruelly, he drank.

“Go easy on that stuff,” I advised him, and he replied drolly, “That’s like the pot calling the kettle black, isn’t it, Doug?”

Here was a perfect instance of an untoward personal criticism offered in a somewhat inappropriate setting. Family affairs are always tiresome. There’s nothing new about that. Yet there was no reason for Seamus to manifest his discomfort by handing out unsolicited character assessments. What number drink was Seamus on? He could easily have tossed one back at the drinks table before carrying away this sweaty, empty vodka clutched in his hand. Or he might’ve thrown down several immediately. Though it is, I can assure you, a chore to get more than two glasses lined up on our folding-table bar. The jostling of the crowd. Voices hollering their multiple orders. I like to ask for my usual double, plus some not-too-sweet mixed drink, to nurse in private. What’s so wicked about that?

Seamus’s face as he swallowed his last taste of watery vodka had its familiar worried look, the thin gray lips pressed firmly together, eyes reddish and glancing nervously in the direction of our bar. He was getting anxious, I guessed, about the prospect of more to drink and how long it would take to get it. He was not paying attention to me in the least, when I asked him, “Do you think our garden wall is high enough to keep people from entering the grounds?”

“People?” he said in a voice that sounded blurry and unconcerned. He peered down into the vodka glass—intently, as if maybe looking to discover something interesting among the puddling ice bits. Perspiration made Seamus’s wide, round face glisten. He looked as if he might have come from a sauna. He sighed, “Did you hear the news about Russel?”

“What news?”

“I don’t have this from the horse’s mouth, but apparently there’s something wrong with Russel’s throwing arm.”

“Oh, no.”

“The arm and shoulder are so vulnerable to injury at Russel’s age.”

“How old is Russel?”

“Couldn’t tell you, exactly. We’re not getting any younger, any of us.”

“That’s a fact.”

“Do you ever feel old yourself, Doug?”

“How do you mean?”

“Old, old.”

“I occasionally have trouble getting out of bed in the morning, if that’s what you mean.”

“Because I was wondering if we could count on your help if the team needs it next Sunday afternoon at three against the Episcopal Ministers.”

“It’s been years since I’ve played, Seamus. I wouldn’t even know how anymore.”