It had been an awful summer. The once-promising V. Carr Investigations was collapsing into dust, as Virgil impaled himself on unyielding mysteries. He spent his days lying flat on his couch, counting the cracks in the ceiling and yanking bits of thread out of the carpet. Nights, he was away from the house, wandering the darkness trying to understand the cancer of the Westside. His cheeks were sunken, his beard gray and wild, his gold eyes shot with blood. But on afternoons when I could coax him to the ballpark, he groused with a smile, and the wooden seats were warm from the sun. The cheering fans blotted out the demons that whispered in Virgil’s ears. At the Polo Grounds, he was mine.

That September morning, I eased open the door to my father’s office and was hit by the stench of newsprint, spilled whiskey, and rotting food. Virgil sat up sharply, trying very hard to pretend he’d been awake.

“Get dressed,” I said. “Stuff something down your throat. We’re going to the Polo Grounds. Unless you have something better to do?”

“I’m going back over the Alice Pearl scene. There are new angles that demand pursuit.”

“Like what?”

“I had a dream last night of Alice, slipping into a storm drain. It may be pertinent. I shall inspect every gutter on Forty-Eighth Street.”

“It’s a doubleheader. Please.”

“Well . . .” He twisted the thick black ring that never left his hand. “If I leave now, I can probably canvass Forty-Eighth and still make first pitch.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“And risk boring yourself to death? You get our seats—on the first-base line, mind—and I’ll see you there.”

The day was warm and the ballpark was full without being crowded. First pitch came and went, and my father’s seat was empty. Between every pitch, I craned my neck, straining my eyes for him. The first game went far too quickly, a blur of clumsy play and unlucky hitting, and Virgil Carr was on the verge of missing an easy Giants victory when, mercifully, our boys botched a ninth inning rundown, and Boston tied things up. A few minutes later, the game came down to Kelly.

“Come on, you bastard,” I muttered. “Strike out, you beautiful son of a bitch. We can’t win yet, Kelly. I need a few more innings, you son of a bitch, you bastard, you beautiful goddamned fool. Please—wait for Virgil Carr.”

He did not hear me. Kelly spun on his heels, nearly falling over backward as he sent the ball sailing four hundred feet into the sun-blasted bleachers of left field. I cheered with the rest of the crowd, but my smile was forced and I stopped shouting long before my throat was sore. My father had missed it all.

Second Game. Kelly, 1b. Ab: 3, R: 1, H: 1.