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  The Mets had evened the series at three games apiece. Two days later, they came from behind again to win Game 7, and the World Championship. The Curse of the Bambino lived on.

  The Mets owed it all, of course, to the lucky grapefruit. Now, you can argue that me holding the grapefruit had absolutely nothing to do with Buckner missing that ball. You can argue that it was a total coincidence. But you don’t know what would have happened if I hadn’t grabbed the grapefruit, do you? We’ll never know what would have happened.

  Poor Bill Buckner got all the blame, of course. Jokes were on the street almost immediately, the best of which were …

  Q. What do Bill Buckner and Michael Jackson have in common?

  A. They both wear a glove on one hand for no apparent reason.

  Q. Did you hear that Bill Buckner slipped and fell onto the Boston subway tracks?

  A. Yeah, but he’s okay—the train went between his legs.

  More seriously, it got to the point where Buckner couldn’t walk down the street in Massachusetts without people making fun of him. He actually received death threats from angry Red Sox fans. Buckner eventually moved about as far away as possible—to Idaho.

  The year after his big error, the Red Sox released Bill Buckner. He went on to play for the California Angels, Kansas City Royals, and ended his career—amazingly enough—back with the Red Sox. He retired in 1990 with an excellent .289 lifetime batting average, 174 home runs, 2,715 hits, 1,208 RBIs, and 183 stolen bases. And he won the National League batting title in 1980. After his playing career, Buckner went on to become a hitting instructor and minor-league manager. But the only thing that most people remembered about him was that one ground ball.

  And me? Well, after my brief career as a grapefruit holder, my wife and I got a cat. And you know what we named him?

  No, it wasn’t Buckner. Nice try, though.

  We named the cat Mookie.

  You’re probably wondering what happened to the lucky grapefruit. Well, I thought about donating it to the Baseball Hall of Fame, but I’ve visited there many times and have never seen any citrus fruit on display. I thought about eating it, but I don’t even like grapefruit.

  After about a week, the grapefruit had become lopsided and rotten. So Nina and I held it solemnly and ceremoniously dumped it in a garbage can. It had served its purpose nobly.

  This story has a happy ending, in a way. In 2004, the Red Sox were down three games to none in the American League Championship Series against the Yankees. They came back to win it, and then went on to win their first World Series in eighty-six years. People in Boston were so moved that parents picked up their sleeping babies and held them up in front of the TV screen so they could witness the once-in-a-lifetime event.

  It got even better. Just to be sure the curse was dead, the Sox won the World Series again in 2007. And do you know who threw out the ceremonial first pitch at their home opener the next season?

  Bill Buckner. The fans gave him a four-minute standing ovation.

  (Then, of course, the Red Sox returned to form in 2011 when they blew a nine-game lead with twenty-four games to play.)

  So what can we learn from all this?

  Nothing! What, you thought there was going to be some kind of moral or lessons in this book? Forget about it. It’s just sports. Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. And sometimes you lose for eighty-six years in a row.

  But even if curses and superstition have nothing to do with it, I still say I won the World Series. Nobody can tell me otherwise.

  So if you find yourself holding a grapefruit and your losing team suddenly starts a rally, hold on to the !@#$% grapefruit!

  FIND YOUR FIRE

  BY TIM GREEN

  The center snapped the ball, and Jake pivoted one foot, tearing up grass and pulling out of the line, accelerating toward the other side of the formation. His target flashed in front of him from nowhere. The target was Bobby Lemke, Jake’s best friend and the team’s star defensive end. Bobby wasn’t looking. If Jake smacked him hard enough, he could knock him into next year. It could be a classic trap block, something to make an offensive lineman drool.

  Instead of unloading with a monster hit, Jake put his hands out and turned his head, bumping Bobby away from the hole where the runner should be zipping by in the next instant. Bobby twisted like a snake and clubbed Jake’s shoulder with the back side of his hand as he cleared Jake’s body and threw himself into the hole. Before Jake could turn around, he heard the cry.

  “Fumble!”

  The ball squirted between Jake’s legs. He dove on it and felt the pile of bodies build up on his back as the cry for the ball spread through the team like a grass fire. Jake clutched the ball tighter than a mother holds her baby. In the dark, cramped space, Jake felt someone’s hands slither into his arms and grab at the ball. Jake tugged, but the wicked fingers clawed for the ball with an iron will, twisting it free and yanking it from Jake’s grip.

  As the players climbed off the pile, the light revealed Bobby Lemke holding the ball high for all to see. A cheer went up from the defense. The scrimmage was over. Ten extra sprints for the losers. That was Jake, the loser.

  Coach Heath grabbed Jake’s face mask and pulled Jake’s head close enough that Jake could feel the heat of his coach’s breath.

  “You had a clean shot to annihilate Bobby. Why didn’t you?”

  Jake shrugged because he couldn’t explain it.

  “You think he’s your friend? There are no friends on the football field. Get it? He’s on the other side. You want to win, you beat him into the dirt. That’s the game.” Coach Heath looked around at the rest of the team, challenging anyone to say otherwise.

  He turned back to Jake, disgusted, and let go of his mask. “And then you let him steal the fumble? Look at you, Jake. You’re big as a horse, and you can hit like one, too. You got to find your fire, son. Without that, you’re just another big tub of lard out here flopping around.”

  Coach blew his whistle, signaling the team to line up for sprints, then he stomped away.

  Jake adjusted his shoulder pads and jogged to the line. After sprints, the team knelt in a tight knot around their coach, huffing and sweating.

  “Just so you all know. Coach Commisso, the head coach from Immaculate Heart, is going to be at our intrasquad scrimmage on Saturday.” Coach Heath looked directly at Bobby Lemke. The rest of the team knew why. “He told me personally that they’ve got one full scholarship left. Dirk Forester got one last year. You guys remember how good he was. And the last player from Eastview to go to IH is playing for the Cowboys, so you all know what it means.”

  Jake knew the Cowboys lineman Coach Heath was talking about, as did any kid growing up in Eastview who cared one bit about football. He also knew that IH was a football factory, a perennial contender for the state high school championship. Most of the players at IH ended up playing in college, many of them Division I. Jake stretched his neck to peek at Bobby Lemke through the small army of pads. Sprigs of blond hair sprouted out from the back of Bobby’s helmet. His big, sad eyes gave him the look of a hound, and his smile uncovered teeth as crooked as old fence posts.

  Jake was the only one who could lay claim to being Bobby’s best friend, but everyone liked him, and everyone was rooting for him to get that scholarship. Bobby’s dad wasn’t around anymore, and his mom was one of the thousands who’d lost her job when the GM plant shut down. He didn’t have money for a hot lunch, let alone the hefty tuition it cost to attend Immaculate Heart.

  Jake had a dad who owned an electronics distribution company. They lived in Crestline Hills, a gated community. His mom didn’t work and never had to. Jake’s two older sisters had gone to IH, and Jake would enroll next spring, paying the full freight like most of the wealthy students who went there. Jake and Bobby planned on being teammates for the next ten years, finishing up at Eastview Junior High, then four years at IH before spending their next four or five either at UT, Notre Dame, USC, or Alabama. They’d make tha
t decision after they visited the campuses, which they also planned on doing together.

  Their only problem was going to be the pros. They hadn’t figured out how to rig that yet, although Bobby pointed out that if they weren’t drafted by the same team, they’d both be free agents after their first four years in the league. With lofty goals like that, Coach Heath’s comment about Jake being just another tub of lard made him scowl as he trudged toward the locker room.

  As an offensive lineman, Jake didn’t think he needed the maniacal intensity of a defensive player like Bobby. Jake was the biggest eighth grader he’d heard of—six feet one inch, 244 pounds—and the doctor said he wasn’t finished growing. He figured that size, and some pretty nimble feet, should allow him to skate into the NFL, but Coach Heath’s burning face suggested there was something else he might need.

  “Sorry about the fumble.” Bobby laughed and smacked him on the butt halfway across the parking lot.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Jake aimed a scowl at Bobby.

  Bobby’s face fell and he shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s football.”

  “Yeah, I guess.” Jake knew Bobby had already found his fire, and that it burned out of control. “You want to come over and swim? My mom’s grilling steaks.”

  Bobby scratched up under his shoulder pads. “I love a steak.”

  They changed out of the sweaty practice gear and biked over to Crestline Hills wearing shorts, T-shirts, and their purple-and-white Eastview Football caps backward to keep them from flying off. Jake waved, and they passed through the guard gates barely slowing down. Jake’s family lived in a big brick house with towering white columns at the top of a tall hill. Jake and Bobby parked their bikes just inside the garage next to the Range Rover.

  “Man, I can’t wait to be rich.” Bobby ran a finger along the Range Rover’s sleek hood line. “I’m getting a black one of these when I get my first-round signing bonus.”

  “Money doesn’t really matter.” Jake looked around the garage at the gleaming cars and really believed it.

  Instead of going through the house, they headed straight for the pool, where the smoke from grilling steaks floated up from the outdoor cook station, making their mouths water. They changed into bathing suits in the pool house—Bobby used an extra of Jake’s—and dove in. They splashed over to the waterfall and let the water pound their heads, laughing as it sent them plummeting down.

  At the basketball hoop near the shallow end, they began a game of one-on-one. Jake had an outside shot, but the rebounds and the inside game all belonged to Bobby. After a missed three-pointer, Jake and Bobby both dove for the ball. Jake got his hands on it first, but Bobby tore it loose like a pit bull on a bone, swinging elbows and hair until Jake felt a sharp pain in his nose and let go.

  “Ha!” Bobby turned and dunked one home.

  Jake stood holding his nose. He held up his hand for Bobby to see the wash of blood.

  “Dude, I’m sorry. Wow. Man. Did I do that?”

  “No, I threw my face into your elbow to teach you a lesson. Of course you did it!”

  “Yeah. Man. Sorry.”

  Jake turned away, sulking. Bobby put a hand on his back.

  “Come on, dude. You know I love you.”

  “That’s weird.”

  “Don’t go soft on me. You know what I mean.”

  They both laughed. Jake’s nose shut down, and they didn’t get out until Jake’s mom called to them from the screened-in porch above. They dried off quickly and raced up the steps past Rosalita with the platter of steaks, nearly knocking her down. She scolded them in Spanish.

  They sat at the table with eager looks. Jake’s mom greeted them and sat sipping a glass of white wine and looking nervously into the kitchen until Jake’s dad swept out onto the deck, loosened his tie, and tossed his suit coat over the back of his chair. Jake’s father was a big man, but in the last year, he’d grown thin. His hair had gone gray, and the lines on his face had deepened. Things were always quieter when Jake’s dad was around, but the tight skin around his jaw and the way he gnawed at his steak made everyone even more uncomfortable.

  Even Bobby picked up on the dark mood, and he excused himself before Rosalita brought out the apple pie. Bobby never missed dessert. Jake’s father followed Bobby with his eyes until Jake’s friend disappeared around the corner of the house near the garage.

  Jake’s father cleared his throat. He took Jake’s mother’s hand in his own, but directed his eyes at Jake.

  “I’m going to meet this head-on, Jake, and I want you to as well. We’ve got problems. Serious problems. With money.”

  Jake smiled and looked from one parent to the other for signs of a joke. His father never talked about money. Money was something they always had, and lots of it.

  “My company is … the bank … we’re closing up. We’re going to have to move.”

  Jake nearly gagged. He shook his head. “Not now. Not this season.”

  His father took a deep breath. “We’ll try to find a place in the district so you won’t have to change schools this year, but after that, I can’t make any promises. I’m going to have to start over, and I don’t know if this is the right place to do it.”

  In his mind, Jake could see the wrought iron gates you had to drive through to enter Immaculate Heart, the winding road up through the trees, and the clock tower atop the main building. It was the next chapter in his life. They all knew that. It had to be. They were a state powerhouse, and Coach Commisso was known for grooming players into Division I–caliber stars.

  “But wherever we live, next year I’ll be going to IH anyway, right?” The words sounded dream-like and hollow to Jake, even though he was certain they’d come from his own mouth.

  His parents looked at each other.

  His father winced. “I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Jake.”

  “But you can live anywhere. Remember Sue’s friend? Her family was out in Huffton.” Sue was Jake’s sister, and her best friend traveled an hour each way just to attend IH.

  “It’s not getting there.” Jake’s mom spoke softly. “You’re not listening. IH isn’t something we’re going to be able to afford, Jake. We’re all going to have to make sacrifices. Eastview’s public school is fine. And if we move out of town, we’ll find another good place.”

  “But … football.”

  “Maybe next year we could find a place in Lawtonberg,” his mother said. “They have some reasonable homes, and a good high school team, right?”

  His dad’s face crumpled. “Did you hear what I said? We’re talking about the business I built up from nothing. You’re worried about high school football?”

  Jake stabbed at a chunk of apple and dug it free from his pie without eating it. “Sorry.”

  “We’re all going to be fine.” His mother flashed a smile across the table at them.

  The sweetness and light in her voice filled Jake with dread. That’s how it worked with her: the sweeter she sounded, the worse things really were. Jake excused himself.

  “Where are you going, Jacob?” His dad growled like Jake was jumping ship or something.

  “Let him, Frank. He loves that football.”

  Jake jogged upstairs and threw himself on his bed. If it even was his bed anymore. Did it belong to the bank now? He wove his fingers through his hair and pulled until it hurt. He remembered his words to Bobby about being rich not mattering, and he screamed into the pillow. When he said that to Bobby, he was talking about cars. The kind of car you drove didn’t matter, but going to IH? That mattered. How could he not go to IH? They said you could make things happen by visualizing them. If that were true, he had to get into IH.

  Jake didn’t get online. He didn’t play Xbox. He didn’t text anyone. He sat staring at the wall before he got up and ran his fingers over the framed pictures of all the football teams he’d played on since he was six. That brought him to his trophies. He held the smooth, cool figures to his lips—not to kiss, but to truly feel them and r
emember the sweat and pain he’d suffered to help earn them.

  The final and biggest trophy was from last year’s Junior High District Championship. Jake turned it over in his hands, then took the picture off the wall behind it, remembering last year’s eighth graders who’d gone on to high school. He smiled at the way he and his classmates had changed so much in just one year. Last year, Bobby’s hair was gone with a buzz cut. Jake’s had been longer, so that his straight brown hair hung down into his eyes like a shaggy dog’s.

  His gaze went back and forth between Bobby and Dirk Forester. Dirk went to IH. Like Bobby, Dirk lived in the apartment complex next to the Wal-Mart. Like Bobby, Dirk had been a wild man on the field, but Dirk was not as nice off it. Dirk was at IH. Bobby would be at IH. Jake’s stomach twisted as he wondered where he would be.

  He studied Bobby’s face. It didn’t look so mean. Bobby was fun, and funny, almost laid-back—but on the field? Jake rolled his eyes and picked at the dried blood crusted at the edge of his left nostril. Something happened to Bobby on the football field, or even in a stupid game of pool basketball. He was a different person, a person with fire in his belly, in his brain.

  Jake looked at his own face in the picture, framed by the long, dark hair. He didn’t see any fire. He put the picture back on the wall and went into his bathroom—would he have to share a bathroom in their new home? He stared into the reflection and his blue eyes, deep into the dark pits at their centers. He thought about staying behind, being left at Eastview and its mediocre high school football team coached by a gym teacher whom no one liked but who kept the job because his father was president of the school board. If Eastview’s varsity had a winning season, it was considered a huge success. If IH didn’t win the state title, its players and coaches hung their heads in utter defeat.

  The thought of staying behind, or even of moving to a decent school like Lawtonberg, made him sick. He stared harder into his own eyes and thought he saw something. A spark.

  Jake grit his teeth. A low growl crept up out of his throat.