Joe Lapin
Fenway Park, September 18, 2001
The Red Sox were out of contention for the pennant, and there were empty, red plastic seats all across the stadium. James figured people were terrified of crowds now. His brother, Benjamin, sat next to James, eating soft-serve ice cream out of a plastic baseball helmet. Next to Benjamin was their father. He had his arm wrapped around Benjamin’s chair, as if trying to protect him from some impending disaster. There wasn’t much to cheer about this season.
James heard the ball slapping against the catcher’s glove. Pedro Martinez was on the mound, and he had ten K’s. James had always wanted to watch Pedro pitch, but now that he was here, he couldn’t take his eyes off the sky. He was searching for planes. He heard the crowd cheer, the crack of a foul ball, and the organ playing over the speakers, but the game didn’t seem to matter anymore.
“Are you scared?” James asked his father.
Their father had bought the tickets months ago, and he felt it was their duty to go to the game. It was something they enjoyed every year, as a family.
James’ father put his hands over Benjamin’s ears so he couldn’t hear. His father said, “If anything happens, run onto the field. You’ll be safe there. Everyone will be running the other direction.”
His father let go of Benjamin’s ears. There was an American flag cut into the center field grass. Pedro struck out the side, and James watched Pedro step over the first-base line.