They leave early, still dark. Tomas drives, sipping whiskey from the fifth he's tucked between his thighs. Al props mitt against the window to pillow his head, dreams catching a fly ball hit by Maris, or better yet Mantle, dreams of leaning over the railing after the game, one of a flock of boys waving slips of paper, tickets, programs, chirping Mick, hey, Mick over here, and only Al will have a game ball, gleaming moonbig in his glove ...Albany, his dad says, snapping silence of the miles behind them. the sun comes up, a peacock of light flashing tail feathers. Al buries his face in his mitt, breathes its shoe-polish smell, hears his mother laughing at his father's fresh-combed hair. Greasy, she says. Don't you know a little dab'll do ya?
Sort of Gone
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