Beach Wedding(37)

Then my attention was pulled left as I watched Angelina, squealing and running around like mad with the rest of the kids as they played Frisbee with a couple of Labradors.

“Happy?” Viv said beside me as she took an ice cube out of her cup and flicked it onto my neck.

Sweet blue billowing smoke from a whole mess of sausage and peppers getting happy on the grill behind me washed over me as I took a healthy hit of my icy Sam Adams.

“Definitely getting there, babe,” I said as the heavy rockabilly bass line of Springsteen’s vintage “Pink Cadillac” started pounding from the speakers.

“Now first up, fresh to our shores, the pride of England, Toby Fullerton,” the DJ announced.

Watching Emmaline’s younger brother Toby do some very low swings with the bat in the on-deck circle, my brother Mick called out from third.

“My good man, quick tip. This is softball, not golf!”

“Jolly good!” Toby called back as he stepped into the batter’s box. “Ready!”

I’ll say. When my brother Tom threw the first pitch in low, Toby surprised us all. He must have played cricket at school or something because he freaking clobbered it. If the stadium of grass had a wall, it would have gone over the right field one.

As I watched the right fielder turn around as it sailed over his head, it was looking like an inside-the-parker for sure.

Then I turned back and saw what Toby was doing.

“No, stop!” I yelled as I saw him running for third base.

“Toby, no! It’s the other way!” I cried. “Come back! Come back!”

He was around third heading for second when he realized his error and started back. He’d passed home plate and was half a step to first when they finally got the ball back in.

“You’re out!” the ump cried as everyone burst into laughter.

“Hey, Tobster,” my brother Tom said over the merriment. “We drive on the right-hand side of the road here as well, okay? Just FYI.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know what to say,” Toby said to me as he returned to our dugout.

“It’s okay, Toby,” I said, patting him on the shoulder. “You really creamed that one. You’ll know next time where to run. Also remember, don’t run with the bat. You’re supposed to drop it.”

“You are too kind, Terence. Next time, I will do my uppermost,” Toby said, bowing his head.

“Next up,” the DJ said over the speakers, “the Rourke family’s youngest son, Terry.”

“That’s you. C’mon, dummy,” my brother Mickey called to me with a grin from third base.

“Yay, Daddy!” Angelina said as I set my feet into the batter’s box.

I wiped my sweaty hands on my blue T-shirt as Tom, on the mound, tossed the ball up and caught it behind his back.

“This guy ain’t got nothing, folks,” he called out.

I gave a practice swing to the aluminum bat and set.

“Bring it, you crony capitalist,” I said.

In came the glowing yellow-green softball, high and fat. I swung and whiffed at it. Nothing but air. Everyone groaned.

“Philly fan fans and misses,” Tom called out. “What did I tell you, folks?”

I let a few balls go. Then I tipped one off the end of the bat, a wimpy pop-up between first and the plate that Tom dived for but thankfully missed by a hair.

Strike two. Not good, I thought, watching Tom get back to the pitcher’s mound.

Everyone laughed a second later as I pointed dramatically with the bat out to the sailboats at sea à la Babe Ruth.

Why I did that, I didn’t know. A little overconfident advice from Sam Adams maybe.

But as the next pitch arced in toward the plate, time seemed to slow down as I kept my eye on it.

Then I swung from the hip the way Dad had taught me, and there was the sweet feel of incredibly solid contact as I connected with a loud whump. Even I couldn’t believe how high I had launched one to left. The left fielder ran out and then ran in and then out again as it went over his head.

I put on the jets and went for three and whooped with elation as I got in right under Mickey’s diving tag.

“Safe!” roared the umpire.

“No way! He was out!” Mickey complained as he threw his hands up.

“Mom, you were right there,” Tom said to our mother, who was sitting just off the bag. “He was out, right?”

“Ah, get over yourself, Tom. The throw beat him, but Mickey flubbed the tag. He was safe.”

I gave my mom a big hug and kiss on her cheek as everybody cheered and started cracking up. Even the umpire.

“I always suspected you loved him more, Mom,” Tom said, shaking his head. “But now it’s confirmed.”



49

I was standing by the keg after the game had ended when the commotion started.

Up by the front of the beach mansion, there was some loud beeping, like trucks backing up. We watched as a couple of our cousins came jogging across the grass from under the porte cochere.

“What’s up?” my brother Tom said, putting down the keg pump spout.

“Hey, everyone! Listen up,” one of them called out. “Some asshole cops are towing cars up on the road.”

“What?” Tom cried. “You have to be kidding me. I bent over backward to get the permits. I had my lawyer call twice. It’s been completely cleared with the town. This is complete bullshit.”