It was my older brother, Tom.
"How's things there?" he asked.
"Sunny and in the 70's."
"You should come back, Mikey."
"I'd love to," I said. "I'm tapped out, though. You got a few bucks I can borrow, so I could get a ticket?"
"I would...but...Tommy Junior's got the flu..."
"It's okay."
"I'll check around, see what I can do."
"Sure."
I could hear his breathing through the receiver.
"It's been great talking to ya, Mike," Tom said. "Talk to ya later."
"Yeah, see you."
We hung up.
They were unbeatable.
The undisputed stick-ball champs of the world. The five of them would crush all comers.
Tom and his friends, just seeing them walk down the street after a game, each one of them with an orange soda, was awe inspiring. I followed their games just as much as I did the Yankee's.
They always said I was too young to play. Ma made Tom hold my hand when we crossed the street.
"Look both ways," she'd say. "And hold the baby's hand."
After we crossed the street, Tom would let go of my hand and hit me on the back of the head.
One day, my friends and I were in the school yard playing 'Over the Line.'
Up came Tom and his pals.
"We need to practice," Tom said. "You geeks wanna get your asses whipped?"
"Sure."
We got to bat first.
Tom was pitching.
I was up.
"Maybe I should pitch you underhanded, baby."
He shot one past me.
"Strike one."
Another.
"Strike two."
On the next pitch, I felt the bat make contact with the ball. Everybody stood and watched the ball go over the school yard fence.
It was the first time Tom and his friends were ever behind in a game.
They beat us up and left.
