Page 53 of Nikolay

“Periodic?” she said. “That is rude. We’ve been to the World Series three times, sir. And won it once!”

“Accurate.”

She tipped her head. “You gonna stand there on behalf of the Phillies like they’ve never suffered humiliation?”

“I would never insult them by denying it. Their historical record includes spectacular collapse as a recurring character trait. But they also possess seniority, national mythology, and enough catastrophe to make loyalty almost devotional.”

Her eyes sharpened with interest. “You really mean that.”

“Of course I do. Baseball is one of the few sports that understands suffering properly. Its emotional architecture depends on repetition, hope, superstition, and statistically supported disappointment.”

“Now that,” she said, laughing into her coffee, “is the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard anybody say about baseball.”

“I was not attempting romance.”

“No,” she said, looking over the rim of her cup. “I can tell.”

The line could have unsettled me. Instead, it landed lightly between us, teasing rather than cruel.

I let myself answer in kind. “Then perhaps you will be charitable and explain the Rangers to me as only a devoted partisan can.”

That pleased her. I saw it in the way she sat up a little straighter, one hand curling around her coffee cup while the other moved as she talked.

So she did.

She spoke of summer heat and radio broadcasts and the strange comfort of seasons that felt like warm memories of childhood instead of sport. She talked of the joy of finally winning the pennant only to lose the series twice, then finally crossing over to the promised land of winning the World Series only to suffer in mediocrity once again. Of how baseball made room for memory because there were always enough games for one to attach itself to whatever had happened in the rest of your life at the time.

I answered where I could, and often more than I should have.

“I am only saying,” I replied, “that romance with a franchise does not exempt it from statistics.”

“Statistics doesn’t know a damn thing about vibes.”

“Vibes,” I repeated.

“Yes, vibes.”

“I see.” I reached for my coffee. “Then your case is stronger than I realized. No serious scholar can withstand vibes.”

“Glad you’re learning.”

The pastry box diminished between us as we talked. She took another lemon pastry. I discovered that the strawberry hand pies were absurdly good. Somewhere in the house, evening gathered itself more fully around the old walls.

And because I had spent three centuries cataloging useless and useful information alike, once encouraged I could not seem to stop.

“Have you ever seen a game here?” She asked at one point.

“In Philadelphia? Many.”

“As in, in person.”

“Yes.”

Her expression changed. Not envy exactly. Want, perhaps. “I haven’t seen one here yet.”

The answer arrived before I had fully assembled the caution around it.

“Would you like to?”