A Kid Meets "the Kid": A Ted Williams Novel

A Kid Meets The Kid: A Ted Williams Novel

By Marcy McDonald

Copyright

A Kid Meets The Kid: A Ted Williams Novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. All statistics about Ted Williams are true, but in 1998-1999 when this story takes place, he lived in his own home in Florida, not in a rest home in Massachusetts. That detail and the events in this story are fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

©2014 By Marcy McDonald

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review or scholarly journal.

First Printing: 2015

ISBN: 978-1-329-46075-1

San Diego, CA 92082

https://marcymcdonald.com

Cover Design: Alicia Wirt-Fox

Author Photograph: Bronson Pate

Thanks and Dedication

Thanks to Ellen McDonald and Ryan Davis for their insightful notes.

Thanks also to Scott Card. It was in Uncle Orson’s Writing Class & Literary Boot Camp that I had the germ of the idea for this novel in, I believe, 1985. Took a few years to get around to writing it...

Dedication: For my son Ian and all the ball-playing friends of his youth, especially Andy, Colby, and Houston.  For my father Forrest and my brothers—Howie, Steve, and Kevin—who taught me to love the Red Sox and baseball.

Chapter 1: December 20, 1998—Game Changer

Austin pulled his baritone and baseball bat from the hatchback of his dad’s Lexus, then walked to the passenger side to say goodbye to his parents.  Why on earth are you bringing your bat? his mother asked.  Her breath was a cloud through the barely cracked window.

So I can practice my swing while I wait.  He balanced his baritone on one foot to keep it out of the snow and slung his bat over his shoulder.

What do you mean, practice your swing?  Austin, it’s 20 degrees, if that, and you’re in a suit!  Get inside Josh’s house and warm up!

Dad leaned over her and rolled the window down all the way.  Austin bent to hear him better.

Don’t pay her any mind, son.  You’ve got to improve your hitting or you’re never going to make the team.  High school isn’t Little League.  They’ve got a million shortstops, and they’re going to be big guys.  You’re still the shortest in your class, right?

Duh.  As if he didn’t know that.  Day 1 of ninth grade, he had barely reached 4’6" and weighed 56 lbs.  But he held back all the smartass remarks that wouldn’t help anything.  Except for Josh, yeah.

"Okay, one of the two shortest, but it’s not like he’s going out for the team.  The point is you’ll be lucky if they even let you try out.  You’re going to need great hitting to make Jr. Varsity.  And if there’s one thing you don’t have, it’s great hitting."

Double duh.  As if he didn’t know that, too.  Last year he’d hit .180—1.8 hits for every 10 times at bat.  He held back a sigh.  Yes, sir.  Maybe we can get in some time at the cages over the Christmas break.

That’s my boy!  Tell you what.  I’ll get off a little early Thursday, we’ll hit the batting cages before dinner.  It’ll be a good way to spend Christmas Eve.

Tom, we’re going to church.

Don’t worry, hon, we’ll be back in plenty of time.  He hit the window button again.

Love you!  Ma called through the narrowing crack.  Austin sighed and picked up his baritone.  He trudged to the front door and pounded until Josh answered, an art pad and coat crammed under one arm, his tuba in the other. 

The two of them had met soon after Austin had moved to Massachusetts from Texas. At first the only thing they had in common was sixth grade band, but it was enough to kick off their friendship.  That, plus the fact that they had been the two shortest kids in the class that year and every year since.

They lumbered back to the sidewalk, and Josh stuffed his pad and a pencil into his case just as Mr. T, the band’s leader, pulled up with the rest of the group.  They’d started the Badass Brass Band after quitting school band out of boredom the previous year. They crammed in with the others and forty minutes later spilled back outside and hustled into the Oak Hills Convalescence Home.

They set up in an alcove with floor-to-ceiling windows crisscrossed with leaded panes.  Iron radiators, fully cranked, lined the walls but failed to conquer the icy wind puffing through the thin glass.  They dumped their coats on a table, unsnapped their cases, and assembled their horns.  What if my lips freeze to the mouthpiece? said Austin.  He mimed getting stuck to his baritone.

Josh said, Don’t worry, I’ve got a blow torch in my case.  We’ll have those lips thawed out in no time.  They broke up laughing, and Mr. T shushed them.  Austin and Josh tested their valves, and Josh added a little oil to his.  They looked at each other, nodded, and played a few notes from Chumbawamba’s Tubthumping.

I get knocked down, but I get up again….

Mr. T shot them dagger looks, and they quickly shifted to playing scales.  While they were warming up, the residents shuffled to the grey folding chairs that had been arranged in lines across the middle of the room.  Those in wheelchairs formed two rows in front of the chairs.  They wore suits or dresses, sweat pants, or bathrobes and pajamas.  A spring of holly brightened each outfit.

When everyone was seated, the director, Mrs. Walker, stood at the front and said loudly, Merry Christmas!  And Happy Chanukah!  Tonight we are privileged to have a fine young ensemble of musicians to entertain us.  Please welcome the Brass Band.

Josh mouthed to Austin: What, no Badass?

The band launched into a series of carols, played traditionally, and then slid into jazz versions of a few Christmas songs.  Next they played songs from the thirties and forties.  At first Austin was distracted by off-beat clapping and a few vacant stares.  He elbowed Josh and nodded at a guy sleeping on the front row.  Josh grinned around his mouthpiece.

Soon, though, they gave each other a knowing smile. They’d reached the moment when they were only thinking about the music—not thinking, really, just inside it.  Music wasn’t their first love—that was baseball for Austin and art for Josh. But they loved the buzz when they got it right.

When they finished, they bowed, and the residents clapped, or not—a few didn’t notice that the concert had ended and were still tapping to the nonexistent music.  Mrs. Walker announced that there would be refreshments and that the young people would come around to visit each and every one of them.

You have to be kidding me, Austin muttered to Josh, as they picked up plastic glasses of lime sherbet punch and plates of shortbread.  Half of them are barely alive.

Josh said, Yeah, but I’m dying to draw them.  Look at their faces and hands.  It’s like looking at maps of their lives.

Austin snorted.  Okay, Michelangelo.  Maybe you can sketch something on my napkin.  He held up a red napkin smeared with sherbet.  Josh rolled his eyes.

Mr. T stepped between them.  Move along.  Go, make friends, learn something new.

Yes, sir, Austin said to Mr. T.  He turned to Josh, plastered a deranged smile on his face, and said, Hello, can I be your friend?

They laughed.  Austin chugged his drink, tossed it into the wastebasket—dribbling only a little sherbet on the way—and motioned for Josh to follow him to a corner where three old men sat, green plastic plates balanced on their laps.

Hang on.  Josh ran to his case and pulled out his sketchbook and pencil.  Armed and ready, he said when he got back.

Austin led the way.  They pulled up chairs and Austin said loudly, Good evening, gentlemen.  I’m Austin Orr and this is my friend Josh Hall.  Did you enjoy the music?  He held out his hand as he was talking, shaking the hands of the first two men.

George O’Dell.

Frank McGuire.

The third was half dozing, his walker like a gate to keep him from falling out of the chair.  Austin just nodded in his direction.  The boys settled in their chairs and Austin repeated, louder this time, Did you like the music?

Nice show, said the first man.  You don’t sound like you’re from around here.  From the south somewhere?

Austin grinned at him.  Yes, sir.  I’m from Austin, Texas, but was born in Orange while visiting my granny.  All the kids in my family are named after where they were born, but Orange wasn’t exactly a great name for a boy.  You ever heard of Orange, sir?

The second man said he’d built ships there during World War II.  Then the first mentioned that he’d been a radioman during the war, in France.  He motioned at the silent third man.  It was hell, but nothing compared to what the ‘Kid’ here went through.  Why, he was decorated for two wars, the Great War and the Forgotten War—Korea, in case you didn’t know.

The Kid stirred, blinked, and nodded, semi-awake.  He surprised them with a booming voice.  MISSED A FEW GAMES BUT HAD TO GO.

A few games? Josh asked.

Don’t mind him, the second man said.  He thinks he’s Ted Williams.  Always talking about going back to Fenway, hitting one more homer.  The two men laughed, so the boys did too, but nervously.

The third man suddenly drew himself up.  He was much bigger than he’d seemed at first.  His eyes flashed, and he said in a booming, clear voice, "I AM Ted Williams.  Don’t tease these boys.  He turned and glared at them.  Anyone can play a horn.  But can you play a bat?  I could.  Most homeruns in a season, highest RBA in history.  HA!  Not Ted Williams, my ass.  HA!  O’Dell, you couldn’t hit your balls between your legs."

O’Dell sprayed the boys with cookie crumbs as he retorted, Yeah, well, you can’t even find your balls anymore, so what does it matter how much or how far you hit?

Austin and Josh snickered. But suddenly Austin realized what the old man had said.  He blurted out, "Sir, you’re not really the real Ted Williams, are you?"

WHAT?

I said, ‘You’re not really Ted Williams, the ball player?’

Damn straight I’m Ted Williams!  Who the hell else would I be?

Chapter 2: December 20—Ted Williams

Holy crap! Austin said. "Are you kidding me, Ted Williams, for real? You are my total hero, man! 521 home runs, hit .406 in 1941.  Played for the Red Sox from 1939 to 1960.  I’ve read The Science of Hitting three times.  You’re the best ball player who ever lived!"

The Kid sat up straighter and nodded at the two boys.  You boys play ball?

I do, he doesn’t. He’s a great artist, though.

Josh flashed a smile and held up his sketchbook. Wanta see? Can I draw you?

The Kid laughed. Nothing worth looking at in this old face, boy.  But sure, knock yourself out. He was so much more energized, it was like he’d had a blood transfusion.  He turned to Austin.  So, what position do you play?

Shortstop.

Yeah?  You any good?

Smokin,’ Austin said.  Not to brag, but if a ball gets anywhere near me, I’ll get it, even though I’m still kinda small.  I’m starting to grow though. And I nail it where I throw it.

Good shortstops are a dime a dozen, son.  And not to rub salt in your wounds, but you’re too short to be much good on the field. Can you hit?

Austin slumped in his chair.  No, sir.  Not really.  I mean, I can hit a grounder and get on first sometimes, but mostly I get on base because I’m so short they walk me.

Ted guffawed.  That’s one way to get on!  Better not grow then!  Austin shrank deeper in his chair.  Hitting a few grounders ain’t gonna get you in the big leagues, boy.

It’s not even going to get me on the high school team.  He kicked the floor.  I learned a lot from your book, but I still suck. Inspiration struck and he sat up so fast he nearly fell out of his chair. You could help me!  He pounded his fist in his palm.  "Yeah, that’s a great idea!  All I need is someone who can show me what to do.  You’re the greatest hitter that ever lived. You could help me.  What do I do?"

Keep your eyes on the ball, son.  Keep your eyes on the ball.

Austin frowned.  No offense, but what else are you going to look at?

He roared with laughter.  "Fuckin’ everything—that’s what most batters look at!  Everything but the pitcher and the ball.  Wait for a good pitch, that’s what that really means.   Don’t swing at something you’re not going to hit.  Most kids—hell, most players—they’re so hyped up, they swing at whatever crosses the plate, even if they’re going to miss it."

That’s me, all right. So how do you know it’s a good pitch?

Watch the pitcher.  See how he throws.  See where the ball is going.  I mean really SEE it.  And then, you gotta know where your sweet spot is and how to swing to it.

Not to be stupid or anything, but I really don’t know what you mean. Is the sweet spot a specific part of the bat, or is it, like, my sweet spot for hitting?

The Kid shook his head. Son, your sweet spot is the place on the bat that combines with your swing and your power to hit that ball to the moon. And it’s different for every bat. If you’ve never felt it, maybe you should take up fly fishing.   It’s just as hard in a way, but what a great sport. You get to be outside all day.  It’s just you against nature. Nobody yelling at you if you’re not as good as they think you should be. It’s just you against yourself and the goddamned, beautiful fish. Ever try it?

Fishing? I caught a 5-lb. bass in our old pond once. But I’m really not into it all that much. Austin leaned with his hands on his knees.  I love baseball. I want to be great. I want to be like you.

The Kid laughed hard and then had to catch his breath before he could talk again. Boy, you don’t want to be like me. I’ve got three failed marriages and lost one son. My son John-Henry is a pain in my neck half the time and the other half he’s a pain in my ass.  My girl Claudia, well, she’s my little princess, but otherwise—you don’t wanta be me.  I’ve been cursed at and loved and hated and loved again by the fans and the press—they’re all fickle as hell. I’m telling you, fly fishing is the way to go. Haven’t been for a couple of years, probably never go again, goddamned it.  Last time I went, they had to strap me in the goddamn boat, couldn’t see fish for shit. Still could land them though, still could land them.

Austin squeezed his hands into tight fists. Sir, with all due respect, I want to be a baseball player. I want it more than anything in the world. His sharp young eyes locked with old eyes that could barely see, and neither of them spoke for a few seconds.

Ted broke the silence.  You sell your soul to the devil, boy, if you really want to make it.  You gotta be ready to practice hitting until your hands bleed.  You gotta go after it when everyone else has gone home and gone to bed, while your friends are out drinking and having sex and living it up.  There can’t be anything else.  He grinned.  Course, once you make it, there’s plenty of chances for a little bumping on the side.

Bumping?

You know.  Humping.  Screwing.  Getting some action with the dolls.

Um, okay.  Sure.  Good.  But what do I do first?

He sighed and slumped in his seat. I’m tired, son.  I already told you the most important thing.  Wait for a good hit.  Go home and read my book again.  Go home and practice.

Mr. T interrupted.  Time to go, guys. Pack up your instruments.

Austin jumped at Mr. T’s voice.  It was like coming back to another planet.  Already? Can’t we stay a little more?

Mr. T looked stunned. You want to stay?  Are you kidding?

Austin leaped up.  "Please, Mr. T?  Look, this is Ted Williams, the Ted Williams, you know, the best baseball player in the world?  Mr. T shook hands with him, and then Josh introduced the other two men.  Hey, I’ve got my bat with me.  Can I go get it, Mr. T?  I’ll be quick.  Would you sign it, Mr. Williams?"  Without waiting for an answer, Austin dashed off to grab his bat. He ran back to get the keys from Mr. T.  He ran off.  Then he ran back again to ask where the van was parked.

A few minutes later he returned, dodging the old folks and tracking a snowy path across the floor. He skidded to a halt in front of Ted Williams.  A pen.  Need a pen. Josh, he hollered across the room to where Josh was packing up. Josh held up his pencil.  Not going to work. Need a pen! Anybody got a pen?  The social director shushed him but sent an orderly to find a pen. After what seemed like hours, while Austin hopped from foot to foot impatiently, an orderly handed him a permanent, felt tip pen. Perfect! Thanks, man, and Austin handed it to Ted Williams.  He held up his bat to be signed.

A METAL BAT?  He spit out the words.  Wood, that’s what you need.  My bat, the bat that I hit .406 with?  It was made of ash.  Blonde, hard as my dick, told the ball where to go. Made it go there.  That’s a bat. 

Ted leaned back and licked his lips.  His eyes grew unfocused. That was a bat.  Mighty bat.  Mighty swing.  Mighty day, he mumbled.  His arm grew slack, and he dropped the pen on the floor.

Austin picked it up and pressed it into his hand.  He shook the old man’s arm gently.   He was surprised at how thin and frail it felt.  Mr. Williams?  Could you sign my bat, please?  I gotta go.

Huh?  My fuckin’ body, it’s no damn good anymore.  He smacked his lips, looked up, focused on Austin.  Oh, sure, son.  I won’t even charge you.  But if you make it to the big time, you can pay me then!  His laugh this time was bitter. 

He felt in his pocket for some glasses, put them on, and took a breath.  Hold it in front of me, will you?  I can’t see nothin’ to the side. 

Austin laid it across the arms of the chair and held it steady while Ted signed slowly and carefully.  The script was old fashioned but distinctive, a bit fancy.  The d of Ted connected to the W.  Each i was dotted high, and the s trailed off like a big comma. 

It’s about all I do any more, sign bats.  Don’t let my son know I gave it to you for free.  He shook his head and pushed the bat and pen toward Austin, then dropped his hand back to his lap.

Thank you, sir! Thank you so much! You’re the greatest! I can’t believe I met you, oh my God. Wait until I tell my dad. Can I come back and see you again?

Josh interrupted. Dude, we’re coming back next week, remember? New Year’s Eve concert?

He made a fist in the air.  Yes!  Mr. Williams, I’ll see you next week. I’ll bring my bat and a ball and we can talk after the concert. Maybe we can come visit before then?  You can help me, I know you can. You’re the man! Awesome! Thank you!

He kept babbling, even as he was walking backward out the door and waving goodbye, even as Ted Williams’ shoulders slumped and his head dropped to his chest and the old man had started to snore.

Chapter 3: December 20—Home

Nearly an hour later, bat in his arms, Austin jumped out of the van. See y’all at practice! he called.  He yanked open the rear door and pulled his baritone from the tumble of instruments.  The ride home had been a blur.  They’d stopped for burgers, and he didn’t even remember eating his.  He’d looked at Josh’s drawings and told him they were really good.  They always were.  But all he’d really thought about was that he’d met Ted Williams.  He couldn’t wait to show the bat to his dad.

Old and new snow whirled together in icy, dancing gusts that took his breath away but that he otherwise didn’t notice.  He held both bat and baritone up high so they wouldn’t touch the snow, now halfway up his shins.  He was certain that he was going to start hitting well now.  The bat felt magic.

He pushed the door open and called out that he was home.  Galveston—Galvie for short and his favorite sister—was coming down the stairs when he walked in.  Hey.  How was the concert? she said.

Fantastic!  I met Ted Williams!

Who’s that?  Her eyes took in his bat.  What’s all over your bat?  Dad’s going to kill you.

No he won’t.  And Ted Williams is only just the greatest ball player that ever lived.  Listen to this—he hit 521 home runs in his career. 521! I’ve never even hit one.  He played for the Red Sox.  And he signed my bat for me, can you believe it?  He was so nice.  Austin frowned.  Well, not really.  He swore a lot.  Dropped the F-bomb about every other word.  And wasn’t really that encouraging, actually.  He shrugged and grinned. But that’s okay, he’ll come around.  Look, there’s his name.  Austin held the bat horizontally for her to look at.

She scrunched her eyes at it and bent closer.  Uhh…are you sure it says Ted Williams?  I can hardly read it.

Austin jabbed the signature with his forefinger.  "Of course it says Ted Williams!  Look.  Here’s the T, the e, the….  Well, here’s the W and… This is definitely two l’s and an s.  Okay, it’s not too neat, but what do you expect?  The guy’s like a million years old."

Okay, okay.  Don’t get huffy.  She punched him lightly on the shoulder.  If you’re happy, I’m happy.  So where’d you meet this guy?

"Not a guy.  Ted Williams.  I met him at the concert, which turned out to be at a pretty fancy nursing home."

Galvie made a face, and Austin laughed.  Did anyone stay awake long enough to hear you?

Barely.  There was a lot of drooling.  He let a long stream of spit roll down his chin and made his eyes go cross-eyed and blank.  Clapping his hands without rhythm, he said in a flat voice, Nice music.  Nice children.

She laughed and hit him again.  "Okay, Dr. Demented.  Dad’s in the den.  We’re watching White Christmas at eight."

Austin groaned.  Not again.

You know you love it, she said, and she was right.  The movie was corny, but watching it with the whole family, year after year, was great.  I’m going to make some popcorn.  See you in a few.  She sang I’m dreaming of a White Christmas as she skated down the hall.

Laughing, Austin ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time, to put his baritone away—no point in ruining his good mood by getting yelled at for cluttering the hall.  On the way down he held his bat like he was next up to the plate.  He twisted his hands so the knuckles lined up.  As he walked to the den, he swung the bat as much as the hallway allowed, and he hit one imagined pitch after another.  In his mind, he was already playing at Fenway.

His father was playing chess with Killeen and looked up with a smile.  Hey, how was the concert?  He motioned with his head at Austin’s bat.  Get any practice in?

Dad, you’ll never believe what happened.  I met Ted Williams at the nursing home, and he autographed my bat.  Look.  He laid the bat beside the board.  His father frowned.

I don’t see anything except that you’ve marked up your good bat.

Put on your glasses, Dad.  It’s his signature.  See?  Right here.  He spelled out the letters as he pointed at them, while his father put on his reading glasses.

Hmm.  I guess that says ‘Ted Williams.’  But come on, Austin.  Ted Williams is dead, and I bought this bat for you on the condition that you’d take good care of it.  I don’t think this joke is very funny.  Now go wash this off.  He picked up the bat and handed it to Austin. 

Dad, I’m telling you the truth!  He was at the nursing home and signed it.  He told me to ‘keep my eyes on the ball’ when I was hitting.  Why would he say that or sign my bat if he wasn’t Ted Williams?

Dad took off his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes before answering.  Son, it was probably someone with dementia.  You didn’t pay for this autograph, did you?

No.  Austin heard a tremble in his voice and could have kicked himself. He sounded like a little kid.

"Well, that’s good.  Now go wash it off and put your bat away.  White Christmas in half an hour.  He moved his castle and told Killeen, Checkmate.  Nice try, kitten."  Austin slung the bat over his shoulder and shuffled out of the room.

He took the stairs to his bedroom one at a time.  He settled the bat in his lap and started pulling open the drawers of his desk.  He fumbled through coins and photographs, stats on Lamborghinis and Toyota Tacomas.  Through stubby pencils without erasers and pens that left marks on his fingers.  Finally, under his collection of key chains, he found a cardboard box decorated with baseball stickers.  He placed the bat on the desk, settled the box on his lap, and flipped back the lid.

Inside was his collection of baseball cards.  Most were loose in the box and had come from teams that played in the early nineties to two years ago, 1996, when he had stopped collecting them. Wrapped in tissue were older cards that had been a gift from his dad on his tenth birthday, a little more than four years ago.  He pulled this packet out and moved the box to the floor.  He unwrapped the thin paper, careful not to tear it.  The stack held about fifty cards.  He began to lay them out on his desk.

Mickey Mantle.  Babe Ruth.  Willie Mays. At last he found what he was looking for: Ted Williams, the greatest hitter of them all.

The card had been produced in 1954 and had stats on one side and pictures on the front against a dark orange background. He studied the front. To the right was a black-and-white picture of Williams, finishing a home-run swing.  On the left, Williams had his bat over his shoulder, his white, short-sleeved Red Sox shirt over blue long sleeves. He had dark bushy eyebrows and a big grin—like he knew he was about to crush another ball.

Austin remembered that when he had first seen this card, he had thought Williams looked really old. Now the face looked young to him, compared to the one he had met earlier.  If it was the same face.  Austin wasn’t sure any more.  His dad really knew his baseball.  He’d been a star player for the UT-Austin team, and could’ve gone pro, if he hadn’t injured his rotator cuff.  Dad had been a shortstop too.  But he was six feet tall compared to Austin’s—what?  He started the school year at 4’6" but he’d been growing.  He might be five feet by now, if he stretched his neck out.  Miles from six feet.  Miles from home runs.

Austin pulled a magnifying glass from his middle drawer and stared at the face.  Same eyes, even if the old man’s had been watery and red and half blind.  Same intensity though, as if they could will a ball to fly into the stands.

He looked at the ears.  Same shape, sort of.  Only the older man’s ears had hair sprouting from them.  So did his nostrils.  Austin felt his nostrils and inside his ears.  No hair, thank God.

He studied Williams’ swing.  A lot of players lifted the foot closest to the pitcher right before swinging, but Williams had his feet planted firmly on the ground.  His legs looked strong and powerful.  But not as powerful as the arms that held his bat as it flew through the air.  His upper body was twisted with the swing—he used his full body to hit the ball, not just his arms.  The laws of physics made this the most powerful swing.  How many times had his dad told him that, yet he always swung from the shoulders instead of the hips?  Arrghh.

He felt his arms. They were like toothpicks, even though he lifted weights every day.  Double arrghh.

Austin used the magnifying glass to look at Williams’ face.  It looked mean.  Determined.  Like he’d use that bat to club anyone who got between him and the ball.  Like the pitcher had better give up, go home, forget that he ever thought he could get the ball past Williams.

He focused on his eyes.  They weren’t looking at the camera.  They weren’t, he was pretty sure, looking at the pitcher.  They saw only the ball.

Eyes on the ball.  Maybe that really meant something.

Sighing, Austin carefully rewrapped the old cards and then put the box away.  He glanced at the alarm clock by his bed.  Almost eight.  He rummaged through his bookshelf and found his copy of The Science of Hitting. The copyright page said 1986. Well, he could still be alive, even if it was a dozen years or so since anybody had heard anything about him.

The public library was closed, and he doubted that their set of encyclopedias said anything about Williams.  He’d take a look, though. He couldn’t face two hours with his father, sisters, mother, popcorn, hot chocolate, cookies, and everybody singing without knowing if he had really met Ted Williams.  If he hadn’t….  Well, he’d never go back to that place again, that was for darn sure.  And he’d spend the whole night scrubbing out the fake signature.

Austin!  Five minutes to show time! his mother called.  He thundered down the stairs and into the den.  He raced past the couch to the wall of books. The collection of Compton’s Encyclopedias sat on the bottom shelf, Ma’s trick to get the kids to use them often.

W-X. Y-Z. He found William at the top of a page halfway through. Williams, Roger. Williams,