Searching for Candlestick Park Read Online Free Page B

I stopped and opened the box. I tied one end of the rope to Foxey’s harness and wrapped the other end around my wrist, to be sure he wouldn’t pull it out of my hand.
    While Foxey slunk around on the sidewalk, I pokedtwo holes in the bottom of the box. I cut a piece of the rope, threaded the ends through the holes from the inside, and tied the box to the platform on the bicycle. I would make a lot better time with both hands on the handlebars.
    When the box was secured, I gave Foxey a small piece of cheese. I opened the peanut butter jar full of water that I’d put in my backpack, and poured a little in the lid. He dipped his nose in it, but didn’t drink any.
    Last, I encouraged him to use a patch of dirt for his bathroom. He was too nervous, though, so I put him back in his box, secured it with the rubber bands, and took off again.
    It felt good to ride along on the bicycle, with the wind blowing against my face. I wondered how many miles I could make in a day if I pedaled from the time the sun rose until it set, stopping only to eat, and to exercise Foxey.
    I began to think ahead, to daydream about actually walking into Candlestick Park and circling through the stands, looking for Dad. I imagined his joy when he saw me. I thought how he would hug me and take me home with him after the game and tell me how much he had missed me, especially in the summer, on Saturday afternoons.
    Dad and I used to watch a baseball game together every Saturday at one o’clock. It was a small thing, really. Not like having a dad who actually did stuffwith you, such as playing catch, or going hiking, or making projects out of wood.
    Watching TV together is probably not what the child psychology books suggest on how to create a loving relationship with your kid. Still, Dad and I always looked forward to Saturday afternoon. We’d make a big bowl of popcorn and Mama would leave us alone as we cheered and booed and discussed the plays. On summer Saturdays, Dad and I had something in common.
    The first Saturday after he left, I thought for sure he’d be back. Mama had told me when he left that he would not be living with us anymore, but I expected him to visit me on Saturday afternoons.
    It’s up to them whether they can get along together or not, and if they don’t love each other anymore, I can’t do anything about it. But just because Dad left Mama, that doesn’t mean he had to leave me, too, does it?
    That may sound childish for a nine-year-old, which is what I was when he left, but it’s how my thinking went that first week. Probably I was a little out of my noggin, as Aunt May says, which means I was half nuts and not thinking any too clearly.
    It sounds dumb now, but I truly expected him to come home that first Saturday—just long enough to watch the Game of the Week with me. I knew he wouldn’t
stay
. I knew he and Mama were reallythrough. But I made the popcorn and tuned in the set and stood by the window, watching for his car.
    “He won’t be here,” Mama said. “Do you want me to play cards with you?”
    “It’s Saturday. Dad and I always watch the baseball game together.”
    “Not anymore,” Mama said. “I’m sorry.”
    Not anymore. She didn’t say, “Not this week,” or “Not for awhile.” She said, “Not anymore,” and I knew she meant forever.
    When Dad didn’t come back that first Saturday, I turned off the TV in the fifth inning and never watched baseball again. Not even the World Series.
    Well, I could get back into it easily enough. Once Foxey and I were living with Dad, I would look forward to Saturday afternoons again, instead of dreading them as I had for the last three years.
    I pedaled along. Visions of Dad and me sharing popcorn and yelling for the Giants filled my head. I didn’t see the rock in the road until my front tire hit it. The bike swerved sideways. The back tire scraped against the curb, and the bike toppled.
    I flew over the handlebars and dropped toward the street. I flung my