“Wrong! So wrong! No. First I flip, three times. Four times if I get a TT.”
“TT?”
“Two tails. That’s a triple. With a TT you get one more flip: heads is a home run; tails, just a triple. Heads-heads is a single; heads-tails is a double.”
“Maybe we should just start playing and you can—”
“Then you get the coin back to see if you can field my potential single, double, triple, or homer. Heads, I’m out. Tails, I’m on base.” He takes a deep breath. “Unless it’s a home run, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Are you making fun of me? Because I don’t know—”
“I’m just trying to absorb—”
“It kind of sounds like you are. You have no idea how long it took me to come up with this. It’s pretty complicated. I mean, not like the game of kings, but you know what they call baseball, don’t you? The national pastime. Baseball is called the national pastime because, by playing it, we learn how to master time. Or the past. One of ’em.”
“Now you’re the one making fun of me.”
“Actually, I’m the only one making fun of you right now.” He waits. I know what he’s waiting for. “You never smile.”
“Does it matter?”
“Once, when I was a kid, I laughed so hard, I peed my pants. We were at Six Flags. The Ferris wheel.”
“What made you laugh?”
“I can’t remember now.” He slides his hand beneath my wrist and lifts my arm to press the quarter into my upturned palm. “Flip the damn coin so we can play.”
I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but the game isn’t that complicated. He gets very excited on his first hit, triumphantly fist pumping, then proceeding to move the black pieces around the board while he calls the play in a hoarse, high-pitched imitation of an announcer’s voice, like a kid playing with action figures.
“It’s a deep drive into center field!” The center-field pawn slides toward second base, the bishop second baseman and the pawn shortstop drop back, and the left-field pawn runs up, then cuts toward center. That’s with one hand while the other manipulates the quarter, turning it in his fingers like a ball spinning in flight, lowering it as if in slow motion to land in center-left field. It’s so ridiculous and childish that I would have smiled if I still smiled.
“He’s safe!” Razor bellows.
No. Not childish. Childlike. Eyes fever bright, voice rising in excitement, he’s ten again. Not all things are lost, not the important things.
His next hit is a blooper that drops between first base and right field. He creates a dramatic collision between my fielder and baseman, first base sliding back, right field sliding up, then smack! Razor cackles at the impact.
“Wouldn’t that be an error?” I ask. “It’s a catchable ball.”
“Catchable ball? Ringer, it’s just a dorky game I made up in five minutes with a bunch of chess pieces and a quarter.”
Two more hits; he’s three runs up at the top of the first. I’ve always sucked at games of chance. Always hated them for that reason. Razor must sense my enthusiasm waning. He amps up the commentary while sliding the pieces around (despite my pointing out they’re my pieces, since I’m on defense). Another drive deep center-left. Another floater behind first base. Another impact of first baseman and outfielder. I don’t know if he’s repeating himself because he thinks it’s funny or because he has a serious deficit in imagination. There’s a part of me that feels as if I should be deeply affronted on behalf of chess players everywhere.