On Opening Day of the 2007 season, Del headed east in a Toyota Corolla stolen from long-term parking at McCarran International Airport. He had four hundred thousand dollars of Mob money in the trunk, a forged driver’s license, and his single prized possession: an October 22, 1960, issue of The New Yorker signed by John Updike and Ted Williams.

In Oklahoma he stopped at a sports memorabilia store and bought a spiral-bound scorebook with laminated plastic covers and pages for a hundred games. Del doubted he’d be around long enough to finish it, but he liked to keep an open mind.

He ditched the car in Kansas City, where he bought a bus ticket to Washington, DC. The bus arrived early in the morning, and Del emerged blinking like a mole from Union Station. He found a City Paper and soon secured a room in the basement of a row house in Northeast from a woman whose Boston accent was as thick as his own.

A few mornings later his toilet wouldn’t stop running, and he asked Rita, his landlord, where the nearest hardware store was. “I did some plumbing back in the day,” he said.

He had it working in an hour, and after that, he began taking care of the minor repairs typical of older houses. One night, she invited him to the second floor, where she lived, for a beer. She brought their drinks to a narrow porch overlooking the alley behind them.

“Did you ever do time?” she asked.

“How did you know?”

“You have that look about you.”

Outside, a Dodge with tinted windows drove slowly down the alley. Del waited until it was out of sight before he spoke.

“I did a stint at Walpole. I was promised a good lawyer and a short sentence, but got neither.”

“At least you kept your accent.”

Del raised his glass. “You can take the boy out of Boston,” he started.

“But you can’t take Boston out of the boy,” she finished. “My late husband was from Southie.”

“Irish?”

“As they come. He did time in Walpole, too, but he died inside. I had to leave town.”

Del understood. He emerged from prison bearing a lightning-bolt scar across his abdomen and carrying a grudge for all the years he’d lost.

“I went to Las Vegas after I got out,” he said. “I worked in a restaurant, fixing things. HVAC, plumbing, electrical, a little welding.” Enough welding, in fact, to open a wall safe he wasn’t supposed to know about.

“And now you’re here,” Rita said.

“And now I’m here.”

She went into the kitchen and came back with two more beers. It had been a long time since Del had a drink with a woman. They sipped their beers in silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable.

“Would you like to spend the night?” Rita asked, after they’d finished their drinks.

“That would be nice,” Del said.

When they were under the covers, she traced his scar with her index finger. “Did that hurt?” she asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “But it was a long time ago.”

“They say the memory of pain goes away quickly,” she said.

“Physical pain.”

“The other kind,” she started.

“It never goes away,” he finished.

She pulled him to her.

The next morning, her side of the bed was empty, but she’d left a single ticket to Saturday’s Nationals game on the kitchen table, under a note asking him to lock up when he left.

The weather forecast was lousy, but Del figured he’d get to see at least a few innings. He walked to the ballpark with his scorebook tucked inside the waistband of his jeans and made his way to Section 417. The fans around him knew baseball and didn’t have to be told when to cheer.

The rains came with one out in the top of the fifth and the game tied 1–1. Del was no weatherman, but he didn’t think it was going to let up anytime soon. As the delay lengthened and fans began leaving, he moved down to the lower level, trying to stay dry.

He scanned faces, looking for anyone who seemed out of place. A man in a black windbreaker appeared to be doing the same thing, and Del slipped behind a group of young guys who were debating whether they should stay.

“Never leave early,” he said, but they ignored him. He tried to find the man in the windbreaker again, but he must have given up and left. As the delay entered its second hour, the crowd dwindled.

When play finally resumed, Del’s scorebook was damp, the ink smeared, so he returned the book to its position against the small of his back. He was tired, and at some point, Saturday night had turned into Sunday morning, Mother’s Day.

The top of the ninth went quickly. The rain came again. After a few minutes, Del made his way to the bathroom, which was empty. Just as he finished zipping up, he sensed movement behind him.

The man in the windbreaker.

Before Del could react, the man stabbed him with a knife, grunting as he tried to wrench the blade from the pages of Del’s scorebook.

Del whirled, forcing the man to turn. He wrapped his left arm around the man’s neck and braced his right arm behind his head. As he dragged him into a stall, the man’s feet scrabbled for purchase, his body bucking against Del’s, until it finally went still.

Reaching behind his back for his scorebook, Del pulled it free with both hands. Blood dripped onto the tiles. He made a compress out of toilet paper and cinched it tightly against the wound with his belt.

Del returned to his seat just as play resumed. He sat a few rows from the dugout, so close he could hear the ballplayers chatter.

The lights began to dim, and he grew cold. Ryan Zimmerman, the Nationals’ young third baseman, came to the plate with the bases loaded.

Ted Williams had homered in his final at bat, then announced that he wouldn’t be accompanying the team to New York for its final games. Updike had written that Williams had done the hardest thing by quitting at the right moment, but Del thought the writer had it wrong. The world let you know when your time was up.

As Zimmerman finished rounding the bases, Del knew that his time was now.