that?!" The prematurely bald man said, looking ahead at the woman standing at
the entrance behind a folding table.
The other man shrugged his shoulders.
"That's Jewel Fromme. Ya' know the striker's mom. What the hell's his number?
The kid's a scoring machine."
"Yeah. That's it."
"Good evening gentlemen." Mrs. Fromme said.
"Fine player that number five, might have college potential, I mean college
for sure. Just might include some soccer too." The other man said.
"Why thank you. Jim's a hard worker. Don't you live over on Salford Street?
"Bob Shutt. Bob please. Yep, 2034. Five years now."
"You keep a nice place Mr. Shutt, I mean Bob. I like those shutters. Are they
"Yes they are, thank you. Thank you very much."
That'll be three dollars each."
"Who's playin', the Barcelona Dragons? Ya's don't even have a scoreboard."
The prematurely bald-headed man handed her a ten dollar bill.
The woman handed him back three singles and four quarters. "Sorry 'bout the
change, enjoy the game."
The two men sat on the nearly empty bleachers.
"Freeze your goddamned ass off on these things too."
"That's a bitch 'bout her daughter." Bob said.
"Ya' didn't hear 'bout that? Her daughter was killed by a drunk driver. Well,
she was inna' coma awhile but died."
"How old was she?"
"I dunno', seventeen or somethin'."
The prematurely bald-headed man fingered the coins in his pocket.
A whistle sounded from the field, the game was about to begin.