Kibler, Davis and Diven are joined at their table by an off-duty narcotics cop and a personal-injury lawyer. Kibler tells the lawyer about life on the road and about the importance of having friends like Diven.
"You don't survive without them," he says. "Not that long ago we didn't even have the money for cab fare to the airport. We didn't have money to play golf. We were lucky if we could find a couple of dollars to go to the movies. Guys like Joey and Bob Svoboda, in Chicago, who would drive us to the airport and bring us home for meals, made the difference."
Years ago in Philadelphia, when Kibler was just starting out, he mentioned to a man he met in a hotel bar that he and the other umpires were looking for a cheap place to play golf the following day. There's something inherently trustworthy about Kibler: The man in the hotel bar, Al Franchi, who owned a South Jersey trucking firm, ended up lending Kibler three sets of clubs as well as his Cadillac. Two decades later, Kibler was the master of ceremonies at a huge 60th birthday party for Franchi. "These people," Kibler says, "you just can't forget them because you don't need them as much over the years. I feel so fortunate that I'm in a position to thank them and give something back for all they've done."
Afternoon has become evening. The narcotics cop, a bearded man wearing a baseball cap, gets up from the table to meet his partners. They're going on a raid in a couple of hours. Kibler shakes his hand and slaps him on the back. "Go get 'em." he says. "I have the utmost respect for what you do."
It's time to drive across town to pay respects to Petraglia's family. Kibler has wanted to leave for about 30 minutes, but Diven has been stalling. Now he's trying to order another round for the table.
Kibler rises from his chair and says to Diven, "We're leaving, Joey." Diven starts to balk again. Kibler extends his arm and points at him. "Joey," he says, "we're leaving. Now let's go."
They grab their coats. The umpire has ruled.