Brother Joe has gone away, Brother Dominic has gone away, Brother Vince lives across the Bay, but Brother Tom comes every day to the restaurant. Fish run in season, the fishermen mend their nets, and the wind is brisk on Fisherman's Wharf.
Willie Mays catches two fly balls in a row, and a gentleman with spectacles says, "I feel secure when I hear that Mays is waiting."
Schult singles, Chicago has a runner, and the fisherman in the boat pauses at his work. "There was only one DiMaggio," he says. Dark grounds to Bressoud, who tosses to O'Connell for the force play at second base, and the fisherman returns to his labor. Daryl Spencer is still ailing, Jimmy Davenport still hurting, but Mike McCormick has pitched two fine innings.
"I think," says the gentleman with spectacles, "that if the Giants can get off to a good start on this home stand they'll go all the way."
The fisherman offers no opinion, but when Cepeda singles, and Brandt, on the hit-run play, pokes another through shortstop, the fisherman's hope rises. "Maybe," he says.
The batter is Felipe Alou, a Spanish-speaking outfielder with an innocent bronze countenance, whom Manager Rigney intuitively inserted today in right field in place of Willie Kirkland, who is lounging in the bullpen in a long, warm coat. The Giants have three players named Willie, each of whom was born in Alabama; three who speak Spanish; two named Jones. Alou flies out to center field, Cepeda scoring after the catch.
"In baseball," says the gentleman with spectacles, "the past participle of 'to fly' is 'flied'."
"It's a funny game," says the fisherman.
"At any rate," says the gentleman with spectacles, "we've got a run. We have drawn—as the sportswriters say—first blood."