Free Inside the O'Briens by Lisa Genova

pauses, watching Joe. Joe’s lifting and dropping his heels, stepping side to side. He knows he’s bugging the shit out of Tommy with all his moving around, but he can’t help it.
    Beer. Couch. Soon.
    â€œWhat was with you this morning at riot training?” asks Tommy.
    â€œI dunno,” says Joe, shaking his head. “I’m getting too old for this shit.”
    Tommy pinches his lips together. “I hear ya. I’m gonna go get another heart attack sub. You hungry?”
    â€œNo, but I’ll have one.”
    After Tommy turns the corner onto Brookline Avenue, a mammoth roar erupts from the ballpark.
    â€œYes!” says Fitzie to his phone.
    â€œWhat happened?” asks Joe.
    â€œBig Papi hit a two-run homah, knocked Pedroia in. Sox up two–one.”
    â€œYes!” says Joe, thanking his shirt. “What inning?”
    â€œBottom of the sixth.”
    Joe feels like a kid, hooting and high-fiving Fitzie despite the bone-compressing agony in his back and feet. Good. Joe hopes that he never loses the little boy inside him, that naive spirit who will always root for the Red Sox to win, whose cheering will always drown out the miserable complaining of Joe’s old-man feet. A win for the Sox is a win for the good guys. It’s Superman defeating Lex Luthor, Rocky knocking out Apollo Creed.
    After being gone for what seems like ages, Tommy returns with three hot dog buns overstuffed with sausage, peppers, and onions, steaming and dripping with grease, and Fitzie tells him about the homer. Joe consumes his sub in four uninterrupted,brutish bites and immediately regrets not going slower. He should’ve savored it. He inhales deeply through his nose while eyeing Fitzie’s sub, only half-gone, and feels the hot pang of jealous desire mixed with a pinch of indigestion.
    Fitzie licks the grease from his fingers and pulls out his phone. “Fuck.”
    â€œWhat is it?” asks Joe, wiping his hands on his pants.
    â€œBuncha friggin’ wild throws. Cardinals up four–two.”
    â€œWhat inning?”
    â€œToppa the seventh.”
    â€œShit,” says Tommy. “Come on, two more runs.”
    â€œMy feet can’t take extra innings,” says Joe.
    Five years ago, he would’ve said “heart” instead of “feet.”
    â€œWe’re still in this,” says Tommy.
    No more runs go on the board that inning. Joe hears the distant karaoke of thirty-seven thousand people singing “Sweet Caroline.” The words fade out and then gallop back with the chorus. “So good! So good! So good!” Joe sings in a murmur along with them, feeling happier and less excluded as he does so.
    Almost done. Aside from the cops and street vendors, no one is outside now. Everyone is either in the ballpark or in the bars, glued to the tight game. If the Sox lose, the Series will be tied up. The fans will spill out of the park and the bars hanging their heads, disappointed and a little heartbroken, but they probably won’t do anything to land a starring role on the late-night news. Boston sports fans are passionate and loyal and a touch crazy, but they’re surprisingly nonviolent. Boston doesn’t see the kinds of riots other cities suffer after their beloved team loses. Everyone will likely want to walk it off, go home, and go to bed. It’s still early in the Series, only Game 2, still plenty of time. Sox fans want to live to tell their grandkids the wicked-awesome story of how they won as much as they want to win, so a loss tonight isn’t the end of the world. There won’t be any flipped cars, smashed windows, looting, or rioting.
    Unless they win. While Bostonians tend to be quiet, humble losers, they don’t always display their most gracious, flattering side when their team wins a big game. Joe thanks God that tonight isn’t a Saturday. With Saturday games, people drink all day and plan to sleep in on Sunday.