Disclaimer: None of it's mine.
Notes: Dedicated to cameragirl for giving me the idea about the foul ball and to my younger sister who requested that Mark say "whoopsy daisies" (and because I got a lot of the ideas for this chapter at her graduation mass).

Roger was all smiles the Monday after his birthday. At lunchtime, the sixth graders made their way downstairs to the cafeteria, Roger still quiet about his happiness.

"You okay?" Mark asked, biting into his turkey sandwich.

"I'm fine," Roger replied, peeling apart his peanut butter and jelly sandwich and crinkling his nose.

"How was your birthday?"

"Awesome," he answered, his smile getting bigger. "My parents got me four tickets to the Yankees vs. Red Sox game on Saturday."

Mark looked up. "That's cool."

"Yeah, there's an extra ticket though. I'm allowed to take one of my friends."

"Do you know who you're going to ask?" Mark put his sandwich down and looked over at his best friend.

"I was thinking about asking this blond kid I know. He's really scrawny and dorky. He has black glasses. You know him?"

"I think so."

"He doesn't like baseball much. Do you think he'll still want to go with me?"

"I think he does."

--

Roger's dad drove the family to Mark's house to pick him up before the game. He waited in the car while Roger and his mom went to the door to speak to the Cohens.

"Hi, Roger," Mark said when he answered the door.

Roger gaped. "That is… I am … oh my god… I'm ashamed."

"My dad made me wear it," Mark said.

"Doesn't he look nice in it?" Mr. Cohen teased, appearing behind his son.

Roger shook his head. He was wearing a brand new Red Sox hat, also part of his birthday gift. "I brought my old one for Mark to wear." He turned around and took the hat from his mother's hands. Removing the Yankees hat from Mark's head and handing it to Mr. Cohen, Roger put the oversized hat on Mark's head. "Much better."

Mr. Cohen laughed. "Have fun boys."

"Bye Daddy." Mark hugged him quickly before darting out the door and into the old pick up truck that would take them to the game.

--

Mark hadn't been to a baseball game since he was four years old. That was his first and only game, and he had fallen asleep on his mother's lap. When they arrived at Yankee Stadium, Mark looked around in aw of the large ballpark.

"Wow," he muttered.

"Psh, this is nothing compared to Fenway Park," Roger shrugged off Mark's amazement.

"Fenway?"

"Where the Sox play," Roger explained, forgetting that Mark was baseball illiterate. "We got real good seats," he added. "Right behind home plate. It's a great view of the field."

"Cool," he said, following the Davis family to their seats. They were down far, very close to home plate. When they arrived, the Yankees were wrapping up batting practice.

"It's gonna start soon," Roger began fidgeting in his seat. He kept taking the baseball mitt he brought on and off his left hand.

"We're going to get peanuts and soda," Mr. Davis announced. "You boys stay here."

Roger nodded and began explaining the main points of the game to Mark. By the time Roger's parents arrived with refreshments, Mark knew about balls, strikes, RBIs, Roger's favorite Red Sox players, and the appropriate obnoxious cheers to shout while the Yankees batted.

Mr. Davis handed each boy a bag of peanuts and Miss Annie gave the boys a soda. Before they could begin eating, the commentators announced that the national anthem was to be sung.

Everyone in the park stood up and removed their hats, placing them across their hearts as a young woman belted The Star Spangled Banner. Afterwards, the batting order was announced and the New York Yankees took the field. The firs three Sox batting struck out, a one-two-three inning.

While the Yankees batted, Roger's dad shouted obscenities at both the batters and the Red Sox pitcher who seemed incapable of throwing strikes.

Roger and Mark ate their peanuts and ignored the other half of the inning.

Mark's peanut shells were collecting on his lap; he was unsure of what to do with them. One of them fell onto the floor. "Whoopsy daisies," he reached down to pick it up, the rest of the peanut shells falling to the ground after the first.

"Mark, what are you doing?" Roger leaned over to get a better look.

"I dropped one and the rest fell," he explained, picking them up.

"You're supposed to throw them on the ground when you're done," Roger explained, as if it were common sense to just throw things on the ground.

"Oh." He dropped the collected shells back onto the ground and sat up.

Mark found the game very interesting, while Roger found in frustrating. By the sixth inning, the score was 8-1 with the Yankees in the lead. The Red Sox were up now with Roger's favorite player at the plate.

Carl Yastrzemski, the left-handed first baseman, stood at the plate, ready to swing. Swinging his bat, a deafening crack rang out as he made contact. The ball sailed up and back, a foul ball. It made its way over the netting behind the batting cage and towards where Roger was sitting. Eyes wide, he positioned his glove like he did while in the outfield for the local baseball team. The ball was coming closer and closer, straight for them.

Unfortunately, the first place it hit was Mr. Davis's head. After he fell back into his seat, the ball fell right into the center of Roger's open glove.

"Oh my god!" he screamed. "I caught the ball! Mark! Mom! Dad!"

"Good job, sweetie," his mom congratulated.

"You couldn't have caught it before it hit me?" Mr. Davis grumbled from his seat, rubbing the growing lump on his forehead.

Determined not to let his father ruin his day, Roger ignored him. Turning to his best friend, he said, "Look Mark!"

"That's awesome, Rog."

A few other Sox fans surrounding them also shouted "good catch, kid" and other words of praise to Roger. He was beaming for the rest of the game, even though the final score was 11-2 Yankees.

"I'll be right back," Roger said as the game commenced. Grabbing Mark's arm, he led him down towards the Red Sox dugout. Climbing on top of it, he crawled to the opening where the players could see him. Mark stood by the empty seats behind the dugout.

"Hey Mr. Yastrzemski," he called, catching the attention of his favorite player. The player turned to look at him. "Can you sign this for me? Please? It's my birthday." He figured it would be okay to stretch the truth a little bit. His real birthday was a week ago, but this was his present.

"What are you doing up there?" He walked closer to Roger.

"Trying to get you to sign this," he waved the ball. "I caught your foul ball."

"All by yourself?" Yastrzemski smiled at him.

"Well, it hit my dad in the head first."

He laughed. "Send him my apologies." Getting closer, he leaned up and took the ball from Roger. "What's your name, kid?" Roger told him. Disappearing into the dugout, Yastrzemski returned a moment later. He gently tossed the ball to Roger. It now said, "Happy birthday Roger. Carl Yastrzemski."

Roger was beaming. "Thanks, mister!" He turned to show Mark. "Hey, Mark! Look!"

"Wait, who's that?" Yastrzemski hadn't seen the other little boy before.

"This is my best friend Mark," Roger explained.

"Hold on a minute." Yastrzemski disappeared in the dugout yet again, returning with another ball. "Here, kid." He rolled it along the dugout to Mark's tiny hand.

"Thank you," he said with a timid smile.

"See ya kids," Yastrzemski gave a final wave before heading out with the rest of the team.

The boys ran back up to Roger's parents, their signed baseballs in hand. Both were glowing.

"Mr. Yastrzemski says he's sorry for hitting you, Dad," Roger said as they left the park.

His parents just laughed.

By the time they were back in the car, it was already late. During the long drive back to Scarsdale, the two boys fell asleep in the backseat of the car, Mark's head resting on Roger's shoulder.

Mr. Cohen, who was waiting for his son's return on the front porch, stood up when he saw the green pick up pull into his driveway.

Although it was difficult for all three adults to separate the boys and disrupt the peacefulness of their sleep, Mr. Cohen unbuckled his son and lifted him out of the car. Although he was ten, Mark was still small enough for his dad to hold. Waking slightly, he drowsily looked around before his head collapsed back into his father's shoulder. Mr. Cohen thanked Roger's parents for taking Mark to the ballpark before putting his little boy to bed.

When Roger arrived at home, his father led his sleepy body upstairs and into bed. Roger didn't even bother to get changed.

Although they were a block away from each other, both boys nodded off with their caps askew on their heads and their hands holding an iron grip on their autographed souvenirs.