Author's notes: Hey there, so bonus chapter. Hope you all like ... baseball. Please read and review! Thanks in advance!


Chapter 17: Subway Series

The weekend and the following Monday had been spent going from one celebration to another in honor of Luigi's, in Mario's words, "complete ass-fucking of the written exam and that fucktard Slaughter." Saturday night, Peach had made reservations for a private party at an exclusive steakhouse in Greenpoint. Mario had invited Yoshi, Birdo, Miles, Professor Omaya, and Sal Maldonado and his wife, Carmen. Regrettably, the Professor was unable to make it, but he ordered an expensive bottle of 1997 Antinori Toscana Solaia for the table, conveyed his warm congratulations to his former student, and asked to call him later in the week. The partygoers all enjoyed the best New York Strip, ribeye, and lamb chops for the entrée and rich tiramisu, tartuffo, and chocolate genoise for dessert. Throughout the meal, wine, cognac, and port flowed freely; Peach had been able to reserve one of the private dining rooms, so they were left in relative privacy. The foul language and rather colorful descriptions of John Slaughter as well as several union higher-ups would have undoubtedly scandalized the dignified yuppie patrons of the establishment. One of Luigi's favorite moments of the evening came at the end of the meal. Tipsy from the wine and cognac, Mario took out a post-it-sized piece of paper, Bic black pen, and, with Yoshi's eager assistance, drew a picture of Slaughter's ass as a toilet that was connected to the nearby sink's PVC drain pipe. He put a title to the drawing: "Why You Call An Actual Plumber." Luigi was then handed the paper to the applause of the other invitees. As they were all drunk, except for Miles who was the designated driver for Yoshi and Birdo, two taxicabs arrived to take them home to their respective residences – Bensonhurst for Mario, Peach, and Luigi, Bed-Stuy for Sal and Carmen.

The following Sunday, the hungover brothers and Peach slept in late, missing two angry voicemails from Uncle Joe. Head pounding and still half-drunk, Mario nonetheless calmly returned the calls, challenging Joe, Lucia, and The Family to come to Bensonhurst "for once" before hanging up on him. That defiance of Joe's paternal authority earned the brothers an evening call from Father Sal who merely asked if everything was alright, as Giuseppe was "dramatically talking about the amount of agita that those damn (real expletive omitted) boys were givin' him." Mario replied in Sicilian that everything was fine, adding sarcastically that he, Peach, and Luigi were at home as a family and that no, Luigi hadn't joined the 'family business.' Less than amused by the disrespectful tone, Father Rigassi informed him that he would be coming by to check in on Luigi. For their Sunday dinner, Mario ordered and picked up a Sicilian pizza – Luigi's favorite from Dyker Heights – and a decent bottle of Italian red wine. Around the old wooden table, the three of them savored the pizza and easily move from one topic of conversation to another, laughing and joking loudly.

Mario loved being the patriarch of his own family: Peach and Luigi, and Rospo and his brother's dipshit friends to an extent. More so than his brother, he resented having to attend Sunday dinner at Giuseppe's every Sunday that he was not in Massachusetts. Between the Army and his job, Mario had very little time to spare in his personal life, save for the occasional weekend and two to three times per week in Manhattan with Peach. During Luigi's impromptu trip to Arizona and Colorado, Mario had passed his free time skimming the real estate pages for brownstones in Williamsburg and Greenpoint; he was growing tired of the commutes to Manhattan, and was forming a plan to convince Peach to compromise – he would leave Bensonhurst if she would move to Brooklyn. That way, Luigi would come with them; after he obtained his master plumber license, he could get his engineering degree from NYU, which was just fifteen minutes away by public transport. Once he was discharged from the Army, Mario intended on either getting his own master plumber license or enlisting with the U.S. Marshalls, depending on their acceptance of his application. He had considered the Federal Bureau of Investigation or the New York Police Department; however, they would be unpopular choices with both sides of his family. Mario was also eager to settle down with Peach; she was also keen given her age of thirty-five years, though she insisted upon marriage before having a child. That was the crux; Peach wanted marriage, yet she was not 'ready' for marriage with him. Although the plumber loved her ardently, he was often puzzled and frustrated by her logic.

While cleaning after dinner and doing two days' worth of dishes that had been left in the sink, Luigi forgot that he had left the baseball game tickets on the coffee table in the living room. As Mario and Peach went to the living room to cuddle up on the sofa, she spotted the envelope and asked her boyfriend if it was his. Examining the contents carefully, he called out, "Yo, Weeg, what are these tickets?"

Shutting off the faucet and placing the last dish on the drying rack, Luigi came out of the kitchen and froze. Minchia, what do I say? "Um, they-they're baseball tickets," he managed to finally answer.

"Yeah, I know they're baseball tickets. The fuckin' Mets-Yankees game next Tuesday? Where the fuck did you get these?" he demanded, fanning them in his right hand, then putting them in his back pocket.

"They were a gift."

"From who?"

"Uh …" Mario began to walk toward Luigi, who took several steps back and then broke out into a run. Having already anticipated the move, the older brother used his momentum to put Luigi into a headlock and drag him back to the sofa, where Peach moved out of way, shaking her head in dismay. Arranging his struggling body on the sofa, he sat on him to prevent his escape and started tickling him.

"Goddamn it, stop Mario!" cried Luigi.

"I will once you tell me who they're from," he ordered.

"S-stop!" The younger brother continued to laugh uncontrollably while Mario tickled him underneath his armpits and along his sternum. "Okay, okay!" he shouted in defeat. "It …. hee hee hee … It was Fat Tony!"

Luigi felt Mario's weight lift from his body; as he rolled onto his side to face his brother, the elder Masciarelli's blue eyes were filled with concern and dread. "Fat Tony gave these to you?"

"Yeah," gasped Luigi. "Last Friday. He, uh, asked me to come to the Koopa and he gave these to me as a present for passing the exam."

"Fuck!" swore Mario under his breath. "Aight, aight," he said to calm himself. "And he didn't say anything else?"

"No. He just said that Slaughter was a pain in his ass, too."

The older plumber took a deep breath and wiped his mustache and mouth with his hand. Peach reached out to him, but he waived her off gently, signaling that he was more composed. "Luigi, I want you to stay away from that fuckin' place, d'you hear me? If he asks you to come by again, you call me. No fuckin' exceptions, capisci?"

Luigi touchily crossed his arms. "How come I can't go to Koopa, but you can? I think I handled myself."

"Because they're deadass fuckin' dangerous!" screamed Mario. "I can't protect ya if I can't see what's goin' on! They're the goddamned Mafia!"

"Mario, basta!" interjected Peach. "Strillargli non risolverà nulla!"

"I wasn't yelling!" he argued to the disbelieving Peach and Luigi. "Jesus, the two a youse …" He walked two steps away from them to calm down. "I mean it, Luigi. Tony calls you again, you get me. As for the tickets," he shrugged, "well, we can either use 'em or y'know…."

The younger brother grinned, and Peach gave her boyfriend a sloppy kiss. "Okay, so youse and I are goin' next Tuesday. I ain't payin' ten bucks for a fuckin' hot dog at that shit stadium, so we'll leave work early, get something on the way. There's an extra ticket here. Yoshi'd want to bring Birdo, but I don't feel good about leaving her out, so maybe Miles? He's not exactly into baseball…"

"I do have someone in mind, but I haven't asked her yet," interrupted Luigi sheepishly.

"Her?!" exclaimed both Mario and Peach.

As Luigi's face turned bright red, Mario questioned him slowly, "Who is 'her'?"

"It's, uh, uh …"

Peach giggled in comprehension and said, "It's a special someone, isn't it?"

Mario's face shifted from a confused frown to his mouth forming a realizing, open oval. "It's that girl, Daisy, isn't it? I thought she disappeared."

Luigi glared at his brother. "Ah, no. Why would you think that?"

"Ah, well," he shrugged again nonchalantly, "you hadn't mentioned her, so I thought that she was old news. I guess not." Before Luigi could retort, he formed a slight x-shape with his arms, drawing a line outward with his flattened hands. "Hey, forgetaboutit, huh? Go ask her, bring her along."

"Thank you, padrino," replied Luigi acerbically.

"Rompicoglioni," he muttered, reaching over to toss Luigi's long legs from the couch and sit down in the empty space. "You're lucky that I haven't told the Family." Peach crammed herself in the spot between Mario's legs as he snatched the clicker and turned on the television. Sitting up in the remaining seat, Luigi relaxed and passively enjoyed Mario's channel surfing and off-key, jokey crooning of the Boss's "57 Channels."

Later that evening, Luigi anxiously paced back and forth in his room, eyeing his iPhone like a poisonous snake ready to attack. He had assured Daisy a few weeks ago that their relationship would be just between them. Unfortunately, he had grossly miscalculated; he was a New York Italian with an older brother in the Army who had the knowledge and means to torture him for information. On one hand, he could not invite her for a second time to a meaningful event; that would keep their privacy, yet would also endanger the relationship if she were to find out. On the other hand, he could invite her, explain that he was tortured by his brother, and let her make the decision. Luigi slapped himself on the head; option number two was, of course, the mature way to handle it, idiota! Now he had to decide whether to text or to call her. Checking the phone, he saw that it was nine o'clock – it was not obscenely late, although it was at the cusp of potentially causing a disturbance. Biting the proverbial bullet, Luigi dialed her number, settling on calling rather than simply texting without context.

"Hey, sweetie," answered Daisy. "I was just heading for bed."

"Sweetie, I'm really sorry to disturb you, but I … I have to ask you something k-kinda important," explained Luigi nervously.

"Okay," she said, her voice becoming attentive. "Everything alright?"

"Daisy, my brother tortured me!" he cried.

"What?" she reacted incredulously.

"He tickled the information out of me! He knows, Daisy!"

"Wait, wait, slow down, Luigi." After he took a breath, she replied, "Okay, start again. What did your brother do?"

"Daisy, he f-found out. I got tickets to the Mets-Yankees game. Four t-tickets. For Mario, P-Peach – that's his girlfriend – me, and … a guest. He found out about the tickets and …" Daisy could hear him breathing harshly on the other end and feared that he was hyperventilating. "I-I k-know that … I said a-a few weeks ago t-that our relationship would s-stay between us. No family. Daisy, I'm sorry, but I'm Italian!"

Much to Luigi's surprise and dismay, his girlfriend burst out laughing. "Daisy?" he inquired, but she continued to hoot mixed with an occasional snort. "The? How is this funny?!"

"Oh, Luigi, you idiot!" she cackled. "You were trying to invite me to a baseball game, hopefully to see the Skankees lose, weren't you?"

"Yeah, but my brother …"

"Will be there," she finished for him. "Yes, I know. I think I can handle your brother and his girlfriend, sweetie."

Luigi, who had squeezed his eyes shut for much of the conversation, gradually opened his blue eyes, and did a double take to the phone. "W-w-wait. You wanna go?"

"If you're inviting me," she teased.

Mustering all of the unexpended courage that he had, Luigi nodded, "Yes, yes! I'm inviting you. I … Daisy, would you please come with me, my asshole brother, and his girlfriend to next Tuesday's game to see the, heh, Skankees lose?"

"Yes, I can do that."

The young plumber made an air pump of victory while catching his breath. "G-good. I'm, y'know, glad. The game's at seven-ish, but we're going to get a nosh before. Frankly, the food at Yankee Stadium sucks. Um, do you want to join us? We'll probably go eat something in Cobble Hill or Gowanus around five, drive to Astoria and take the subway. We don't dare drive all the way to the Bronx, 'cause there's not a snowball's chance in hell that we'd find a parking spot."

"Oh, I'd love to, sweetie, but my final exam in Manhattan ends at five-thirty. Maybe it's better if I meet you at Skankee? Since you're coming by on Friday night, you can give me the ticket, and I'll take the subway from Columbia campus?"

"Okie-dokey," replied Luigi, still shocked that Daisy agreed to meet Mario and Peach.

The auburn-haired woman giggled. "I look forward to it. Oh, by the way, what's your favorite cuisine? For our Friday night dinner?"

He forced his racing mind to concentrate on the most Italian of subjects – food. "Um, y'know, I like Italian, of course, anything Italian. Indian's good, so's Chinese, Thai, Greek, bagels, cheesecake, Persian, Mexican, Spanish, Russian's okay … But I want you to enjoy it, too. So, y'know, anything Mediterranean."

"But what's your favorite food, sweetie?"

Luigi scratched his head. "Uh, I don't think you'd like it, being vegetarian and Jewish. Every year for my birthday, my nonna makes spaghetti al cartoccio; it's an Abruzzese dish – spaghetti with olive oil, garlic, clams, squid, shrimp, prawns, tomatoes, of course, white wine, and a dash of parsley. What makes it good is how it's cooked – it's baked in aluminum foil. If I remember right, Jews can't eat shellfish, so I wouldn't feel right asking you to make it. But I also like pasta alla sorrentina, it's, like, my second or third favorite dish tied with a good pizza. It's pasta with tomato ragù, cheese, basil, and garlic. It should be fine for you to eat."

He could hear her smile at the other end. "Luigi, while I may not have eaten it, I'd certainly make it for you. And what would you like for an appetizer or dessert?"

"I keep saying this, but I'm Italian. For us, food's meant to be shared and enjoyed. I mean, yeah, we bitch about pizza, pasta, wine, olives – shit, anything tasty that can go in our mouths – because Italy was and kinda still is a pretty poor country relative to America, and after working or not working in some cases, all's we got at the end of the day is family, food, and faith. For me personally, less the third than the first two." Letting out the breath that he did not know that he was holding, Luigi added more softly while lying on his bed, "I guess what I'm saying is that … it's important to me that you share the meal with me. Yeah, it's my victory celebration, but … you're part of that, too. I want … I want you to share this, so anything, I don't know, Brazilian, Israeli, Portuguese, Egyptian – all that – I want to experience it, too."

Several moments passed in complete silence. Luigi's heart began to race and he yelped her name in panic, afraid that he had said something inappropriate or offensive. She was trying to impress me by making my favorite meal. Maybe I shouldn't have said anything? "Yeah, sweetie?" she sniffled.

"Oh, minchia, I'm sorry, I …"

"No!" she cried. "No, you … I would be honored to share it with you. I'll prepare an appetizer from Israel and a special dessert that we'll both enjoy."

He closed his eyes and his body relaxed at Daisy's response, relieved that he had not offended her. "I look forward to it, sweetie. Truly. Thank you. By the way, how do you say 'thank you' in Portuguese?"

Daisy laughed happily. "We say 'obrigada' or 'obrigado'. For you, it'd be the latter."

"Uh … mucho obrigado."

"Heh, it's muito obrigado. And de nada. Sometimes, we also say imagina."


Word travelled fast in the plumber's union, as even working-class men loved to gossip, and Luigi returned Monday to applause, whistles, and boisterous, complimentary laughter from Ginsburg, José, and the other journeymen who likewise despised the racist John Slaughter. According to José, Luigi and Mario missed the "shitfit that John threw" upon learning of Luigi's passing score. While Luigi snickered and made several derogatory comments about him for the guys' benefit, he was worried internally, as the egotistical and insecure Slaughter always retaliated. He checked his email on his phone throughout Monday and Tuesday, receiving nothing from the City regarding his practical exam. Even though New York was well-known for its fast-paced life, the Department of Buildings was, like the rest of New York City infrastructure, notoriously bureaucratic and sluggish to respond to any query. He anticipated a few weeks delay, followed by a hopefully proposed date of late-May or early-June. In theory, Luigi had one year from passing the written exam to attempting the practical; however, once the City scheduled the exam, one could defer it once and only by a couple of weeks. He was nervous that the practical would be scheduled in late-June or even July, thus effectively putting an end to his hopes to take a few summer college courses in California or New York. In the evenings, he took Lucas's advice and researched the classes and campus at both Stanford and Berkeley. Inasmuch as he disliked his now grudgingly-admitted friend's snobbery, Luigi found that he liked both colleges almost equally and his heart pounded at the possibilities which both offered.

Wednesday evening, Professor Omaya called to congratulate him on passing the written exam, much to his delight and surprise, as they had not spoken in months. They chatted about the exam's infamous reputation among New York City plumbers and the experience of taking it at the Brooklyn testing center. In his polite, yet enduringly indirect Japanese manner, Professor Omaya gently prodded Luigi about his plans for the future, mentioning that city planners tended to "respect a college graduate more" and that Tandon had recently updated their programs to include additional training in construction and industrial engineering. Omaya's young protégé then opened up about his interest in SCADA, computer security networks, and taking a few college courses in the summer, practical exam permitting. An excited Omaya started rambling off appropriate colleges, from – of course – NYU, to Columbia, and finally and if necessary, Stony Brook. Luigi thanked him, but mentioned that he wanted a break from New York and the East Coast, as he had not lived, even for a brief time, anywhere else. Though disappointed, the older Japanese understood; in the past thirteen years, his young mentee had been haunted by traumatizing memories and the ghosts of his parents and family history. Pondering momentarily, Omaya asked if Luigi would be open to Seattle, Austin, or San Francisco, to which the young man happily revealed that he had been looking at Berkeley and Stanford, and had a contact who could get him 'an inside track,' despite the tight deadline. The Japanese hesitated at this plan, disliking those who broke or bent the rules in their own favor. During his thirty years of teaching physics, computer science, and engineering, Omaya prided himself on parity and giving deserving students a fair chance in a system that was, from its very onset, designed to favor the wealthy and family connections. He sighed; Luigi Masciarelli was simultaneously academia's dream student and worst nightmare: he was an Italian-American working-class kid who, from sheer intellect, outperformed his wealthier Manhattanite and Long Island peers. Omaya recalled how poorly Luigi had been treated at Brooklyn City High, despite being consistently ranked in the top three students in the entire school, and the administration's intentional and – he suspected – premeditated negligence of his studies and future. This in turn allowed the anti-academic Joe Masciarelli to intervene and mold Luigi's path to a simpler plumber's life. To be fair to Joe, Omaya respected the working man and his trade, which he viewed as a humble and honest lifestyle. However, like Luigi's father, who was another honest working man, Omaya believed Luigi deserved to be at elite institutions and evolve into an honest intellectual. He sighed and reluctantly agreed, justifying the matter as being similar to a private recommendation of a student between academic peers.

Friday night arrived quickly, with a giddy Luigi leaving work right at five-thirty to prepare for his special dinner. He came home, showered, and changed into a light pink button-down, a black Armani suit, which he had ordered from Saks Fifth Avenue and had delivered to his Brooklyn address, and his Italian shoes. Styling his hair using a bit of gel, Luigi checked his vestment once last time before heading downstairs. Mario had left for Massachusetts earlier in the day for his weekend duty, so the house was empty save for the photos on the mantel. Adjusting his well-fitting Armani suit jacket, he smiled faintly at the black and white picture of a curly-haired, slightly heavyset, mustachioed man in his early-thirties, dressed in his Sunday best – a Navy blue suit and white dress shirt – standing next to a shorter, dark-haired woman in a light-colored and flowing chiffon dress. It was of Nonno Mario and his wife, Maria, called Mia by the family, during one of their earliest years together in, ironically, Manhattan's Little Italy. Nonno had arrived first in 1948, the war and Mussolini having left southern Italy in complete disarray; a plumber-turned-Nazi assassin, Nonno earned several American GIs' respect and assistance with the Immigration office. He came to New York with roughly one hundred dollars. The plumbers union, which was then run by the Anglos, Irish, and Germans, tolerated Jews and Italians as apprentices and journeymen, so long as they 'knew their place.' As he had saved the life of one of the master plumbers while in Italy, Nonno was hired as an apprentice and worked long shifts for three years to bring his fiancée from Pescara to New York, where they married in early 1952. Unlike many Italian immigrant families, they did not have children right away; Nonno was concerned that they would have to move due to the Red Scare and did not want the piccoli to be exposed to discrimination so early in their lives. When it luckily ended by late-1955, and Nonno became a journeyman as well as an American citizen, they began trying for children. After several miscarriages, Mario Senior was born in 1958, followed by Giuseppe in 1960, and finally, Maria in 1963. The family came to Bensonhurst in 1959. Mario and Mia remained married for forty-eight years until the former's death of a stroke in his sleep. It was, with his own parents' marriage, the greatest love story in Luigi's family; he hoped that his own marriage would last as long as his grandparents' did.

Thirty minutes later, Luigi parked his car alongside Daisy's brownstone apartment. He exited the Suzuki and walked up the stone steps to the large door and knocked to the tune of 'shave and a haircut.' The door opened to a breathing Venus: his gaze began at her flowing, faintly curled auburn hair which, as his eyes moved downward, accentuated her turquoise earrings, matching A-line, halter chiffon dress, and ballerina shoes.

"Hi there," welcomed Daisy. At no response, she frowned and repeated, "Uh, hi, um, come in." His eyes not leaving hers, he deliberately entered the apartment. As she closed the door, Daisy suddenly found her back against it and gentle lips capturing hers. She submitted to the kiss, his tongue licking her lips, asking permission for entrance. They deepened the embrace; Luigi's fingers ran through her auburn tresses, finally stopping at the intersection of her cheeks, chin, and nape of her neck, stroking each side tenderly. A minute later, Daisy, light-headed from Luigi's noiselessly greeting, broke away and leaned her head against the door. Luigi's head moved toward hers, foreheads and noses meeting and caressing each other. "I guess you're happy to see me?" asked Daisy with a smirk. Luigi lifted his head, chuckled lowly, and then gave her a peck on the lips. "Come to dinner, il Signor Masciarelli," she beckoned, leading him by the hand to the kitchen and adjoining dining room.

"Il Signor Masciarelli?" he questioned. "Isn't that a little formal for what we were just doing? Next thing I know, you'll be using Lei with me, and I'll just die of heartbreak."

"Hmm," she responded. "Well, we can't have that. How about," she stopped in front of him, his eyes shifting into a dark blue, "innamorato?"

Luigi inhaled deeply and growled before capturing her lips again, "Perfetto."

She flirtatiously broke the kiss again and said, "Molto bene. But dinner's waiting, and I don't want to eat it cold." The plumber whined a little, though he silently agreed that cold pasta alla sorrentina was gross. His eyes widened at the sight of the pleasantly dim candlelit dining room, dining table covered with an ivory cloth and two place settings. Whereas he was distracted by the beauty of his Brazilian Venus, Luigi had not heard the soft melody of Spanish guitar music in the background. To the right of the navy blue-walled dining room was a narrow corridor that led straight to the kitchen where several plates of steaming food were set out to be bussed to the table for two. Gesturing for him to sit, she went into the kitchen, brought out three dishes, and set them in the middle of the table. Luigi peered casually at the appetizers – a plate of pale yellow puffs, hummus with an extra helping of olive oil and za'atar, and crudités.

"You made this?" he asked in an astonished tone.

She laughed a little as she sat down at the place across from him. "I made the puffs by myself. They're called pão de queijo. Um, it means 'cheese bread.' I can kinda make pizza, but honestly, I'm pretty simple when it comes to cooking. I hired a family friend to help. He's a professional chef here in New York. Avi learned to cook in Israel, Argentina, France, Italy, and Greece. He owed me a favor, so he came and helped me make the pasta, hummus, and dessert."

Luigi nodded, leaning over to pick one of the pão de queijo. Tearing the small hand-sized bread in two, he ate the first half, savoring it in his mouth and closing his eyes at the lovely hint of mozzarella-like cheese. He grinned, picked up her hand, kissed it courteously, and ate the second half of the pão de queijo. "Muito obrigado," he murmured.

"De nada," she answered and plucked one of the breads to eat.

They chatted casually, both all of sudden shy and nervous as they had been on their first (or second) date. The two table settings gradually became one; Daisy and Luigi fed each other an assortment of carrot sticks and radishes with creamy hummus and another pão de queijo before moving onto the entrée, pasta alla sorrentina. As an Italian, Luigi was rather judgmental of non-Italians and northern Italians 'attempting' southern Italian cuisine; he tolerated the mistake of too much ragù and cheese, but he flat out walked away from undercooked or – even worse – overcooked, soggy pasta. To his delight, Avi and his beautiful sous-chef committed neither error, and the pasta was quite good. At the end of the meal came a silver coffee pot and plate of cookies, none of which Luigi recognized. Some were palm-sized, ravioli-like, and covered in powdered sugar; a second set were silver-dollar-sized and golden brown; and a third set were small chocolates covered in chocolate sprinkles.

At his wordless question, Daisy replied, pointing to the domed cookies, "These are ma'amoul; date cookies and my favorites," he smiled, remembering the détente between Daisy and Yael, then looked to the other two in anticipation, "and these are duvshaniot – honey cookies from Israel – and brigadeiros from Brazil. I made the latter." He clapped softly, mumbled an obrigado, and took one of each. Daisy poured dark coffee into each saucer as he bit into the ma'amoul first, relishing the mixture of buttery semolina, sugar, and the sticky-sweetness of the date. Sipping the coffee, which he immediately identified as proper Italian Lavazza, the bitter perfectly balanced the sweet confection. Next, he nibbled at the brigadeiro, which with its milky chocolate and caramel straightaway became his favorite; he ate that in three bites to Daisy's surprise and glee. As for the duvshaniot, Luigi liked it the least, even though it was very good, with the cardamon and honey taste.

After dinner, they relocated to the couch in the parlor. "Well," he concluded, "I've enjoyed the celebration dinner, from the … impromptu Italian," he kissed her right palm, "well-prepared pasta alla sorrentina," sliding to the nape of her neck which caused her to squeal, "and to the sweet ending," seizing her lips with his. She noticed that he had become quite handsy, the plumber's flat palms progressing up her legs and just underneath the hem of her dress. Abruptly, his lips found themselves at her clavicle and he used his weight to lay her flat beneath him, hands gliding toward her undergarments. Daisy gasped as he quickly shed his Armani jacket and put his lips just above her mounds. Feeling her body freeze, Luigi instantly stopped and rolled off her. "God, I'm sorry, Daisy!" he managed in a terrified voice.

"No, I …" she sat up and said in an ashamed and frustrated tone. "It's me. I … My history hasn't been that great. My first time was in the back of the soccer captain's car. It hurt, and I didn't enjoy it. The second … Well, my ex really didn't care that much, if you know what I mean."

"No, it's not you," replied Luigi indignantly. "It was those stupid fuckboys who were so self-centered not to appreciate the pleasure that the pleasuring of a princess can bring both parties."

"Fuckboy?" inquired Daisy with a hint of amusement. "Is that a technical term?"

"It's a no-nonsense New Yorker term," he groused, eyeing her bare shoulder. "Daisy, I won't do anything to frighten or harm you. Never. I'm … immensely turned on by you. I'm, well, I'm a twenties-something guy. My first time was when I was fifteen. She was a classmate at Brooklyn City High. Éclair was her name. I was, uh, very excited. But I got better with time. I found out she was dating the captain of the basketball team, who threatened to beat my sorry white Italian ass." Daisy grinned and chuckled a little. "Next, uh, came … someone from Staten Island. God, this is the moment of truth, eh?" He hid his face in his hands. "This is … Daisy, I'm really afraid to tell you this one."

She frowned attentively. "Why?"

"Because … Depending on your … background, this could be a dealbreaker. Still want to hear this?"

"Yeah, I do," she whispered, calmly removing his hands to look into his eyes. "I highly doubt it'll be a dealbreaker. Short of murder or otherwise being an abusive asshole."

Luigi nodded, "Okay. The second was in my physics class. I was perpetually pissed off; I lost my father, I was forced by my Uncle Joe to enroll in Staten Island where I almost failed Russian because I had to make up three years in one single year and, what was more, they made me randomly repeat Physics C because I 'needed the credits.'" He rolled his eyes, then went on, "I was the kid in the back of the class who told all the nice kids to fuck off and thought it was cool. Well, one of the equally pissed off kids, Mark, and I hit it off as friends. One day, we were playing video games; he invited me to his room, and … He was my boyfriend of sorts until I graduated and went to trade school. We kept it on the downlow; him because his family was Russian-Estonian, me because, well, Italian Catholic. To this day, not even my brother knows. Last I heard, Mark ended up with a guy from Chicago. He was gay."

Daisy's mouth fell open. "Wow," she said after a moment, "So you're … bisexual or pansexual?"

"Yeah, I guess. I kind of look at it as being appreciative of variety rather than an identity per se. I'm not limited by who my partner happens to be. I find all types of people attractive – men, women, black, Asian," he threw a lascivious glance at her, "Brazilian Jewish, Italian, whomever. To me, what's important is the person. A lot of heterosexuals or even homosexuals think that people like me just love to fuck whatever hole that happens to be available or will cheat on them with the other gender. I'm sure there are some who do that, but I want you to know that this is not who I am. Incidentally, that was why Mark and I broke up; he thought that I was still in the closet. He couldn't understand that I … like variety. So when I say that I'm attracted to you, I mean it. You."

Daisy considered his words carefully, then responded, "I wouldn't have guessed it about you. But then again, I've never met a bi or pansexual man before. At least, not that I know of. Gay, lesbian? Yeah, I'm from San Francisco, the LGBT Capital of America. Like you in a way, I dated a New Zealander Māori – definitely not Jewish – and the soccer captain's family was from Paris. Very black and not Jewish. Now I'm dating a Brooklyn Italian who …" she gave him a deliberate, flirty glance, "likes variety, too. The fact that you dated a man as well as a woman changes nothing for me."

Beaming brightly, Luigi shook his head in disbelief and pulled her into a passionate kiss. This time, she lowered him atop her along the sofa. Knowing how difficult corporeal memory could be, he employed all of his self-control not to touch her anywhere intimate and restrict himself to make out mode. He felt his restraint starting to slip when her hands wandered from his hair down his pink-covered, muscular back; breaking the kiss, Luigi reached for her left hand and nuzzled the palm. "If you keep doing that…" he panted teasingly.

"Yeah?" she smirked as she traced his wiry biceps.

"Let's just say that my dry cleaning bill will go way up." The plumber sat up, kissing her hand again and holding it. "Amore, when you're ready, I will be here. I am here. I'm not going anywhere. And when you are, I promise you that … I will not be a fuckboy."

Daisy jumped up to give him a searing kiss.


After a quiet weekend and Monday in Bensonhurst, Tuesday the 13th had finally arrived. As he was going to work in the morning, Lucas sent him a text asking if he had given summer in California any more thought and if he had received his passport. Between jobs in Bed-Stuy, Luigi wrote back that the blue book came via FedEx the previous day and he was interested in attending Stanford, but he still had not heard back from the Department of Buildings about the practical exam, explaining that due to the municipal bureaucracy, it was possible that they could schedule it in July or August. An hour later, Lucas asked him to sit tight and he'd take care of Stanford; if he needed to defer, then they would cross that bridge if needed.

Since Pichler and the union requested Sal to keep his ticket load light for the next month, pending the practical, Luigi went home at around one o'clock to get ready for the evening game at Yankee Stadium. Eating some leftover kung pao chicken from the fridge, he went upstairs to his room for a brief nap. Deciding to check his email before laying down, Luigi was stunned to find a letter from an administrative assistant in Stanford's administration introducing herself as his guide to a fast-track evaluation for summer studies. As part of the process, she requested him to send official transcripts from Brooklyn City High, Staten Island Technical High School, LaGuardia College, letters of recommendation on letterhead from Sal Maldonado and Professor Omaya, and a five-hundred-word personal statement explaining the purpose of his proposed time at Stanford as well as any "extenuating circumstances that would nuance the committee's overall decision on your application." Luigi quickly called Lucas to question him about the last statement, as the university seemed to know personal details about him, including the names of his boss and the Professor.

"Hey, Weeg, my man," answered Lucas. "I take it you received some sort of email from Stanford?"

"Yeah, I did. They, uh, seemed to know who Sal and the Professor are."

"I talked to my connection in the university and mentioned them. A higher up, and let's leave it at that. They're expecting the letters within the next two weeks, so you'll need to get on that stuff ASAP."

"Okay," acquiesced Luigi. "But what about the 'extenuating circumstances' bit? It seemed very … leading."

"Yeah, that part. Look, you told me that you got a less than stellar grade in Russian. You also went from the Queen of New York City Public Schools to its ugly cousin in Staten Island. You were moreover fucking first, and you went to the Ugly Cousin. The admissions committee will want to know why. I spoke with my contact, and he confirmed that they'll ask. Without an explanation, they'll assume that you didn't want to work hard. The guy even inferred that during our chat. So, when I told them about your father…."

"You what?!"

"Weeg, calm down. This is part of the process. Anyway, he backed off and practically invited you to apply," said Lucas giddily.

"Lucas, you had no right to tell him that! None! If that's how I'm getting into Stanford, then I'm not going!" shouted Luigi.

"Hey, wait a minute," retorted Lucas angrily, "I used up a good number of favors to talk to that guy, to get you in the door! Yeah, so I talked about your fucking hero father. BFD, because it's true! You never would have left Brooklyn City if it had not been for that! You'd have graduated first, gone to MIT, and been a rockstar engineer! I know you pretend it never happened, even though the rest of the world would think you were fucking nuts! Well, it did! Your father wanted you to go, and you're doing him a fucking disservice by getting into a squabble about telling a confidential committee about him. You're the biggest asshole in New York, no, the entire planet, if you don't do it, Weeg!"

Luigi felt numb. Talking about his father was a forbidden topic with anyone except Mario and then on certain occasions. It was not that he was ashamed of his father; far from it, Mario Senior was, by anyone's definition, a hero over the course of his highly-decorated, almost twenty-five-year career with the FDNY. Yet in the days and even the first few years after his father's death, that was all anyone wanted to talk about – what it felt like, where he was, if he got to say goodbye, and how he felt. Never mind that he was essentially an orphan, being bounced from one side of the family to the other, and was trying to figure out a grown-up world as a teenager. However, Lucas was right; his father would have wanted him to go to Stanford if it were offered to him. Taking several deep breaths, he responded, "Alright. I'll … I'll do it. But let's get one thing straight, Lucas: my father's my father. And as for pretending? I wish I could. Because I'm reminded every goddamned day! Every time…" his voice broke. Wiping away a few errant tears, he continued irately, "Every time I see the fucking skyline!" With that, Luigi hung up and sobbed until he fell asleep.

A few hours later, he forced his crusted-over eyes to open and check the time – 3:25 pm. Emotionally drained, the plumber made his way to the bathroom to shower and change into his lucky blue Mets baseball jersey and pair of faded blue jeans. Running the water hot enough to rid some of the puffiness from his face, he took a longer shower than normal, committing to the mental avoidance of Stanford University and Lucas for the rest of the day and instead focusing on the inevitable first meeting between Mario, Peach, and Daisy. He hoped that his older, occasionally domineering brother would be on his best behavior. Luigi was nearly finished dressing when he heard the front door open and close. Finishing up, he snatched his baseball cap, put on a pair of socks, and toed on his sneakers.

"Yo, Weegie, you home?" shouted Mario. "I'm gonna take a quick shower and get my shit on. It'll take ten minutes or so. Then we'll meet Peach in Cobble Hill. Rospo's gonna drive us to and from the stadium. Is what's-her-name coming?"

Coming down the stairs, Luigi spotted his brother between the front door and the short hallway to his bedroom. "Yo," he greeted back. "I'm ready whenever you are. And yes, Daisy's coming."

"Aight," muttered Mario. "Time to meet fuckin' Daisy," he added under his breath, as he moseyed to the shower. Luigi rolled his eyes and took a slouched seat on the sofa to wait for Mario. Channel surfing through the dearth of late-afternoon New York cable television, he abruptly heard a yelp and a loud, "Jesus H-fucking Christ, Luigi, did you swim in all the fuckin' hot water?!"

The younger brother smirked. Payback was a bitch; serendipitous payback was an absolute twat.

Both Mario and Luigi were grateful to Rospo for agreeing to drive the three of them from their burger haunt in Cobble Hill to the Bronx, as the Brooklyn- and Queens-side subway was jammed with Mets fans heading to the Bronx. Per Peach's direction, Rospo took the BQE, which was lined with five o'clock and baseball traffic, up through Astoria and into the edge of Manhattan and the Bronx. After forty-five minutes of impromptu entertainment, ranging from various middle-finger howdies, impatient Queens-asshole honking horns, and 'Lost from Philly' cars cutting each other off, the black car finally arrived a couple blocks from Yankee Stadium. Making sure that he had the tickets, Mario nodded the all-clear and, having organized a rough pick-up time with Rospo, the three exited the car and walked the remaining seven to ten minutes to what Mario called "Death Star Field." Along the way, Luigi texted Daisy for her ETA, who replied that she was about ten minutes away, as she had to get off at Harlem and 148th Street, and that the subway ride from Columbia was "interesting." Letting Mario and Peach know that Daisy was walking from 148th, they decided to wait for her and walk in as a group.

At around 6:45, Luigi began to pace anxiously when he spotted an auburn-haired woman waiving excitedly at them. His happy smile fell when she saw what she was wearing. "Oh…"

"…shit," finished Mario as they both gasped simultaneously.

Like her fellow attendees, Daisy was wearing jeans; however, the jersey was fire engine red with a familiar black and white lettering across the middle – "Red Sox." She was already receiving dirty looks, boos, and middle fingers from the New York Yankees fans.

"Hi, sweetie," she greeted Luigi as his mouth formed a shocked oval.

"D-Daisy, sweetie, uh, how did you not get killed on the subway?!" cried her boyfriend. "Also, why are you wearing a Red Sox jersey?"

She shrugged. "I'm a Giants fan, yes, but remember that my father's from Boston. So the Red Sox are my second favorite team. And couple Skankee fans did try to 'justify' their existence, but alas, I threw them on the tracks." Then she turned to Mario; it was her turn to gasp. "Y….It's you! Y-you're Mario?"

Mario blinked for a moment, as if searching his memory for time and place to the face. His eyes widened as memory and recognition set in; she was five years younger, had long auburn hair, and pained amber eyes when they encountered each other in England. "Yeah, I'm Luigi's brother. Nice to see ya."

Both Luigi and Peach closed in on the two people who were staring at each other in shock. "You two know each other?" demanded Luigi with an edge in his voice. Likewise, Peach gave Mario a quizzical eyebrow.

"Yeah, in a manner of speaking," said Daisy. "He, uh, well, I'll tell you later. Shall we?" Visibly shaken, she managed to retrieve her ticket and moved toward the security and ticket line. Worried that she would be assaulted where they would be seated, Mario walked right after her, internally cursing 'that piece of shit Tony,' followed by a curious Peach and a peeved Luigi.

"Everyone's got a fuckin' Mario story," the latter grumbled to himself.

Just in the nick of time, the group of four found their seats in Section 203, Row 3, which gave them a panoramic view of the emerald green baseball diamond from the outfield. The Bleacher Creatures, who were the most die-hard and foul-mouthed fans in Major League Baseball, immediately spotted the Mets and Red Sox jerseys and started their greeting of the enemy – the loud Asshole Chant. As the entire section of Yankees fans continued their jeers, Daisy stood up, turned to face them, flashed a grin, and waved at them. Then a second later, her wave turned into a double one-fingered salute, and she yelled, "Yankees suck!" At the predictable boos and sexist ripostes, she blew them all a kiss, as Luigi pulled her down to her seat.

"That's enough a' that! You're gonna get us thrown out!" Mario yelled. "Security throws opposing fans out for that shit." He glanced at Peach irritably, who had been covering her mouth to obscure her sniggering.

"Yo, Asshole Plumbers," called out a familiar voice, "it's bad enough that you root for that shit team of losers, but you bring in a Ball-Sacks fan, too?"

Mario turned around to find Bowser and his eighteen-year-old son sitting directly behind them. "Bowser? The fuck you doin' here?"

"I got season tickets to the Yankees, you know that!" he retorted. He gestured to the group of four to his teenage son. "See that, Junior? This is not having any respect! Those fuckin' plumbers comin' into Yankee Stadium, the most hallowed stadium in all of baseball, with that shit on!"

Please rise and remove your hats in honor of the singing of our National Anthem.

Everyone rose and removed their caps while the singer sang "The Star Spangled Banner." Once he concluded the hymn, the crowd whistled and applauded before sitting down to watch the first inning, except for Bowser, his son, and the rest of the Bleacher Creatures, who remained standing for the roll call. Loud cheers for Ellsbury, Almonte, Soriano, Teixeira, Solarte, and Jeter followed; the players acknowledged their super fans with a wave, thumbs up, or a fist pump. Although Yankee players had mixed feelings about the roll call, as it often disrupted their concentration, they tolerated it to avoid being abused in the papers and by the fans in the next game. In between Jeter's and Johnson's names, Daisy stood up and chanted, "Derek Cheater! Derek Cheater!" Once again, Luigi pulled her back down to her seat as several Yankee fans, including Bowser, told her to "sit her Butt-Sex ass down," though he gave her a hint of a smile and left his right hand possessively on the small of her back. Mario and Bowser both glared at her, the latter going on with the roll call chant.

"Aight, aight, enough with the Red Sox shit," warned Mario. "This is Yankees versus the Mets. If you wanna see a Bo-Sox game, go to Boston." Daisy spun her head at the elder brother, who refused to look at her directly, and vibrated with humiliation and fury. Luigi watched the exchange, scowling at Mario for – what he justified to himself – talking to his girlfriend that way. Much to the older brother's chagrin, Luigi softly rubbed Daisy's back, still keeping his hand on it.

The crowd ohed and booed as Eric Young was hit by the Yankees' pitcher, Vidal Nuño, at the plate, resulting in an automatic walk. Mario and Luigi immediately stood and audibly complained about the Evil Empire. Chuckling, Bowser taunted, "That guy gets hit by a breeze. Comes from the fuckin' Colorado Cockies, gets hit. Huh, sounds familiar."

Facing him squarely, Mario crossed his arms and demanded, "You got something to say, wiseass?"

Before Bowser could reply, they watched Nuño walk Daniel Murphy, thus putting the latter on first base and Young on second. Mario sneered at the redhead and his son, who closely resembled his father except for being a few inches shorter and having a slightly darker complexion. "Well, things are lookin' up, eh?"

The Irish-Italian crossed his arms and leaned back in his seat. "Junior, what do we say about the Mets?"

Bowser's son, whose navy blue New York Yankees cap obscured his reddish-brown hair, grinned and answered loudly so that the entire section could hear him, "Oh, the Mets? You mean 'My Entire Team Sucks'?"

The Bleacher Creatures howled and whooped with laughter, high-fiving Junior, and clapping their agreement. The still-standing Mario shook his head leisurely and turned around just in time to see Dave Wright hit a line drive to center, allowing Young to score and Murphy to round the bases to third. The booing from Section 203 echoed throughout the stadium, even as Mario, Luigi, Peach, and Daisy high-fived and cheered.

"That fucking Nuño!" yelled Bowser indignantly. "Jerk his ass already! Even I can throw faster that than fuck!"

Next came Chris Young who popped a fly ball out toward second base. Though Mario and Luigi were somewhat disappointed, they eagerly awaited the next hitter, the "Grandyman," whom the Mets had recently acquired from the Yankees. Predictably, he slammed the ball three hundred seventy-five toward the right side, sending it into the stands. As the Yankees fans cursed and the Mets fans, with the occasional Red Sox fan, screamed with delight, Granderson's home run scored three additional points, bringing the score to a nifty 4-0.

Before Mario and Luigi could mock Bowser, Daisy sniggered, "Heh, now that the Skankees don't have access to artificial ingredients, they tumble right off a cliff, you know, like in 2004. And where's your precious fucking Asshole-Rod now?"

John balled his fists at the auburn-haired woman. "Well, Ball-sacks Bitch, we'll just see 'bout that, won't we? After all, it took youse long enough to even get to a World Series. You should be honored that you still have a fuckin' team after Bobby V."

"'Ey! C'mon!" shouted Mario and Luigi together at Bowser, extending their arms in a questioning manner. Glancing briefly at his younger brother, he stepped a little in front of him and bellowed at the redhead, "Show some fuckin' manners here!" Mario quickly grabbed Daisy's arm behind Peach and jerked her body down to her seat.

"Don't!" growled the auburn-haired lioness. "Overgrown Neanderthal," she gripped as she fell into the blue seat. Mario wordlessly pointed his right index finger at Daisy, cautioning her to be quiet. She looked stormily at Luigi who retook his seat emotionlessly, though once again, he put his hand at the top of her seat. "Putain," she muttered. When she was particularly angry at a situation, Daisy normally described the vexation in her native Ladino or Portuguese; for some reason, she felt like using French.

Peach, however, put a comforting hand on Daisy's arm and rolled her eyes at the show of Italian machismo. "Les hommes ne sont que des hommes après tout," she said to Daisy in French.

Daisy blinked. "Vous êtes française?" she asked.

Laughing, Peach replied, "On se tutoie, hein? Et non, je suis italienne, mais d'origine française. Ma grand-mère passait sa jeunesse à Paris. Mais bon, je comprends. Ne t'en fais pas Mario essaie de te protéger, sans te demander. Et Luigi, lui, il … essaie de te garder pour lui seul."

Once Bowser calmed down enough to take a seat and resume watching the game, Mario did the same, every so often blinking uncomprehendingly at the ongoing friendly conversation in French. Oh, fucking great; the ragazze are talking about God knows what, he thought. Luigi attempted to eavesdrop using his high-school French, making out the words "idiot," "Italian men," "bullshit," and "arrogant Yankees."

Okay, so they're talking about Bowser, Mario, and I! he huffed to himself. Le ragazze!

The Yankees did not leave the three-run homer unanswered; as Bowser and son whooped and hollered, Teixeira's base hit allowed Garner to score, followed by a home run by McGann to bring the null hypothesis to 4-3. Mario and Luigi grunted their displeasure as Bowser told them to enjoy "Wheeler's soggy shit sandwich."

Luigi's hand gradually returned to the small of Daisy's back. She gave him a dissatisfied glare, looked away from him, and settled into the touch. He then tucked her body into his, kissing the top of her head. Unbeknownst to her, Mario and Bowser were observing the scene as the game headed into an uneventful second inning. As Peach gave both men a probing eyebrow, Mario shot them all a dirty look while Bowser appeared more puzzled than annoyed.

"She got a mouth!" grumbled the older plumber.

Despite Bowser's continued swearing and demands to jerk "that fucking jumping bean Nuño," by the top of the fourth inning, two sacrifice flies by Lagares and Murphy brought the score to 6-3. While Mario was high-fiving one of the Mets fans who was passing by the Bleacher Creatures' section, and much to Luigi's growing alarm, Daisy turned around to Bowser and sneered, "The Yanks – best team, huh? They are definitely yanking it."

"You'd know, bitch," scoffed John. "I can't imagine Greenie Weenie here doin' much for ya. Unless, of course, you like it up the ass."

Luigi rolled his eyes and hissed, "Shut the fuck up, Bowser, you colossal asshat."

Upon hearing the end of Bowser's taunt, Mario stepped up one row to stand over Bowser and his son directly. The latter was making himself as small and unobtrusive as possible to avoid a physical confrontation with the angry plumber. "The fuck did you say to my brother, you Irish potato scrap?" he demanded.

"Mario!" called out Luigi, shaking his head. Peering over at Daisy and his brother, who was voicelessly begging him to drop the matter, the older plumber reluctantly went back to his row. He did not sit down, however; leaning to whisper something in Peach's ear, Luigi and Daisy saw a brief argument in gestures, with the blonde finally standing up to switch seats with her significant other. Mario then sat in Peach's seat directly next to Daisy.

"Yeah, that's right, Mario; keep the dog on a leash!" mocked the Irish-Italian behind him. Daisy pretended to stretch her arms, raised them above her head while yawning, and precipitously flashed a middle finger behind her.

"Goddamn it!" swore Mario as he dragged her finger and fist done, pinning it to the shared chair rest. The four of them heard an audible growl of the elder Bowser getting ready to confront the woman.

"Daisy," stated Luigi agitatedly, "let's get a drink." He yanked her arm and body from the seat, guided her to the right, and toward the entrance to the concessions. After they entered the dining area for the 200-level area, Luigi grabbed the hand of the angry lioness and brought her to the frozen yogurt stand. Fishing out his wallet, he silently asked her what she wanted to have. Growling for a moment at the plumber, Daisy ordered a vanilla frozen yogurt with M&Ms, chocolate hazelnut sauce, and chocolate chips. Luigi asked for a double and handed the server a couple of twenty-dollar bills. They found an open spot to eat their ice cream; a roar and more booing echoed throughout the building, which indicated that the Mets had scored once again.

"Sorry," began Luigi, "but Bowser's an asshole. His family's filled with massive assholes. I didn't want you to get hurt."

Swallowing a spoonful of the vanilla ice cream, Daisy argued, "I was handling myself just fine! Even if he had done something, that stupid prick would have instantly regretted it. It was your asshole brother who kept interfering like some big macho man!"

"Sweetie, my brother is kind of a dick, that's true. But you really don't know the family. His older brother, Marco, made my life a living hell. The fucker put me in the hospital when I was nine." At her horrified look, spoon midway between the paper ice cream bowl and her mouth, Luigi waived it off, "Don't worry; he's dead. Killed in Iraq. The point is, Bowser's family is one big trash can, and it's best left to sanitation workers, not beautiful princesses." His eyes studied her pensive body language, and he inquired, "Speaking of Mario, how do you know him?"

She sighed. "Dio … I was just stunned to see him after years of wondering …" At Luigi's questioning and hurt stare, she said with a hint of defensiveness, "It was nothing romantic or sexual!" Taking a deep breath and eating more of her ice cream as Luigi looked away, she carried on, "It was when I was in England, when I was still with Tatanga. It must have been September 2009, I think. It was a Friday night; Tatanga was drunk off his ass, having justified it as a "celebration of his mates' domination" on the rugby turf. He wanted me to go with him, but I said no. So he, uh, slapped me. Hard. It had been raining; I tried to lay on the wet ground so that he wouldn't kick or attack me further. Next thing I knew, he was on his ass, and a man was helping me up. I remember being surprised at his accent – instead of Cockney or even a posh RP, he spoke like a New York street guy. He asked me if I was okay. Then …" her voice caught a little, "Tatanga got up and made some comment about Yanks knowing and screwing each other. Your brother slapped him across the face, knocking him back down. It was so shocking; I'd seen Tatanga just manhandle men twice his size in rugby matches and the pubs, but this smallish New Yorker in a blue pea coat and jeans just … bitch-slapped him. I remember," she chuckled, "Mario asking me, 'You're with this stronz?' I was so ashamed, I didn't answer. He then said to Tatanga that he had a choice; either he left me alone or he and his Sandhurst buddies would pay him a visit. After Tatanga got the message and walked away to wherever, Mario walked me back to my room on campus. I never saw him again … until this evening."

Several minutes passed in silence as they finished their ice cream and listened to the cheers of a scoring run for the Yankees to make a somewhat respectable 7-4 at the bottom of the fourth. Dumping his empty container in the trash bin, Luigi spoke first, "Everyone's got a Mario story, I guess."

Daisy recalled Peach's words in French: "And Luigi's, well, he's trying to keep you all to himself." She smirked a little. "Luigi, are you … jealous?"

"Jealous?" he cried indignantly. "Of what?"

"Of whom. Your brother."

"Why would I be jealous of Mario? You said so yourself, you didn't fuck him or have a thing for him. He did a good thing; he slapped the shit out of that little fuckboy and made him leave you alone. He's a hero," he responded flatly.

Throwing away her own finished container, she moved in front of her unreadable boyfriend and cupped his five o'clock shadowed cheek. In his eyes, she glimpsed a swarm of emotions. "Luigi," she began, "he's a very brief part of my past. A painful past. Yes, I was surprised to see him in the most unexpected way. I never knew that he was your brother. Even if I had, it wouldn't have mattered. You are my present. A present which is so much happier."

"Daisy, I …" he trailed off, pacing in front of her. "I-I just don't understand. Why pick fights? Why the Red Sox shit at a Mets game? I would think that you'd be avoiding that!"

"Luigi, I don't do well with bullies, the Evil Empire included. That's what Tatanga taught me. After being his personal stress doll for a better part of a year, I vowed never to let a man – anyone – treat me like that again." She let out a long sigh. "If you can't handle that, then maybe I'm not the girl for you."

As she sadly began to walk back to their section of seats, she felt her body being tenderly stopped and masculine lips crashing onto hers. "You are the girl for me, Daisy. You're … You're so brave, so ballsy!" whispered Luigi harshly between kisses. "I like that. But … I want you well. I'm your partner. Just let me in."

She broke the embrace to gaze into his blue eyes; the cloud of whirling emotions had dissipated to two distinct colors of blue – revering navy and enduring cerulean. "I want … " she started, still mesmerized by the blues which seemed to stop attentively to her. "I want to put Bowser in his place if he goads me again."

The blues flickered with the emergence of a third color – periwinkle – yet the plumber stroked her cheeks with his thumbs and nodded. "Okay." Removing his hands from her face, he slid his hand into hers. Intertwining their fingers, Luigi raised his eyebrows playfully to which she giggled and squeezed it. Hand in hand, they returned to Bleacher Creatures' lair at the top of the fifth inning and after the singing of "God Bless America;" the booing had once again resumed, as the Mets increased their lead 8-4. Giving Luigi a mischievous, flirty look, who lifted his eyebrows again in response, Daisy planted a smooch on his lips in front of hundreds of Yankees fans, who made gagging sounds, booed, and yelled at them "to sit the fuck down." Three rows up, a grinning Luigi spotted an annoyed Mario, who was still sitting in Peach's original seat. As for Peach, she chuckled at the sight and, using her arm, made a line out in front of her, expressing Italian approval. Walking up the stairs and in front of Peach back to their seats, Luigi put his arm protectively around Daisy, who leisurely sank back into her chair next to Mario.

Once again, Young was walked, this time by Aceves, who had replaced Nuño by the end of the fourth, putting two Mets players on first and second bases. Aceves set his feet and threw a ninety-two miles-per-hour fastball that was just inside and would have been a strike, had Murphy's bat not connected on the edge, sending the ball three hundred ninety feet into the right stands. Bowser screamed in outrage as Murphy's homer brought the score to a humiliating 11-4. Mario, Luigi, and Daisy were on their feet, cheering and hollering at the "Super-motherfucking-Murphy!" Peach demurely joined the small celebration while the Creatures alternatively glared and chanted "Asshole!" at them.

"Ain't this cute? The Marios are having group Ball-Sex over one game. Since when have the fuckin' Mets won anything notable?" growled Bowser.

Daisy turned to him and crossed her arms. "You're one to talk, Yank-off. Your team hasn't won a Series since 2009! Mine won last year, dipshit!"

"Lucky you're wearin' red, sweetheart, 'cause except for your mouth, no one can tell that you're on the rag," sneered the redheaded man.

At this point, Luigi angrily turned around to Bowser and fixed a serious, piercing stare at him. "John, fuck off, before I take my foot and shove it so far up your ass that you'll taste your own shit. I'll give you one warning, and frankly, I don't give a flying fuck if I get kicked out of Yank-me Stadium. My fucking team's up 11-4. Unless the Yank-mees have a secret magic potion or Steinbrenner gives one hell of a blowjob to the ump, youse are screwed. So shut your garbage mouth, bend over, and enjoy the doggy style!"

Bowser's mouth formed an o-shape, and in that moment, he was indistinguishable from a blowfish. Slamming it shut, he realized that he had no retort left, and directed his hostile eyes at the field. Luigi then moved his stare at his brother. "And Mario, get the hell out of Peach's seat!"

Stunned at Luigi's outburst, Mario rose from the seat and relinquished it to a grateful, awestruck Peach. The younger plumber put his hand at the small of Daisy's back and guided them both into their seats. Daisy seductively whispered in his right ear, "'Shove your foot so far up his ass that he'll taste his own shit'? Hmm, I'll have to remember that, plumber." As Mario scowled from somewhere in the background, Luigi captured her lips with his.