The next morning, the headline of the Boston Globe didn't exactly get my day off to a hopeful start. As Mickey handed me my cup of coffee, I read it aloud to him. SOVIETS TEST A-BOMB. "Lord, Mickey, they say this thing is a hundred times more powerful than the one we dropped on Hiroshima. I think this world just might blow itself up."
"You just might be right, old man. Maybe that street preacher down by the courthouse just may have finally come into his own. He's been screaming that for years, 'The world is coming to an end. Prepare to meet your Maker.' "
"I'm not sure who the crazies are any more, Mickey, guys like Preacher Joe or the guys with their fingers on the buttons."
"Ah, the h*ll with it, Mac. If it comes, it comes. Did the Red Sox win?"
"Let me see. Hey, yea. 5-4 over the Indians. Who needs Ted Williams anyway?"
"Do you ever keep in touch with your old friend, Father Kelley?"
"Not really. Every once in a blue moon he might come by if he's got business over here. He'll always stop and buy a Baby Ruth and maybe some Wrigley's. We'll tell a couple of old school stories and then that's it. He's gone and I'm here."
"He seems like a rather ambitious sort."
"Oh, yea, I reckon. He was Student Body President and a heck of an athlete."
"Betcha he was pretty handy with the ladies."
Now that conjecture got Mickey to thinking a bit. "Now that you bring it up, I don't think I ever saw Sean date."
"Yea, Sean Kelly. I don't think he ever had a girlfriend. I guess he was born a priest."
"I don't know how those guys do it."
"You know, the celibacy thing."
"Well, how have you done it all these years, MacKenzie?"
I thought about bragging about the night before, but no need sullying the virtue of my blue-eyed Mary.
"Mickey, keep your nose clean, old buddy."
"You, too, flatfoot."