All I know is he instigated a brawl. He isn't a physical man. Strictly bush league when it comes to fists. He's just a guy that's perhaps too smart for his own good - or, as litigators call it, a guy charged with conspiracy to commit aggravated assault.


"Yeah, just trying to imagine you as the... instigator."

That didn't sit well with him. He can out talk anyone at the firm and two-thirds of Boston, but he only made a minor stab at words now. ["How about you say what you have to say, or is that too monumental an effort, completing whole sentences?"] Today, Alan was intent on getting his hands dirty.

Batter steps up to the plate. The crowd is hushed. I throw a sucker pitch, just enough to clear the dugout. Call it a social experiment. "You're not that interesting."

I don't know that he could hit anything out of the park, but he made it to first base. The shove caught me off guard. "I'm tired of this. Get that?"

"Uh. I dunno what's going on with you, sport, but you're certainly smart enough to realize that I could probably dismember you in about - "

From out in left field, he landed his southpaw on my chest - again. "Then do it."

This was a whole new ball game, but there was no choice. I was going to let him walk. Tara was less inclined. She called it. He was offbase, picking a fight. "When will we learn… that you are always right. That it makes sense to start a barroom brawl. That it’s perfectly reasonable to get into a shoving match at the office. Nothing could be going on with you. When will we learn?"

I watched. Nothing in me could call a foul. He was always the star player. She called it a God-complex. In this particular inning, Alan was having a bad game, a nansy pansy curse. But I couldn't count him out. It ain't over 'til it's over. Tara said what I thought: "Get Help."

And Yogi Berra, the Denny Crane of the baseball world, hit it home: "The future ain't what it used to be."