Most of the people in the line were solemn, but after

a while, we noticed some people yakking away. We even

heard a few chuckles here and there as people accepted the

fact that they were in for quite a wait. Of course, Frankie

didn’t know what it meant to be solemn, so it didn’t take

him long to start getting into a conversation with Phil

about sports. Soon enough, Frankie found something to

argue with Phil about, and as usual, Frankie didn’t know

what the heck he was talking about. He was trying to

convince Phil that Joe Pepitone could hit the great Dodger

pitcher Sandy Koufax with his eyes closed and that Sandy

Koufax was a bum for retiring so young. It didn’t take

long before Phil got tired of Frankie’s cockeyed logic,

so he just ignored Frankie. However, some guy just up

ahead who’d overheard the conversation evidently took

offense to Frankie mean-mouthing ole Sandy Koufax.

The guy said he was from Brooklyn and remembered the

day Sandy Koufax had broken into the majors. I could

see that Frankie had met his match, but would Frankie

back down? Of course not. He went on and on, getting

more ridiculous about how overrated Sandy Koufax was.

Then Frankie really stuck his foot in his mouth when he

said that Sandy Koufax was a chump for not pitching a

World Series game on a Jewish holiday. Well, the guy

from Brooklyn happened to be Jewish too, and I thought

he was just about ready to strangle Frankie, but he backed

off when Phil and I stepped in between them.

“Hey, look. Don’t worry about this guy,” I said to the

Jewish Dodgers fan from Brooklyn. “Ah, he really doesn’t

know what he’s talking about.” That, of course, was true .

Then Jonathan chimed in, using his best blacknosing

voice. “Yes, sir. The young boy, unfortunately, has a

mental disability.”

Frankie got pretty pissed off at that, but Phil put his

hand over Frankie’s mouth, and we dragged him back

behind Jonathan.

“Yeah, sir. He has a mental disability, sir,” I said. It

kind of felt nice to tell somebody that Frankie was crazy,

since he was always getting in trouble and acting as if he

were crazy.

“Vell, ya shunta bring him out if he’s dat vay,” the

Brooklyn guy said. “Sheesh. Talking about da great

Koufax like dat!”

Come to think of it, maybe the Brooklyn guy wasn’t

all there either.

Once we had Frankie under control and things had

calmed down, the wait started to get a little boring. It was

two thirty, and St. Patrick’s Cathedral was nowhere in

sight—and it was a pretty darn big place to lose sight of.

Frankie and Phil were getting restless, so they started to

set deadlines. They agreed that three thirty was the latest

they’d wait because they wanted to get to the stadium

 in time to see a little batting practice. I wasn’t going to

commit myself to a deadline, and Jonathan remained stoic

and somber and did not even participate in the discussion.

It was getting hot. On some streets, we’d be in the

shade of a skyscraper or something, but then we’d turn

a corner and would be in the sun for what seemed like

hours. Fortunately, there were places where some people

gave out water. We called them water stations, and it sure

was good to have something to drink. Of course, Frankie

wasn’t satisfied with just water. He wanted a soda. He

and Phil got out of line, went over to a pushcart vendor,

and bought four sodas. They gave one each to me and

Jonathan, but Jonathan wouldn’t take his.

“Water’s fine for me,” Jonathan said. “Thank you

anyway.” None of us could believe Jonathan would turn

down a soda. He was a soda freak.

“What are you—loco, Senor?” Frankie said to

Jonathan, using a silly Spanish accent.

We all slurped down our sodas, and Phil tried to

give the extra soda away to a lady up ahead of us, but

she declined. “What the heck—is this a funeral or

something?” Frankie blurted out, and we all gave him

looks of disgust. “Yeah, yeah, I know,” Frankie said, and

he took off one of his sneakers and put it in his mouth. “I

might as well just keep this here,” he mumbled.

I kind of felt guilty about drinking my soda, and the

whole incident brought me back to reality. We weren’t

there to have fun or screw around; we were there because

Bobby Kennedy was dead. In a way, it was actually nice

that Frankie tried to liven things up a little, but I could

see that this was different from a bunch of kids waiting

in line to get tickets for a rock concert or a ball game. We

were there to pay our respects to somebody a lot of people

really cared about. It was a little scary when I thought

about it. Just two months ago, a whole lot of people had

been doing the same thing down in Atlanta, Georgia,

and it hadn’t been too many years since they were lining

up in Washington, DC. I also thought about all the guys

getting killed over in Vietnam. People were lining up to

pay their respects all over the place.

At three thirty, we were still in line, and the cathedral

was nowhere to be seen. Frankie and Phil started to hem

and haw about leaving and heading to the stadium.

“Well, look, fellows,” Frankie said, “all due respect to

ole Bobby. He was really a great guy. But I got this here

ticket in my wallet that cost three dollars and fifty cents,

and I sure as heck don’t want to let it go to waste.”

“Yeah. Well, Frankie,” Phil said, “we still have plenty

of time. Let’s give the line a little longer.”

“But we’ll miss all of batting practice,” Frankie said.

“Look, Frankie,” I said, “it’s a twi-nighter. How much

baseball do you want?”

“My money’s worth.”

“You’re getting two for the price of one anyway,” Phil

said.

“I can’t help it if the price of one game is overpriced,”

Frankie said.

“Well, I’m staying another half hour,” Phil said.

“What about you, T. J.?”

“At least a half hour.”

“And you, Jonathan? You haven’t had much to say.” 

 “As long as it takes,” Jonathan said seriously. We all

got quiet and continued our slow journey.

The sun was blazing, and the people in line remained

pretty quiet. There were crowd-control barriers and lots

of police around, and the line stretched from block to

block and street to street. Every once in a while, we’d see

a portion of the line across the street, and we couldn’t

figure out how the heck it was connected to our part of

the line. We couldn’t tell whether that part was ahead of

us or behind us. When four thirty rolled around, Frankie

just about had had it.

“Okay, look. That’s Itsville for me. I’m on my way. You

guys can stay here all night if ya like. Take the A train to

the D train. Right, Jonathan?”

“Not exactly,” Jonathan said. “You take the A train

to the D train from the Port Authority. Not from here.”

“Oh yeah. Yeah,” Frankie said. “I knew that.”

“Sure, Frankie,” I said with a smirk.

“Well, come on. You guys made a deal. You said a half

hour more, T. J., more than an hour ago.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was torn.

“Yeah, you’re right, Frankie,” Phil said. “This wait

may go on forever. I think we all did our part. Waiting in

line for three hours should be enough respect paying. Let’s

get going. What do you say, T. J.? Jonathan?”

I didn’t know what the heck to say, and I was kind of

waiting for Jonathan to say something, but he was as stoic

and somber as ever.

“Well, what’ll it be, fellers?” Phil asked.

 I kept waiting for Jonathan to lead the way. Then I

said, “I’m staying.”

“Staying?” Frankie said. “Come on, T. J., ole boy. You

don’t want to miss your boy, the Mick. You know, this

could be his last year.”

“Don’t say that!” I snapped. Frankie knew how to get

at me. “I’m staying. I have to stay. This is more important.”

I wasn’t sure why it was more important to stay in line

for hours just to go by somebody’s coffin, but somehow,

deep in my heart, I knew it was. It was more important

than some stupid baseball game. Bobby Kennedy had

stood for a lot of things. He’d been trying to make the

world better. The people in line—I guessed there were

thousands—all felt the same way. I could watch the Mick

anytime on television, but this was the end for Bobby.

Tomorrow he’d be laid to rest next to his brother. No,

I couldn’t go to the game. I had to stay, and I knew

Jonathan would too.

“I’m staying,” I said again to Frankie and Phil.

“Well, I guess you’re staying too,” Phil said to

Jonathan.

“Yep,” Jonathan said.

“Well, could you at least give us a tip on how to get

up to the stadium from here?” Phil said.

Jonathan went into a long, detailed explanation of

how and where to catch the subway and what trains to

take. It was the most he had talked all day.

“And, Phil,” Jonathan said, nodding to Frankie,

“please keep an eye on that one. The one with the mental

disability.”

“Hey, knock it off, Jonathan,” Frankie said.

“I won’t be around to rescue him,” Jonathan added.

“Yeah, Phil. Keep an eye on him.” I had to add my

two cents.

“Yeah. Thanks, T.J.,” Frankie said sarcastically.

“Come on, Phil; it’s getting later. Oh, and, you guys,

enjoy the party.”

They started away, but Frankie turned back, came

over, and whispered to me, “Would you say a quick Hail

Mary for me or something when you get there?”

 “Yeah. Sure, Frankie,” I said, and they left.