stopped completely.
The clouds are clearing, revealing a stunning blue sky. The guys on the roof drop what they're doing and reel back in astonishment. Up and down the street, people leave their houses and offices to look up in wonder.
I've imagined this moment many times, and I always thought people would shout and skip and sing and dance in the streets, like so many extras in a musical. I thought I would run to the ballpark, with its rotting benches and ruined field. I would have my shin guards and chest protector on, my bat and glove ready, and I would stretch out in the muddy outfield and wait for the grass to grow back.
Instead, my stomach is in a knot and I can't move. Lou is crying, gesturing at the now-cloudless sky and trying to speak to Frank, but Frank turns away, overcome. I realize we're all scared.
Sturgis glances up, takes his shovel, and starts scooping mud from his wheelbarrow back into the ditch.
“We might as well fill this back in,” he says.
Frank says we should take the day off. Either the rain will pick up again and fall for another twenty-odd years, or it's really over. If it starts raining again, we'll waste the only sunny afternoon in years; if it doesn't, our jobs are obsolete anyway. So for maybe the first time in history, something is called off on account of no rain.
“So how do your percentages explain this?” Sturgis asks when we get home.
“What do you mean? Statistics
completely
explain it.”
“You said the statistics were why it was raining. Now they're why it's
not
raining. That makes a lot of sense!”
“It does.” I go through the whole explanation again, using Walt Dropo as an example.
“So Walt Dropo is Moundville, and base hits are rain?”
“Exactly.”
“All right. So what does that have to do with it not raining anymore?”
“Because after Walt Dropo got twelve hits in a row, he wasn't guaranteed a hit the next time. That's why.”
“I still don't get it.”
“It's called a gambler's fallacy. It's like if you're playing roulette and there's a bunch of reds in a row. A gambler might think it's going to be red next time, or maybe that there's going to be a run of blacks. Either way, he's wrong. The odds are exactly the same for every spin.”
“I read this James Bond novel where this casino had a magnet under the wheel and could freeze the ball wherever they wanted it. I'd put my money on red.”
“If it's fixed, you're going to lose either way,” I remind him.
“Oh, right.” He looks thoughtful. “Anyway, I don't see what that has to do with this.”
“Every day is a new day. The past doesn't matter. That's all I'm saying.”
“If that's what the statistics think, the statistics are dumb.” He grabs his fantasy book and stalks off to read it. With all the junk he reads about elves and wizards, it's no wonder he can't think scientifically.
My dad is not much in the mood for cooking, so he sprinkles some frozen peas on a frozen pizza and throws it in the oven.
“Peas on pizza?” I ask when I see it.
“You need your vegetables,” he says sharply.
The pizza is burned on the edges and cold in the middle. We eat it anyway, seeing how upset he is.
“Up to my nose in debts,” my dad mutters, and “Good luck getting anyone to honor their contracts,” and “My life's work is down the tubes.”
“When it rains, sell umbrellas,” I remind him.
“I did that!” he snaps. “It's not raining anymore, and I have a warehouse full of umbrellas.”
“It might start raining again,” Sturgis says helpfully.“There's no reason it can't rain another twenty years, even. Percentagewise.”
“He's right, Dad,” I agree.
“Do you think?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.”
“I hope you're right.” My dad spends the rest of the evening taking calls from customers, all of them canceling their orders.
Later on, he yells at me that I have a phone call. I won-der if it's Steve. He probably wants to play baseball ASAP, before the rain starts
The clouds are clearing, revealing a stunning blue sky. The guys on the roof drop what they're doing and reel back in astonishment. Up and down the street, people leave their houses and offices to look up in wonder.
I've imagined this moment many times, and I always thought people would shout and skip and sing and dance in the streets, like so many extras in a musical. I thought I would run to the ballpark, with its rotting benches and ruined field. I would have my shin guards and chest protector on, my bat and glove ready, and I would stretch out in the muddy outfield and wait for the grass to grow back.
Instead, my stomach is in a knot and I can't move. Lou is crying, gesturing at the now-cloudless sky and trying to speak to Frank, but Frank turns away, overcome. I realize we're all scared.
Sturgis glances up, takes his shovel, and starts scooping mud from his wheelbarrow back into the ditch.
“We might as well fill this back in,” he says.
Frank says we should take the day off. Either the rain will pick up again and fall for another twenty-odd years, or it's really over. If it starts raining again, we'll waste the only sunny afternoon in years; if it doesn't, our jobs are obsolete anyway. So for maybe the first time in history, something is called off on account of no rain.
“So how do your percentages explain this?” Sturgis asks when we get home.
“What do you mean? Statistics
completely
explain it.”
“You said the statistics were why it was raining. Now they're why it's
not
raining. That makes a lot of sense!”
“It does.” I go through the whole explanation again, using Walt Dropo as an example.
“So Walt Dropo is Moundville, and base hits are rain?”
“Exactly.”
“All right. So what does that have to do with it not raining anymore?”
“Because after Walt Dropo got twelve hits in a row, he wasn't guaranteed a hit the next time. That's why.”
“I still don't get it.”
“It's called a gambler's fallacy. It's like if you're playing roulette and there's a bunch of reds in a row. A gambler might think it's going to be red next time, or maybe that there's going to be a run of blacks. Either way, he's wrong. The odds are exactly the same for every spin.”
“I read this James Bond novel where this casino had a magnet under the wheel and could freeze the ball wherever they wanted it. I'd put my money on red.”
“If it's fixed, you're going to lose either way,” I remind him.
“Oh, right.” He looks thoughtful. “Anyway, I don't see what that has to do with this.”
“Every day is a new day. The past doesn't matter. That's all I'm saying.”
“If that's what the statistics think, the statistics are dumb.” He grabs his fantasy book and stalks off to read it. With all the junk he reads about elves and wizards, it's no wonder he can't think scientifically.
My dad is not much in the mood for cooking, so he sprinkles some frozen peas on a frozen pizza and throws it in the oven.
“Peas on pizza?” I ask when I see it.
“You need your vegetables,” he says sharply.
The pizza is burned on the edges and cold in the middle. We eat it anyway, seeing how upset he is.
“Up to my nose in debts,” my dad mutters, and “Good luck getting anyone to honor their contracts,” and “My life's work is down the tubes.”
“When it rains, sell umbrellas,” I remind him.
“I did that!” he snaps. “It's not raining anymore, and I have a warehouse full of umbrellas.”
“It might start raining again,” Sturgis says helpfully.“There's no reason it can't rain another twenty years, even. Percentagewise.”
“He's right, Dad,” I agree.
“Do you think?”
“Yeah. Absolutely.”
“I hope you're right.” My dad spends the rest of the evening taking calls from customers, all of them canceling their orders.
Later on, he yells at me that I have a phone call. I won-der if it's Steve. He probably wants to play baseball ASAP, before the rain starts
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