In which we deputize a coconspirator as insurance against our plan possibly going sideways

When you’re 13 years old, and you hear your name over the PA system at Fenway, you know nothing good will come of it. Dread takes over immediately.

“Roger Kay and David Brody, please come to security. Roger Kay and David Brody, come to the security desk.”

We knew the jig was up. We’d been having a good time, out in the bleachers, tickets purchased for a buck with allowance money.

David and I had skipped school to watch the Red Sox opener in the Spring of 1966. It was April 12th, just that time of year when a haze of light green, pink, and white hovers in the treetops and the air is finally warm, if only in the sun.

He was a year above me, and we figured one kid from each grade wouldn’t be missed. At first I was trepidatious. But David prodded, “C’mon, man! It’s the Sox opener!” We were at the time understudy juvenile delinquents, just getting going on our careers of deceit. David’s older brother, Bruce, was the real deal.

David was tall and skinny with dark eyes and hair, a bit gawky, but a great pool player, someone with an already misspent youth. But Bruce was an ice blond with a smooth face and grey eyes who looked like a gangster. He was…