If things had gone according to The Plan, and they had followed the blue-pen indicated route, they would have driven north first, through New Hampshire to Montreal. If things had gone right, nothing would have happened in the game except nine innings, seven strikeouts, and a triple. Five runs would have scored along the way, divided four-one between Montreal and Cincinnati. They would have slept for three hours in the car in Quebec, on the shoulder of a side road, synchronizing their cell phone alarms to wake them up at 3:47 A.M. They would have bought two jumbo cups of coffee that had been slowing burning from 4 in the afternoon until 4 in the morning, slugging them with pre-packaged muffins as they pushed south through Vermont, all green and lush and sleeping, down to Interstate 95 and into New York New York, they’dve sighed. If the plan had worked out, a doubleheader and the Tri-borough would be waiting.

Had they traveled upon Roger’s proposed route, they’dve seen Shea and Yankee, three boroughs of New York and then have passed the night in central Pennsylvania, roadside car camping in Amish country. Jack would have found the perfect writing desk at an antique mall, dark and hardwood, and he would have disassembled and squeezed it into the last remaining inches of the back seat. The boys would have headed back to Philly then to Pittsburg, zigzagging through the Quaker state then down to Camden Yards. They would’ve kept south, to Atlanta and Tampa Bay and the Marlins, picking up a flat of Georgia peaches and five pounds of fresh-roasted peanuts, throwing pits and shells out the passenger-side window. They’dve cut back across the panhandle, taking a swing through the Big Easy for a lunch of gumbo and pecan pie on the way to Texas, to the Rangers and Astros. Upon visiting Houston’s Astroturf castle Roger would have come to the conclusion that the Astrodome was a hideous, incredible piece of architecture.

Somewhere in western Texas the radio signals would have dropped out, and boys would have turned to books on tape of beat poets, cycled through used CD of aging rock bands. The Volvo’s front speakers blew years ago, so they’d have turned up the stereo from behind, blasting Ferlinghetti and the Grateful Dead over the back seat packed with boxes, Jerry Garcia’s guitar solos and Bukowski’s dirty poems spilling out the rolled-down windows and onto dry countryside.

They would have turned north up dusty roads, stopping for Grand Slam Breakfasts at a Denny’s two meals in a row. In the prairie states the breezes would have gotten warmer and warmer, turning oppressive the second week of June, so Jack would have made the executive decision that skinny dipping was in order.

Stopping for an irrigation ditch, they’d have made it to a game in Kansas City, then have driven out of town again. They’d have finally pulled over on a side road in eastern Kansas, laid on the roof of the car, stretching out cramped legs until their barefooted heels knocked on the windshield. With some minor excavation they’d have managed to dig out the sleeping bags, pillows and mats and all, and brought them up, for star-watching on the Volvo’s creaking roof. Save for a faint country store, glowing maybe five miles north on the horizon, they relied on cigarette embers and starlight. They’d have caught an occasional shooting star, a flurry of meteors heading towards Sioux City.

They’d have reached St Louis mid-morning, and Roger would have taken the elevator to the top while Jack smoked three-quarters of a pack of cigarettes with a seventeen-year-old named Agnes. She sold personalized miniature Missouri license plates on the other side of the plaza and he would have bought all six of the Jacks she had in stock, along with one Roger and a Julie for his youngest sister.

After nine innings of Cards versus Dodgers the route would have backtracked, up through Ohio to Detroit and back into Canada, Toronto this time. As they drove north summer would have hit full on, the air starting to get thick, humid with the hum of mosquitoes and the pinch of black flies. They’d have looped south to the Loop, to deep-dish pizza waiting for them in Chicago.

The Windy City merited more than a night’s stay, but between budgets and ball schedules there was little wiggle room. Jack had been, but Roger had not seen the city, save for connecting flights at O’Hare., and as he navigated the fluorescent walkway that ran under the runways, he always imagined the city spreading out and up above him. Boarding the next plane, he’d press his nose against the triple-thick pane and watch as the city emerged beyond the airports sprawling grounds then quickly shrunk again.

By car the city’s approach, rising out of flatlands like a steel and glass mountain range, would have been the stuff of dreams. The first night the White Sox would have squeezed out a win by the skin of their teeth and a dropped third strike. Afterwards, the boys would have wandered out of the New Comiskey towards the old, around the back of baseball palaces to a dive bar in the park’s shadow.

In the morning Roger would have showered and shaved, taken three Advil and two Tums, then gone off coffee and skyscrapers. He would have gotten a big iced coffee and walked down Lake Shore Drive with his neck craned up, turning back every block or so to watch the water. Behind him the beach would slowly be filling with bikinis and fat men in swimming trunks, the heat radiating in waves off the sand between bright, large beach towels.

He would have walked for miles, and it would have gotten late, almost game time, so he would have hustled back to the hotel, where Jack would have been packed and waiting, bags in the car and ready to get to Wrigley, swept up in the Windy City one more time.

They would have gone north by northwest next, Milwaukee and Minnesota, the Twins and the Brewers. Some mountains would have started small on the horizon, the purple growing bigger and bigger, turning slate gray and brown, then yellow and green close up. Up and up, they would have climbed the horizon through bombed-out passes, watching the mountainside wrapped in chain-linked fence.

They would have stopped at Coors’s Field in Denver for a breath of thin air and a game, the Rockies playing the Marlins. Jack, with a knack for finding prime seat locations, would have scored two in the left field upper deck, the row of purple seats so distinguished because they were exactly one mile above sea level. Jack would have offered Rocky Mountain oysters, which Roger would have emphatically declined with a curled lip.

After that, the boys would have turned south into Arizona, too sunny in summer. They’d have hit Phoenix, and someone hit for the cycle. The landscape would have stayed all but parched until they ran into a T-intersection with the ocean, facing more water than they could imagine, blue stretching all the way to the horizon. They’d have turned south to San Diego then doubled back to LA and Anaheim, taking North 101 along the coastal cliffs, blue water meeting sky somewhere way out there. Halfway up California they would have stopped for the Athletics and the Giants, watching for cracks at Candlestick before heading back up, hitting the home stretch of Pacific Coast Highway. The boys would have stopped for scenic viewpoints and sea lions, renting a dune buggy in southern Oregon. Highway 1 would have merged with 101 and drawn a line between endless beaches, cold and wide a close to empty and dense forest. They would have drove with the windows down, a fog rolling in that lingered around them as salt settled on pine.

They’d have pulled into Seattle in time for one last game, Mariners against the Red Sox, then driven home late, turning off the lights and slipping into neutral as they pulled up to the house. Even on tiptoe, they’d have woken Maria. Her greeting would have been embarrassingly tearful and sleepy, bleary-eyed hugs and wet cheeks. Roger would have apologized for his mother, and Jack would have shrugged then asked for a pillow.
After night on the sofa, then Jack would have started back to Massachusetts. Roger would have brewed him a strong pot of coffee then presented Jack with an audio-tape copy of All Quiet on the Western Front, three blueberry muffins, a curbside hug. Then Jack would have left, casting over-the-shoulder waves and promises to call from Lake Missoula.