“Good luck,”the old man said. He fitted the rope lashings of the oars onto the thole pins and,leaning forward against the thrust of the blades in the water,he began to row out of the harbor in the dark.There were other boats from the other beaches going out to sea and the old man heard the dip and push of their oars even though he could not see them now the moon was below the hills.
“Tell me about the baseball,”The boy asked him.
When they reached the old man's shack the boy took the rolls of line in the basket and the harpoon and gaff and the old man carried the mast with the furled sail on his shoulder.
“How did you sleep old man?”the boy asked.He was waking up now although it was still hard for him to leave his sleep.
“That means nothing.The great DiMaggio is himself again.”
“Because he came here the most times,”the old man said.“If Durocher had continued to come here each year your father would think him the greatest manager.”
The old man went out the door and the boy came after him.He was sleepy and the old man put his arms across his shoulders and said,“I am sorry.”
“I have,”the old man said getting up and taking the newspaper and folding it.Then he started to fold the blanket.“Keep the blanket around you,”the boy said.You'll not fish without eating while I'm alive.