No Timeouts - Page 2

Each of the dozen or so big-screen TVs inside Finnegan’s is showing the Giants-Eagles football game, a longstanding NFL division rivalry. Inside the crowded bar, the atmosphere is electric and a spirited banter fills the air. Every eye in the house is glued to a TV screen, with many of the customers wearing Giants jerseys or hats. The game is in the middle of the second quarter with the Eagles up 13-10.

Bobby weaves his way through the throng, finally spotting an empty stool wedged between two heavyset middle-aged men sitting toward the end of the jam-packed bar. Both men root for the Giants; one wears a knit wool Giants hat and the other wears a blue Giants jersey. As Bobby settles onto the stool, hat guy glances over and notices Bobby’s Yankees cap. “Wrong sport, fella – you’re about a month too late for the Yankees!” he says.

Bobby chuckles, his warm voice laced with a pleasant brogue. “Just got in from the Big Island, so maybe I’m a bit confused about what season ’tis here in the States.”

“Well, it’s always an honor to have a guest from the Emerald Isle,” hat guy says, giving Bobby a friendly pat on the back. He looks down to the center of the bar where a barmaid pours an amber-colored draft beer from the row of taps. “Heya, Molly!” he yells over the crowd noise. “Get this weary traveler a pint a’ Guinness ’n a shot a’ Jamo on my tab!”

Keeping her focus on the pour, Molly replies in a thick brogue. “Comin’ right up, Scotty. But ya better have cash ’cuz Tommy ain’t takin’ your card no more!”

“No worries, Mol. I’ll have plenty a’ cash after the G-Men win this one. Just watch, they’ll come alive in the second half after Coach Reeves rips ’em a new one at halftime.”

“Oh, you’ll have the cash either way, Scotty – even if Big Pete has to drag your drunken ass to the ATM again!”

After serving a few thirsty customers, Molly approaches Bobby with his beer and shot. “Here y’are, kind sir,” she says with a smile. “Don’t let Scotty get ya too drunk tonight, he may get a touch randy with a handsome fella like you!”

Scotty bursts into laughter, shaking his head.

“I don’t think I’m his type.” Bobby laughs as he raises his shot glass to Scotty. “Thank ya, m’good man,” he says and tosses back the shot.

Bobby takes a sip from his pint while the bar crowd erupts in cheers after a long Giants run pushes them deep into Eagles territory. When Molly turns around to grab a liquor bottle from the shelf behind the bar, Bobby studies her closely through the reflection in the wall-length mirror. Still a looker after twenty years, he thinks. Besides a few subtle wrinkles, she hasn’t changed a bit.

Except her name wasn’t Molly back then.