Five
It had been a dismal season for the Brighton Falls Bandits the previous summer, but Tommy and the gang had high hopes for the upcoming one. After finishing fifteen games below .500 and last in the eastern division, it could only go up from there for the Bandits. Artie was looking forward to it, too. At least, that’s what Tommy liked to think. The two of them had never missed a game together, and Artie had become a type of team mascot for their hometown minor league ball club, something even Beebee the Bandit, the big-headed cowboy cartoon character getting paid to dance around in the stands, would have to admit.
“You ready, Art?” Tommy asked the excitable dog as he opened his desk drawer. The drawer was about as cluttered as the rest of Tommy’s room, with comic books and toys thrown about the place. Above the desk in the corner of the room hung a poster of ballplayer Clint McCraw, an outfielder who used to play for the Bandits until he got called up to their major league counterpart, the Crusaders.
Tonight was the home-opener for the Bandits and Tommy was taking out Artie’s Bandits bandana for him to wear (everyone had to have one—if you didn’t then you weren’t a true Bandolier, as they called themselves). Tommy sat down on the floor next to Artie and wrapped the bandana, with its Bandits cowboy logo patterned in between a red and blue outline, around the dog’s small frame. He tied it carefully, making the perfect knot so it wouldn’t fall off when Artie ran.
Artie looked down, inspecting his favorite old bandana—the same one he’d worn for the past twelve summers—and looked back up at Tommy. The beagle gave his friend a big lick on the face as if to say thanks.
“You’re welcome,” Tommy said with a laugh. “It still fits you like a tailored suit.”
Tommy kissed Artie back on his right cheek, where his bones were beginning to show with his old age.
“Let’s have a winning season, Art.”