when: september 13, 2018 where: citi field, new york, usa status: closed for @evcravens
If he’s honest, his knowledge of baseball is drastically limited. He knows there’s a bat, a ball, and men running from plate to plate like their lives depend on it -- if not their lives, then their salaries. He’s caught a game at the local bar near the place he’s been living out of for the past several months, but beyond that, it’s all gibberish. This raises a question, an impertinent one: why in God’s name would Boris Kovrov go to see a baseball game if he didn’t thoroughly enjoy a game of baseball?
Well, the answer’s fairly simple: Everett Craven.
Craven’s here today, invited on behalf of one of his several business partners, celebrating the aftermath of what Boris can only assume is a deal gone right. He’s all the way up in one of the Empire suites, and that’s where Boris is going now, riding quietly in the elevator with a plastic, too-small-for-its-price cup of beer that he’s sure will be downright awful to the tongue. He finishes it before he reaches the floor with the Empire Suites, and, as a surprise to no one, it’s disgusting. Craven is in suite four, per his sources, and so he strolls right up to door number four with the terrifying-looking security guard in front, earpiece and all. It doesn’t take much: “I’m here for Everett Craven, I need to see him,” in a frantic tone, all Italian, rushed together.
The guard, to his credit, is not some hired hand with the stadium; he must be someone’s personal lackey, since he recognizes that Boris is speaking Italian, and therefore must know that one of several men of the hour inside also speaks Italian. He looks from right to left, grumbles a little bit, gives Boris a make it quick, and Boris rushes in before he has the chance to change his mind. No one pays him any mind once he enters, gathered either by the bar to watch the game on a screen -- even though it’s right there in front of them, because that makes sense -- or speaking in hushed voices about one thing or the other. Boris scans the room, searching, and finally his eyes settle on Craven, sitting down the stairs by the window overlooking the field. They are separated from the masses, here, and even the kitschy-stadium music (take me out to the ballgame) with thousands of drunken patrons doesn’t break through entirely.
It’s faint. Almost quaint. Pleasant white noise when Boris goes to stand in front of the empty seat next to Everett, hands in his pockets, clearing his throat. “May I sit, Signore Craven?” Said in English, at first, not to alarm, with the biggest, smuggest grin he can muster. It doesn’t even matter if Craven kicks him out, at this point. The fact he got in here all on his own is funny enough.
