“I can order one.”
The old man had taught the boy to fish and the boy loved him.
“I would like to go.If I cannot fish with you,I would like to serve in some way.”
“Yes. I have yesterday's paper and I will read the baseball.”
“Thank you,”the old man said.He was too simple to wonder when he had attained humility.But he knew he had attained it and he knew it was not disgraceful and it carried no loss of true pride.
“I can remember the tail slapping and banging and the thwart breaking and the noise of the clubbing. I can remember you throwing me into the bow where the wet coiled lines were and feeling the whole boat shiver and the noise of you clubbing him like chopping a tree down and the sweet blood smell all over me.”
“Have faith in the Yankees my son.Think of the great DiMaggio.”
“Five and you nearly were killed when I brought the fish in too green and he nearly tore the boat to pieces.Can you remember?”
“A pot of yellow rice with fish.Do you want some?”
The old man looked at him with his sunburned, confident loving eyes.
“Let me get four fresh ones.”
“Yes,”the old man said.He was holding his glass and thinking of many years ago.
“I'll be back when I have the sardines.I'll keep yours and mine together on ice and we can share them in the morning. When I come back you can tell me about the baseball.”