158 The Meadow and begin to sing. “The first Noel The angels did say As I continue, I look up and see a dozen people along the balcony of my dorm, 12B. They are standing there, in the freezing night, listening. One woman is holding a baby; another man is hugging his wife. One lone man has raised his arms in praise. I can feel the cold now. I reach beneath my jacket and zip my sweatshirt up to my chin. Was to certain poor shepherds In fields where they lay.” I stare at the families standing along the balcony. Then I look up at the stars, raise my voice to the highest pitch and project it to the heavens. “Noel, Noel, Born is the King of Israel.” I bow my head now, kneel, and lie down beside Mary’s Child to sleep until the frozen night takes me to the same heavens where Mary’s Child moves among the stars free from all the numbers and integers that trainers and owners and racetrack presidents bring down upon those of us reduced to fractions. I can feel my mouth smiling in the frozen night. Suddenly a rough hand grasps my shoulder. I look up at the face behind the hand. “What are you doing?” “Keeping you from croaking on M-III’s private property, Villalobos,” Paul Blocker answers. As he lifts me to my feet, I look past him to see that the balcony is empty. “Do you know where they’d take you if I called the police now and told them you tried to croak yourself! Do you know, Villalobos!” “Do you know?” I respond.
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