“Pure power!” Declan would exclaim after whacking a Ping-Pong or squash ball the length of the room, as John attempted to make a diving stop before the ball clattered against the grand piano. Fearing a fire hazard, every few weeks Mum, María, or I would recover balls from the chandelier. Once, as I stood on top of a dining room chair and used Declan’s bat to dislodge a ball that had gotten wedged among the glass pendants, I said to Cass, “I just can’t see Adlai Stevenson or Jeane Kirkpatrick doing this.”
