loomed up over the buildings and you knew it was close. As I turned down Brookline Ave toward the park I felt the old feeling. My father and I used to go this early to watch the teams take infield.
I walked the two blocks down Brookline Ave, turned the corner at Jersey Street, and went up the stairs to Erskine’s office. He was in, reading what looked like a legal document, his chair tilted back and one foot on the open bottom drawer. I closed the door.
“You think of a new title for that book yet, Spenser?”
he said.
An air conditioner set in one of the side windows was humming.
“How about Valley of the Bat Boys?”
“Goddamn it, Spenser, this isn’t funny. You gotta have some kind of answer if someone asks you.”
“The Balls of Summer?”
Erskine took a deep breath, let it out, shook his head, as if there were a horsefly on it, kicked the drawer shut, and stood up. “Never mind,” he said. “Let’s go.”
As we went down the stairs, he handed me a press pass. “Keep it in your wallet,” he said. “It’ll let you in anywhere.”
A blue-capped usher at Gate A said, “How’s it going, Harold?” as we went past him. Vendors were starting to set up. A man in a green twill work uniform was unloading cases of beer onto a dolly. We went into the locker room.
My first reaction was disappointment. It looked like most other locker rooms. Open lockers with a shelf at the top, stools in front of them, nameplates above. To the right the training area with whirlpool, rubbing table, medical- looking cabinet with an assortment of tape and liniment behind the glass doors at the top. A man in a white T-shirt and white cotton pants was taping the left ankle of a burly black man who sat on the table in his shorts, smoking a cigar.
The players were dressing. One of them, a squat redhaired kid, was yelling to someone out of sight behind the lockers.
“Hey, Ray, can I be in the pen again today? There’s a broad out there gives me a beaver shot every time we’re home.”
A voice from behind the lockers said, “Were you looking for her in Detroit last week when you dropped that foul?”
“Ah come on, Ray, Bill Dickey used to drop them once in a while. I seen you drop one once when I was a little kid and you was my idol.”
A tall, lean man came around the lockers with his hands in his back pockets. He was maybe forty-five, with black hair cut short and parted on the left. There were no sideburns, and you knew he went to a barber who did most of his work with the electric clippers. His face was dark-tanned, and a sprinkle of gray showed in his hair. He wore no sweat shirt under his uniform blouse, and the veins were prominent in his arms. Erskine gestured him toward us. “Ray,” he said, “I want you to meet Mr. Spenser. Spenser, Ray Farrell, the manager.” We shook hands. “Spenser’s a writer, doing a book on baseball, and I’ve arranged for him to be around the club for a while, interview some players, that sort of thing.”
Farrell nodded. “What’s the name of the book, Spenser?” he said.
“The Summer Season,” I said. Erskine looked relieved.
“That’s nice.” Farrell turned toward the locker room.
“Okay, listen up. This guy’s name is Spenser. He’s writing a book and he’ll be around talking with you and probably taking some notes. I want everyone to cooperate.” He turned back toward me. “Nice meeting you, Spenser. You want me to have someone introduce you around?”
“No, that’s okay, I’ll introduce myself as we go,” I said.
“Okay, nice meeting you. Anything I can do, feel free.”
He walked away.
Erskine said, “Well, you’re on your own now. Keep in touch,” and left me.
The black man on the training table yelled over to the redhead, “Hey, Billy, you better start watching your mouth about beaver. This guy’ll be writing you up in a book, and Sally will have your ass when she reads it.” His voice was high and squeaky.
“Naw, she wouldn’t believe it anyway.” The redhead came over and put out his hand. “Billy Carter,” he said. “I catch when Fats has got a hangover.” He nodded at the black man who had climbed off the table and started toward us. He was short and very wide and the smooth tan coating of fat over his body didn’t conceal the thick elastic muscles underneath.
I shook hands with Carter. “Collect all your bubblegum cards,” I said. I turned toward the black man. “You’re West, aren’t you?”
He nodded. “You seen me play?” he said.
“No,” I said, “I remember you from a Brut commercial.”
He laughed, a high giggle. “Never without, man, put it on between innings.” He did a small Flip Wilson impression and snapped his fingers.
From down the line of lockers a voice said, “Hey, Holly, everybody in the league says you smell like a fairy.”
“Not to my face,” West squeaked.
Most of the players were dressed and heading out to the field. A short, thin man in a pale blue seersucker suit and dark horn-rimmed glasses came into the locker room. He spotted me and came over. “Spenser?” he said. I
