nodded.
“Jack Little,” he said. “I do PR for the Sox. Hal Erskine told me I’d find you here.”
I said, “Glad to meet you.”
He said, “Anything I can do to help, I’d be delighted.
That’s my job.”
“Do you have biog sheets on the players?” I said.
“You bet. I’ve got a press book on every player. Stop by my office and I’ll have my gal give you the whole packet.”
“How old is your gal?” I said.
“Millie? Oh, Christ, I don’t know. She’s been with the club a long time. I don’t ask a lady her age, Spenser. Get in trouble that way. Am I right?”
“Right,” I said. “You’re right.”
“C’mon,” he said, “I’ll take you out to the dugout, point out some of the players, get you what you might call acclimated, okay?”.
I nodded. “Acclimated,” I said.
CHAPTER THREE
I SAT IN THE DUGOUT and watched the players take batting practice. Little sat beside me and chain-smoked Chesterfield Kings.
“That’s Montoya,” he said. “Alex Montoya was the player of the year at Pawtucket in ‘sixty-eight. Hit two ninety-three last year, twenty-five homers.”
I nodded. Marty Rabb was shagging in the outfield.
Catching fly balls vest-pocket style like Willie Mays and lobbing the ball back to the infield underhanded.
“That’s Johnny Tabor. He switch-hits. Look at the size of him, huh? Doesn’t look like he could get the bat around. Am I right or wrong?”
“Thin,” I said. “Doesn’t look like he could get the bat around.”
“Well, you know. We pay him for his glove. Strong up the middle, that’s what Ray’s always said. And Tabor’s got the leather. Right?”
“Right.”
The crowd was beginning to fill the stands and the noise level rose. The Yankees came out and took infield in their gray road uniforms. Most of them were kids. Long hair under the caps, bubble gum. Much younger than I was. Whatever happened to Johnny Lindell?
Rabb came into the dugout, wearing his warm-up jacket.
“That’s Marty Rabb, with the clipboard,” Little said.
“He pitched yesterday, so today he charts the pitches.”
I nodded. “He’s a great one,” Little said. “Nicest kid you ever want to see. No temperament, you know, no ego.
Loves the game. I mean a lot of these kids nowadays are in it for the big buck, you know, but not Marty. Nicest kid you ever want to meet. Loves the game.”
A man with several chins came out of the alleyway to the clubhouse and stood on the top step of the dugout, looking over the diamond. His fading blond hair was long and very contemporary. It showed the touch of a ten-dollar barber. He was fat, with a sharp, beaked nose jutting from the red dumpling face. A red-checked shirt, the top two buttons open, hung over the mass of his stomach like the flag of his appetite. His slacks were textured navy blue with a wide flare, and he had on shiny white shoes with brass buckles on them.
“Who’s that?” I asked Little.
“Don’t you know him? Hell, that’s Bucky Maynard.
Only the best play by play in the business, that’s all. Don’t let him know you didn’t recognize him. Man, he’ll crucify you.”
“I gather he doesn’t work out a lot with the team,” I said. Maynard took out a pale green cigar and lit it carefully, turning it as he puffed to get it burning evenly.
“Jesus, don’t comment on his weight either,” Little said. “He’ll eat you alive.”
“Is it okay if I clear my throat while he’s in the park?”
“You can kid around, but if Bucky Maynard doesn’t like you, you got a lot of trouble. I mean, he can destroy you on the air. And he will.”
“I thought he worked for the club,” I said.
“He does. But he’s so popular that we couldn’t get rid of him if we wanted. God knows there have been times.” Little stopped. His eyes shifted up and down the dugout. I wondered if he was worried about a bug. “Don’t get me wrong, now.
Buck’s a great guy; he’s just got a lot of pride, and it don’t help to get on the wrong side of him. Course it don’t pay to get on the wrong side of anybody. Am I right or wrong?”
