first batting practice pitch and topped a weak roller to third.
“Where were you a kid?”
“Oh, that was in Tennessee. But I grew up all over. Army brat.”
“Some great baseball announcers come from the South,” Harvey said. “Mel Allen, Ernie Harwell, Lindsay Nelson. You.”
“I guess we just like to talk so much they had to invent a profession for us.”
Cooley sent the next pitch soaring into the left-field upper deck, not far from the sheet with the bull’s-eye.
“That one was strictly for the fans,” Coffman said, watching the ball disappear into the stands. “In games, he leaves his home run swing in the dugout. Cool’s the new poster boy for patience. You’ve got to admire the discipline involved. We live in a society where everything’s got to be bigger, faster, more sensational. See, the home run’s the celebrity of baseball. And our country is addicted to celebrity. Your McGwires and your Sosas may put fannies in the seats, but your Maurice Cooley’ll win you a pennant. I wish Cool’s values would rub off on these other clowns.”
“You think there’s a pennant involved here?”
Cooley lined the very next pitch into the right-field seats, and Coffman said, “He’s just trying to get it out of his system before the game. Pennant? Well, let’s see, it’s July eighteenth, and the Jewels are eight games out. It’s entirely possible if the starting rotation stays healthy. They’ve won thirty-one of forty-seven during Cool’s streak.” Cooley sliced a long drive that made the right-center-field fence on one bounce. “They’re on the cusp. I have high hopes. Incidentally, Harvey, one of my hopes is that you’ll come up to the booth some time during the home stand and give me an interview.”
“I don’t have much to say.”
Coffman affected astonishment. “Harvey Blissberg, charter member of the Providence Jewels? A man who solved the worst crime ever committed in baseball? Who’s now back in Providence with a mandate to motivate a team that’s on the cusp of greatness? And you don’t think you have a lot to say? Well, I say that a million radio listeners would love to hear you tell a story or two.”
“I’m not talking about Moss’s difficulties.”
“Of course not. How’s it going?”
“High-priced baby-sitting.”
“You’ve got to wonder what kind of lowlife would pull a stunt like that. The jockey. That’s ugly.”
“You’re the man with the overview,” Harvey said. “What do you see?”
“What do I see? A sick society. A society that still hasn’t recovered from that first boat full of African-Americans that landed on our shores. We’re still grappling with that single monstrous fact, Harvey—of one man owning another. I don’t care how many black multimillionaires we manufacture out of our need to be entertained.” He cast his eyes toward the field and said in a low tone, “Actually, I’m mulling over a crazy notion.” He paused.
“What would that be?”
“It’s between you and me, right?”
“As always,” Harvey said. The last thing he needed was an amateur detective in the mix.
“Every team’s got fault lines, you know. Hidden dissensions. The one aspect of this that concerns me is that this lawn jockey shows up at the gate to the players’ parking lot. How the hell did someone manage to leave a big box there during or right after a game without being detected? Who could get away with that?”
“Someone in a truck posing as a delivery man,” Harvey said.
“Or a player.” Coffman bit his lower lip, Bill Clinton-style.
“Go on.”
“I know Moss rubs some teammates the wrong way. He’s seen as arrogant.”
“He’s not, though. He’s a quiet kid who makes a lot of money and suddenly finds himself in the spotlight.”
“I hear he’s got a white girlfriend.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
Coffman inspected Harvey’s face. “Well, put it all together, and some teammate’s imagination could’ve been
“Where were you a kid?”
“Oh, that was in Tennessee. But I grew up all over. Army brat.”
“Some great baseball announcers come from the South,” Harvey said. “Mel Allen, Ernie Harwell, Lindsay Nelson. You.”
“I guess we just like to talk so much they had to invent a profession for us.”
Cooley sent the next pitch soaring into the left-field upper deck, not far from the sheet with the bull’s-eye.
“That one was strictly for the fans,” Coffman said, watching the ball disappear into the stands. “In games, he leaves his home run swing in the dugout. Cool’s the new poster boy for patience. You’ve got to admire the discipline involved. We live in a society where everything’s got to be bigger, faster, more sensational. See, the home run’s the celebrity of baseball. And our country is addicted to celebrity. Your McGwires and your Sosas may put fannies in the seats, but your Maurice Cooley’ll win you a pennant. I wish Cool’s values would rub off on these other clowns.”
“You think there’s a pennant involved here?”
Cooley lined the very next pitch into the right-field seats, and Coffman said, “He’s just trying to get it out of his system before the game. Pennant? Well, let’s see, it’s July eighteenth, and the Jewels are eight games out. It’s entirely possible if the starting rotation stays healthy. They’ve won thirty-one of forty-seven during Cool’s streak.” Cooley sliced a long drive that made the right-center-field fence on one bounce. “They’re on the cusp. I have high hopes. Incidentally, Harvey, one of my hopes is that you’ll come up to the booth some time during the home stand and give me an interview.”
“I don’t have much to say.”
Coffman affected astonishment. “Harvey Blissberg, charter member of the Providence Jewels? A man who solved the worst crime ever committed in baseball? Who’s now back in Providence with a mandate to motivate a team that’s on the cusp of greatness? And you don’t think you have a lot to say? Well, I say that a million radio listeners would love to hear you tell a story or two.”
“I’m not talking about Moss’s difficulties.”
“Of course not. How’s it going?”
“High-priced baby-sitting.”
“You’ve got to wonder what kind of lowlife would pull a stunt like that. The jockey. That’s ugly.”
“You’re the man with the overview,” Harvey said. “What do you see?”
“What do I see? A sick society. A society that still hasn’t recovered from that first boat full of African-Americans that landed on our shores. We’re still grappling with that single monstrous fact, Harvey—of one man owning another. I don’t care how many black multimillionaires we manufacture out of our need to be entertained.” He cast his eyes toward the field and said in a low tone, “Actually, I’m mulling over a crazy notion.” He paused.
“What would that be?”
“It’s between you and me, right?”
“As always,” Harvey said. The last thing he needed was an amateur detective in the mix.
“Every team’s got fault lines, you know. Hidden dissensions. The one aspect of this that concerns me is that this lawn jockey shows up at the gate to the players’ parking lot. How the hell did someone manage to leave a big box there during or right after a game without being detected? Who could get away with that?”
“Someone in a truck posing as a delivery man,” Harvey said.
“Or a player.” Coffman bit his lower lip, Bill Clinton-style.
“Go on.”
“I know Moss rubs some teammates the wrong way. He’s seen as arrogant.”
“He’s not, though. He’s a quiet kid who makes a lot of money and suddenly finds himself in the spotlight.”
“I hear he’s got a white girlfriend.”
“I wouldn’t know about that.”
Coffman inspected Harvey’s face. “Well, put it all together, and some teammate’s imagination could’ve been
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