designer. He knew the players too; he'd report how some internal fight at a studio affected a particular movie.
All America watched Germy: seven-thirty, Friday nights. And read about him too, in People, Time, Newsweek . I read he'd married the daughter of a famous 1940s director; that he had a house on a cliff overlooking the Pacific; that he'd moved back to
New York
; that he'd divorced his wife after fifteen years and married some very famous Broadway lighting designer—not that I'd ever heard of her. Around town there was talk that his father had had a heart attack on the eighteenth hole and had died before they could get him back to the clubhouse and that his mother had died too, and Germy had inherited the house. But although I kept up with what he was doing, I hadn't spent any time with him since I'd played shortstop and he'd played outfield.
I felt a little nervous about calling him, but then I thought: I've got to give it a shot. It being a glorious, sunny Saturday afternoon, Germy could actually be a couple of miles away. He might be spending the day practicing a cruel Clint Eastwood imitation or banging the lighting designer or (I smiled to myself as I pulled into his driveway) sitting cross-legged on his bed the way he used to, working neat's-foot oil into his mitt.
A minute later, there he was at his front door, his hands braced against the frame, as if he were defending his house from some intruder who might push him aside and ransack his living room, or demand to know what Chevy Chase was really like. "Yes?" Chilly, about to cross the border into absolute iciness.
"You don't recognize me, Germy?"
Then he did the Oh-my-God! I-don't-believe-it! bit, followed by our mutual finger-squishing handshake. It was for real. We were both pretty touched at seeing each other, although not comfortable enough to follow our natural inclination, which was to give each other one of those acceptable, non-homo, World Series hugs. "Steve! Come in!"
I followed him through the front hall, toward the living room. It was like stepping back into 1959: the blue-and-white umbrella stand filled with tennis rackets, the dark, scratched-up old mirror in a carved wood frame. "I can't believe it," I said. "It looks exactly the same. Any minute your little sister's going to come running in and spit at me."
"That's right!" Germy said in his slow honk. "I'd forgotten. She spent a whole summer spitting at you. She was madly in love."
The Cottman house still had the we've-been-rich-forever shabbiness it had when we were kids: faded flower print cushions, threadbare rugs with flowers that skidded across wood floors, old wicker chairs. Out on the back terrace, there were flowers blooming in his mother's mossy clay pots, and the old, white-painted wrought-iron chairs, chipped in the same places.
Like the house, Germy hadn't changed much. He was tall, about my height, but he hadn't outgrown his round-chinned baby face, with its button nose and wide-open eyes. Sure, his forehead was a little lined, his brown hair had a little gray, but in his hornrimmed glasses and white tennis sweater, he looked more like a tall kid in a daddy costume than a full-fledged adult. He made a take-a-seat gesture. "Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?" Then he remembered. "A beer?" I shook my head. "Steve! God! Tell me about yourself. Where are you living? What do you do?"
Germy had much too much class to ask: What do you want? although it must have been in the back of his mind that maybe I was there for a handout, or with some obnoxious request: Can you get me an autographed picture of Goldie Hawn?
"I'm here, in Bridgehampton, north of Scuttle Hole—"
"Married, single, div—" He interrupted both me and himself with his own enthusiasm. "I got married again last year!" He paused as if to give me time to prepare myself for something wonderful. "To Faith Armstead!"
I nodded respectfully, as in: Oh, of course, I'm always dazzled by Faith Armstead's lighting.
All America watched Germy: seven-thirty, Friday nights. And read about him too, in People, Time, Newsweek . I read he'd married the daughter of a famous 1940s director; that he had a house on a cliff overlooking the Pacific; that he'd moved back to
New York
; that he'd divorced his wife after fifteen years and married some very famous Broadway lighting designer—not that I'd ever heard of her. Around town there was talk that his father had had a heart attack on the eighteenth hole and had died before they could get him back to the clubhouse and that his mother had died too, and Germy had inherited the house. But although I kept up with what he was doing, I hadn't spent any time with him since I'd played shortstop and he'd played outfield.
I felt a little nervous about calling him, but then I thought: I've got to give it a shot. It being a glorious, sunny Saturday afternoon, Germy could actually be a couple of miles away. He might be spending the day practicing a cruel Clint Eastwood imitation or banging the lighting designer or (I smiled to myself as I pulled into his driveway) sitting cross-legged on his bed the way he used to, working neat's-foot oil into his mitt.
A minute later, there he was at his front door, his hands braced against the frame, as if he were defending his house from some intruder who might push him aside and ransack his living room, or demand to know what Chevy Chase was really like. "Yes?" Chilly, about to cross the border into absolute iciness.
"You don't recognize me, Germy?"
Then he did the Oh-my-God! I-don't-believe-it! bit, followed by our mutual finger-squishing handshake. It was for real. We were both pretty touched at seeing each other, although not comfortable enough to follow our natural inclination, which was to give each other one of those acceptable, non-homo, World Series hugs. "Steve! Come in!"
I followed him through the front hall, toward the living room. It was like stepping back into 1959: the blue-and-white umbrella stand filled with tennis rackets, the dark, scratched-up old mirror in a carved wood frame. "I can't believe it," I said. "It looks exactly the same. Any minute your little sister's going to come running in and spit at me."
"That's right!" Germy said in his slow honk. "I'd forgotten. She spent a whole summer spitting at you. She was madly in love."
The Cottman house still had the we've-been-rich-forever shabbiness it had when we were kids: faded flower print cushions, threadbare rugs with flowers that skidded across wood floors, old wicker chairs. Out on the back terrace, there were flowers blooming in his mother's mossy clay pots, and the old, white-painted wrought-iron chairs, chipped in the same places.
Like the house, Germy hadn't changed much. He was tall, about my height, but he hadn't outgrown his round-chinned baby face, with its button nose and wide-open eyes. Sure, his forehead was a little lined, his brown hair had a little gray, but in his hornrimmed glasses and white tennis sweater, he looked more like a tall kid in a daddy costume than a full-fledged adult. He made a take-a-seat gesture. "Can I get you anything? A cup of coffee?" Then he remembered. "A beer?" I shook my head. "Steve! God! Tell me about yourself. Where are you living? What do you do?"
Germy had much too much class to ask: What do you want? although it must have been in the back of his mind that maybe I was there for a handout, or with some obnoxious request: Can you get me an autographed picture of Goldie Hawn?
"I'm here, in Bridgehampton, north of Scuttle Hole—"
"Married, single, div—" He interrupted both me and himself with his own enthusiasm. "I got married again last year!" He paused as if to give me time to prepare myself for something wonderful. "To Faith Armstead!"
I nodded respectfully, as in: Oh, of course, I'm always dazzled by Faith Armstead's lighting.
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