Saturday … Saturdays are usually busy days here at the gym, but I normally only stay till about lunch time when someone else comes in to watch the place the rest of the day.
“How late were you here that Saturday?”
Mick leaned back in his chair. He laced his hands and brought both thumbs to his chin. “Let’s see. Probably till one. That’s when I went down to the marina. A buddy of mine was showing off his new boat. He was to have a little party on the thing.”
“Ballplayers there?”
“Ah … yeah. As I remember there were a few guys from the team there.”
“That’s crap Mick. The ball club had a game that afternoon.”
“Okay. Wait a minute. You’re right. There weren’t any players there.”
“How long did this party last?”
He shrugged. “Most of the afternoon.”
“Five o’clock. Six?”
“That would be about right.”
“Then what?”
“Marcia and I headed over to her place.”
“Marcia?”
Mick frowned. “Marcia’s my fiance. Listen. You don’t need to be asking her a lot of questions now.”
“Fine. So you went over to her place. What did you do once you got there?”
“Marcia cooked me dinner.”
And then the phone on Mick’s desk rang. It was one of those portable, cordless jobs. He had barely spoken into the thing before he gave me a funny look and went out the door with it cradled to his ear. A few moments later he was back.
“One of your adoring fans?”
He was studying his watch. “You’ve got about three minutes Crager. I’ve got to meet with someone.”
“We were just sitting down to dinner.”
“That’s right. Marcia and I had dinner.”
“Then what? You tucked the little lady into bed for the night?”
“I’m a healthy, robust guy. What do you think?”
“So you spent the night?”
He let out a sigh. “That’s right Crager. I spent the night with my fiance. Are we done now?”
I slowly got up. “There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
I shot my fist into his upper abdomen. He was hard all right, but I knew I’d gotten him good. He let out a mean gasp as the flesh of his stomach collapsed around my hand.
Yeah. It was a sucker punch. But no sucker punch ever felt sweeter.
“Guess that makes us about even big guy.”
He was on his knees still gasping for air when I left the place.
“Gooden. You got to be kidding. He couldn’t hold Koufax’s jock.”
Red shook his head and moved away to the television down at the end of the bar.
The TV picture had begun spinning like shish kebab turning over a flame, and Red began banging away on it with an open hand.
“But you admit that nobody was ever any better than Gooden in ‘85.”
Red wasn’t even listening. The noon news had just come on, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to miss it. Red was no news junkie, but some cutie with a husky voice had just been hired for the mid-day broadcasts. He wouldn’t consider wasting time continuing the baseball argument when he could be ogling the pretty talking head reporting the day’s fatalities, betrayals and scandals.
“Hey,” I said. “Give the boob tube a rest and name me one pitcher in the past twenty years who had a better year than Gooden.”
He stepped back from the television. The set had finally seen fit to cooperate with his back-handed blows. Red’s wet dream - a blonde, ruby-lipped anchorwoman - had appeared on the screen.
“Earth to Red.” But he just stood there, his face right against the TV.
It was after the camera broke away from Red’s fantasy girl for some footage of a warehouse fire that Red spoke. “Guidry in ‘78,” he said.
I shook my head. “No comparison. Guidry played on a World Series-winning team. Besides, his home games were in Yankee Stadium, a southpaw’s haven.”
Red shook his head. “He went twenty-five and three that year.”
“So. Throwing left-handed in that ball park, with Reggie, Nettles, Munson, Chambliss in my lineup, hell I could win ten games at the
“How late were you here that Saturday?”
Mick leaned back in his chair. He laced his hands and brought both thumbs to his chin. “Let’s see. Probably till one. That’s when I went down to the marina. A buddy of mine was showing off his new boat. He was to have a little party on the thing.”
“Ballplayers there?”
“Ah … yeah. As I remember there were a few guys from the team there.”
“That’s crap Mick. The ball club had a game that afternoon.”
“Okay. Wait a minute. You’re right. There weren’t any players there.”
“How long did this party last?”
He shrugged. “Most of the afternoon.”
“Five o’clock. Six?”
“That would be about right.”
“Then what?”
“Marcia and I headed over to her place.”
“Marcia?”
Mick frowned. “Marcia’s my fiance. Listen. You don’t need to be asking her a lot of questions now.”
“Fine. So you went over to her place. What did you do once you got there?”
“Marcia cooked me dinner.”
And then the phone on Mick’s desk rang. It was one of those portable, cordless jobs. He had barely spoken into the thing before he gave me a funny look and went out the door with it cradled to his ear. A few moments later he was back.
“One of your adoring fans?”
He was studying his watch. “You’ve got about three minutes Crager. I’ve got to meet with someone.”
“We were just sitting down to dinner.”
“That’s right. Marcia and I had dinner.”
“Then what? You tucked the little lady into bed for the night?”
“I’m a healthy, robust guy. What do you think?”
“So you spent the night?”
He let out a sigh. “That’s right Crager. I spent the night with my fiance. Are we done now?”
I slowly got up. “There’s just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
I shot my fist into his upper abdomen. He was hard all right, but I knew I’d gotten him good. He let out a mean gasp as the flesh of his stomach collapsed around my hand.
Yeah. It was a sucker punch. But no sucker punch ever felt sweeter.
“Guess that makes us about even big guy.”
He was on his knees still gasping for air when I left the place.
“Gooden. You got to be kidding. He couldn’t hold Koufax’s jock.”
Red shook his head and moved away to the television down at the end of the bar.
The TV picture had begun spinning like shish kebab turning over a flame, and Red began banging away on it with an open hand.
“But you admit that nobody was ever any better than Gooden in ‘85.”
Red wasn’t even listening. The noon news had just come on, and he sure as hell wasn’t about to miss it. Red was no news junkie, but some cutie with a husky voice had just been hired for the mid-day broadcasts. He wouldn’t consider wasting time continuing the baseball argument when he could be ogling the pretty talking head reporting the day’s fatalities, betrayals and scandals.
“Hey,” I said. “Give the boob tube a rest and name me one pitcher in the past twenty years who had a better year than Gooden.”
He stepped back from the television. The set had finally seen fit to cooperate with his back-handed blows. Red’s wet dream - a blonde, ruby-lipped anchorwoman - had appeared on the screen.
“Earth to Red.” But he just stood there, his face right against the TV.
It was after the camera broke away from Red’s fantasy girl for some footage of a warehouse fire that Red spoke. “Guidry in ‘78,” he said.
I shook my head. “No comparison. Guidry played on a World Series-winning team. Besides, his home games were in Yankee Stadium, a southpaw’s haven.”
Red shook his head. “He went twenty-five and three that year.”
“So. Throwing left-handed in that ball park, with Reggie, Nettles, Munson, Chambliss in my lineup, hell I could win ten games at the
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