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It took me the best part of an hour to get home. I did a lot of thinking on the way. I eventually concluded that the hopefully-achievable benefits outweighed the possibly-dire consequences and that it was very unlikely that opportunity was going to knock again any time soon, especially not in the form of a pretty blonde with a rich husband. And, although I would rather not admit it, from the back of my mind came the thought that I had just about run out the string as a ballplayer.
I also concluded that I could damn-well do the job and began to ruminate on how I would do it, who my models would be. A bit of Earl Weaver wouldn't hurt, I was sure of that although I did not plan on annoying umpires for a living. Cal Ripken's dad and his fundamentals would pay dividends even though they had not done much for Cal Senior. And a lot of the White Rat's smarts would be needed, of that I was sure. "Nice guys finish last," Leo the Lip had said a long time ago, and I wondered if I could be a nice guy and still not finish last. Pride goeth before a fall, I said to myself.
And then, aloud and annoyed with myself for dredging up such obvious platitudes, I said, "Damn!" and looked around to see if anyone in the subway car heard me. I had very few fellow passengers and none interested in my problems.
I thought about the things my team did not do, at least not very often. The outfielders almost never got the ball properly to the cut-off man and often threw to the wrong base; that needed work right away. I had not seen anybody hit behind a man on first or really try to advance a base runner and give himself up to do it. That was awfully hard to teach and took some discipline. They were all down on the ends of their bats swinging for the fences, the fences that brought the big contracts. I was sure some of them used hormones or steroids even though the league had made an effort to stop that practice. They had learned how to duck the tests. It really was not a team, just a bunch of selfish individuals, and I was not sure I could do anything about that unless we got rid of some people quickly.
Since I had my mind on the potential job, I almost tripped over a tree root in the sidewalk and nearly stepped in front of a car that sped through a stop sign, the driver holding a cell phone to his ear. That got my heart racing and made me do some quick anger management.
As I trudged up the hill, seeing the lights of the condo gleaming through the trees, I decided not only that I could do it but that I certainly could do a lot better job than Buzzy Harder was doing. In my head, I rehearsed my remarks at my first team meeting, admonishing myself to keep it short and to get at least one laugh.
My phone was ringing when I unlocked the door. It was a young man from the Fox TV station. He wanted to know if I could do an interview in the morning.
"What's going on?" I asked. In a town where lying has been raised to an art form, you would think reporters would not be so naive.
"There a rumor floating around that they are going to fire Buzzy and offer you the job, the Nats are."
"Who is? Jepperson? I don't believe it," I said. To myself I sounded surprised and hoped I was being convincing.
"Can we do a live interview in the morning, here, at the studio, by seven-thirty?"
"You on the subway line?" I asked.
"Yep," he said, "Red Line; just a couple of blocks from a station, Friendship Heights."
"Sure, why not," I said. "What time did you say?"
"Seven-thirty. Might not happen. I'll get back to you," he said and rang off.
The red light on my answering machining was blinking like mad. I punched the button. "You have ten new messages," it said in its metallic voice.
I listened to them, one right after the other. All were from reporters, including the tall girl from Sports Illustrated, or from TV or radio sports-show producers. The only call I returned was to the guy at the Post, the one I had talked to before going to supper with my employer.
"My my, the man of the hour," he said when I told him who I was. "Thanks for returning my call."
"What's going on?" I asked, ingénue-like and feeling very hypocritical. "I've been out."
"Uh huh," he said. "Out where, out with who? Or is it whom?"
"Eating spaghetti," I said, "and drinking beer."
"You haven't heard?"
"Heard what?" I said as innocently as possible. "Tell me; then we both'll know."
"The word is that Jepperson has made his dear little wife the president of the ball club. How do you like that?"
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