Cot Deal Brings Good News-Colts Leave Tuesday, Lefty's With 'Em
Apache Junction, Ariz.
April 4,1962
Dear Alice,
I guess this is the biggest upset since the egg truck turned over,
but I made the club. I'm a Colt .45. The way I found out, Cot Deal, our
pitching coach, came by my room today and told me. Luckily, I didn't hit
my head on anything when I fell.
I'll never forget it. There I was, knee deep in dirty laundry, and
Cot says: "Lefty, Mr. Richards admires your courage. He likes the way you
stand out there, with shot and shell falling all around you, and not
flinching. We're taking you back to Houston with us."
Well, you know me, Alice. I never been to Houston before but it
can't be any worse than Apache Junction. Two more weeks here and we'd all
be climbing the nearest rock and howling at the moon. Don Buddin, our
shortstop, thinks he saw Hitler yesterday in downtown Apache Junction.
Don says he saw him going into Bayless Supermarket.
Of course, there are some things about this place that we'll miss.
We all used to sit around on Monday night and watch the 7-Up man fill the
vending machines, and that was a real kick.
But everybody is looking forward to the flight back to Houston,
except Dean Stone, who is the guy people keep saying Adlai Stevenson
reminds them of. Dean is terrified of flying, and we have a lot of fun
kidding him about the engines falling off and things like that. Dean says
flying would be contrary to his nature even if it did not curdle his
stomach, which it does.
Alice, the second most serious problem that faces a new ball club
like ours is developing a team attitude (the first most serious problem is
finding the key to the men's room at the ball park, which some smart apple
has hid). We all come from different teams and different backgrounds, and
that makes it hard to establish discipline.
For example, Turk Farrell was with the Phillies, and he belonged to a
group of fun-loving boys called the Dalton Gang. Every man had his own
views on how training should be broken and so long as no one interfered
with him he was willing to tolerate the other fellow's theory.
Al Cicotte has pitched for several clubs, and he has acquired a
reputation for being a light-hearted sort of guy. Al does not wear a
watch, and he doesn't always get where he is going on time. At a meeting
of the team recently he arrived a little over four minutes late, and in
arriving so nearly on schedule he thought he was bringing a little
sunshine into Harry Craft's life.
"Cicotte, you are four minutes and 30 seconds late," barked Harry,
gnawing upon a headache tablet.
"That's all right," said Al, handsomely. "Don't thank me. I was
glad to do it."
We got some great fellows on this club, Alice, and we have so many
laughs that you get to feeling like you should play baseball for nothing.
I mentioned this to Hal Smith, our player representative, and he told me
to keep it to myself and maybe the owners might not find out.
We just came back from a two-game series in Palm Springs, where the
people are either rich, famous, beautiful, or just passing through. The
girls are so gorjus they all look like they came out of the same factory,
hand stamped like sugar cookies. But you know me, Alice, I hardly
noticed.
Tonight I got to pack for our big barnstorming tour before we go to
Houston to open the season. We play seven games in six days and all but
two of our last 16 games are on the road. I don't feel like I have been
living out of a suitcase. I feel like I AM a suitcase. I have been in
more hotel rooms than the Gideon Bible.
Thanks for the clippings from the paper, and for underlining the part
about me. No, I don't have any idea where they got the nickname "Boom
Boom," and I don't see that it's so cute. In fact, I wish you hadn't put
it on the envelope. Bob Bruce has really been riding me about it, though
I fail to see where he has much room to talk. The last time he pitched
our outfielders wore their batting helmets.
One of our writers is really a character. He hasn't written a line
since he got here. I asked him why and he says he has this philosophy:
"If you can't say something ugly about a person, don't say nothing."
While I'm thinking about it, no, I didn't hear what Gene Elston said
about me on the radio. Alice, for gosh shakes. I've got the bases
loaded, nobody out, the wind blowing straight out to center and Willie
Mays coming to bat. You think I got a transistor radio out there?
They found the ball Mays hit up at Weaver's Needle, which is three
miles from the ball park. I figure that must have included the roll.
Pitching to Mays is an experience. Willie has a kind of half smile on his
face at the plate. He leans over a little and all you can see from the
mound are white teeth and a bat. It's like looking down the muzzle of an
ivory cannon.
The other day Ryne Duren pitched against us. He's with the Angels
now. Duren can throw something fierce but he is real wild, like a cake
mixer turned up to very high. His pitches scatter every which way, and it
has something to do with his eyes. He can't see out of them very good.
The Angels bought him some contact lenses, and one of his team mates
told us about the trick Duren is going to pull some night. He doesn't
wear his contacts all the time but he will this night, only with his
glasses over them so the hitters won't know it. Then he's going to drop
his glasses, grope around for them and accidentally step on them. Then
he's going to pick up the shattered lenses, shrug and toss them away.
Then he'll turn to face the hitter. Say, won't that keep a fellow loose?
Alice, I'm sorry about not being able to spare an autographed ball
for your Uncle Mandolin. But I sell all my extra ones to Bob Aspromonte.
He's single, and he gives them to girls.
Now, about the wedding. I'm not trying to postpone it, but why don't
we wait until 1963 and get married under the Dome? It would really help
the crowd, and I'm sure I could fix it up with Kirksey.
You Know Me, Alice.
Lefty