Читать книгу Rage. The Legend of "Baseball Bill" Denehy онлайн

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I arrived at the spring training complex in St. Petersburg, Florida, in the afternoon, bounded into the clubhouse, and said hello to those coaches and players I already knew. The manager of the Mets was stone-faced Wes Westrum, a former New York Giants catcher. Wes had replaced the legendary Casey Stengel after Casey broke his hip falling off a barstool and got too old to manage.

I found my locker, and I was getting into my uniform when the Mets’ general manager, Johnny Murphy, came by. I was stoked that Mr. Murphy, once a great Yankee pitcher, thought enough of me to pay me a visit. I took it as an omen.

“You arrived a half hour ago,” he said, “and since you arrived everyone has been talking about you. You probably don’t have a clue as to why.” He was right.

“It’s those fucking sideburns of yours,” Murphy said. I was sporting mutton-chop sideburns. I had let them grow over the winter, and now they had reached almost to my jaw.

“If you want to be in uniform tomorrow,” said Murphy, “you need to go directly to the shower room and cut them way back.” I didn’t have a problem with that.