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

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It was Mickey Mantle. Aw, fuck. I thought, All I need to do is hit Mickey Mantle with a pitch, and I’m in serious trouble.

As Mickey stood there, I threw a half dozen pitches. Mickey never said a word, and when I was done, I went back inside the clubhouse. My father was in the stands, and while I was throwing, an usher walked up to him and asked who I was. He must have been one of reporter Dick Young’s stool pigeons, because the next day a story about my workout appeared in the New York Daily News.

“Congratulations,” said Whitey. “It looks like you have a good arm. I hope you sign with the Yankees.” I was waiting for a visit from someone from the Yankee front office, but no one said a word to me before I left.

Toward the end of my American Legion season, Len Zanke, a scout for the New York Mets, asked me to try out. I drove down from Middletown to Shea Stadium. I was having my tryout, warming up on a mound between the visiting dugout and home plate, while the visiting team, the San Francisco Giants, took batting practice.