Have Glove, Will Travel: Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond [NOOK Book]

Overview

It was 1982 when Bill Lee was famously booted from the Montreal Expos after he went AWOL in protest of another player's mistreatment by management. His reputation for antics both on and off the field guaranteed that no other club would pick him up. The Ace from Space had landed on professional baseball's blacklist, and so it was that one of the most popular major-league pitchers of our day was fated to pack his bags and wander the globe searching for a ball game.

Have Glove, ...

See more details below
Have Glove, Will Travel: Adventures of a Baseball Vagabond

Available on NOOK devices and apps  
  • NOOK Devices
  • Samsung Galaxy Tab 4 NOOK
  • NOOK HD/HD+ Tablet
  • NOOK
  • NOOK Color
  • NOOK Tablet
  • Tablet/Phone
  • NOOK for Windows 8 Tablet
  • NOOK for iOS
  • NOOK for Android
  • NOOK Kids for iPad
  • PC/Mac
  • NOOK for Windows 8
  • NOOK for PC
  • NOOK for Mac
  • NOOK for Web

Want a NOOK? Explore Now

NOOK Book (eBook)
$9.99
BN.com price

Overview

It was 1982 when Bill Lee was famously booted from the Montreal Expos after he went AWOL in protest of another player's mistreatment by management. His reputation for antics both on and off the field guaranteed that no other club would pick him up. The Ace from Space had landed on professional baseball's blacklist, and so it was that one of the most popular major-league pitchers of our day was fated to pack his bags and wander the globe searching for a ball game.

Have Glove, Will Travel is the chronicle of an amazing odyssey that began more than twenty years ago and continues today. Unable to live without baseball, Lee went anywhere he could find a game, beginning in the dank and dreary locker room of a Canadian hockey team that later became a softball team. We follow him around the world as he competes in pickup games, town tournaments, senior leagues, and fantasy camps, barnstorming like a modern Satchel Paige around the United States, South America, China, Cuba, Russia, and every province in Canada.

At the heart of this story are the rollicking, colorful characters Lee meets during his travels, and the mishaps that befall him whether he's sober or stoned. There's the eccentric Latin pitching master Lee plays with in Cuba, who once struck out Ernest Hemingway. And a hilarious story that takes place in the backwoods of a British Columbia timber town, where Lee and Hall-of-Famer Ferguson Jenkins go fishing and end up being chased back to their pickup truck by a 450-pound black bear.

Have Glove, Will Travel is so much more than the average baseball book. Lee's humor, keen eye for detail, and extraordinary pitching intellect are always on display, but in the end this book is a love story about a middle-aged maverick who refused to stop pursuing his passion for a boy's game long after the grown-ups told him he couldn't play on their team anymore. Readers who loved Lee's bestselling The Wrong Stuff, also written with Richard Lally, will find the long wait for this rich and wonderful sequel well worth it. Those who haven't yet encountered the literary Bill Lee have a great treat in store.

Read More Show Less

Editorial Reviews

Jonathan Yardley
Have Glove, Will Travel is the story of his baseball life after his baseball death, an occasionally amusing and intermittently poignant account of what happens to a gifted athlete whose strong, eccentric opinions and inability to keep his mouth shut finally get the best of him. The story is told strictly from Lee's point of view, with no opportunity for the defense to testify on its own behalf, but his case is convincing -- all the more so to anyone who knows how hidebound, unimaginative and thin-skinned the baseball hierarchy is.
— The Washington Post
Publishers Weekly
Lee was considered one of Major League Baseball's biggest flakes in the 1970s, a freethinker who defied nearly every manager or owner who tried to control him. Although Lee, who pitched for the Montreal Expos and Boston Red Sox, was removed involuntarily from the pro ranks for his controversial statements and attitudes (e.g., suggesting pot smoking as a way for pitchers to better concentrate), he never lost his love for the game and played whenever and wherever he could, at first with the hopes of returning to the majors, later simply for the enjoyment of it. He picks up where his 1984 memoir The Wrong Stuff left off, recounting his travels playing with myriad amateur and semipro baseball and softball teams in the U.S. and Canada, as well as in Russia, Cuba and Venezuela. Lee's anti-establishment attitudes-he writes candidly, humorously and unapologetically of his drug and alcohol abuse-also drew him into alternative politics, as the 1988 presidential candidate for the Rhinoceros Party. For all his antics, however, Lee speaks eloquently of the connection between baseball and male bonding, especially between fathers and sons. This is a thoughtful and droll journal of an itinerant journeyman, content to ply his trade for whatever he can get out of the experience. Agent, Mark Reiter. (On sale Mar. 8) Forecast: A new baseball season beginning shortly after the book's release, coupled with increased interest in the Red Sox following their World Series win, bodes well for Lee. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Lee, the unforgettable and uproarious former Boston Red Sox pitcher, has teamed up with Lally, coauthor of his popular 1984 classic The Wrong Stuff, to dish out another comedic take on baseball as metaphor for life. He details his travels around the globe playing baseball, fishing, and partying. He dishes the dirt on his drug use and broken marriage and is at his most winning when describing his flawed but loving relationship with his father and children. Fans of the Red Sox Nation will enjoy, but so will every reader who loves a good tale and a laugh. Recommended for most libraries. Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
Now in his mid-50s, countercultural and free-spirited as ever, the popular ex-Major League southpaw continues to zip curveballs over the plate and at the establishment in this sequel to The Wrong Stuff (1984). One reason 20 years have elapsed between the two books may be that Lee robustly and publicly enjoys his recreational intoxicants; another may be that he has kept very busy playing baseball outside show purviews. Lee has always been an outspoken, unconventional character who irked managers and front offices alike. (Both blackballed him from time to time.) In the mid-1980s, after 13 years in the limelight with the Boston Red Sox and the Montreal Expos, he found himself looking for rubbers from which to pitch. He found plenty who were eager to tap his profane and exuberant personality, from the senior circuit and the exhibition leagues to colleges and clinics for Mic-Mac Indians in his adopted Canada. Lee is supreme at conveying the pure joy of playing baseball, and he also captures the fun of his run for president of the United States as the Rhinoceros Party candidate (he gets Abbie Hoffman's endorsement, but not Hunter Thompson's), of learning how to drink cognac from Bobby Hull, of playing in the 1988 Goodwill Games in the Soviet Union, of hitting a home run while playing for a semi-pro team in Saskatchewan that instantaneously coincided with a shatter of lightning and the coming of rain to quell an ruinous drought. He's entertainingly all over the field: going to Cuba and tendering a savvy piece of travel writing, discussing Bernoulli's principle and the physics of the curveball with Ted Williams, explaining the dynamics that involved pitching into trade winds rather thanprevailing westerlies, sending up a lovely tribute to his father and his children, or taking the Major League to task for its greed and glitz. The Red Sox just delivered the World Series, but Lee delivers the beauty of elemental baseball: two pleasures the sport sorely needed.
Read More Show Less

Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780307420848
  • Publisher: Crown Publishing Group
  • Publication date: 12/18/2007
  • Sold by: Random House
  • Format: eBook
  • Pages: 320
  • Sales rank: 742,996
  • File size: 442 KB

Meet the Author

Bill Lee is a pitcher and remains so. Richard Lally coauthored The Wrong Stuff.

Read More Show Less

Read an Excerpt

1: A SEASON UNDER THE INFLUENCE

That chess board would not stop shape-shifting. I leaned over the bar in the Cul de Sac, a Montreal hangout on lower Crescent Street, trying to place a pawn on a black square that kept slithering out of reach. The white boxes melted over the lines and swirled into the blacks. Next the board expanded and flopped over the sides of the bar. A tablecloth. But only for a moment. It rapidly shrank again until it appeared no larger than a postage stamp. And then back one more time to normal size, only now the squares re-formed as cubes, elevated off the board in descending heights. An M. C. Escher etching.

Sounds like some nefarious drug held me in its clutches. No, I'd just run a minimarathon through the heart of Montreal. My blood sugar had dropped to my ankles, and dehydration had sucked up all my bodily fluids. My lungs felt scarred after inhaling ten kilometers' worth of car exhaust. This weakened state left me prone to hallucinations as all the toxins stored in my body after a week-long debauchery recycled to deliver a haymaker to my senses.

My chess opponent had introduced himself moments earlier as Milos, a fat, brooding man with a scraggly beard and thick Slavic accent. Never seen him before. I'd come in for a beer, and he challenged me to a game. It took him only a few minutes to notice my disorientation.

"You look all in," he said.

"Rough week. Not enough sleep. Ran too fast too far today. Didn't eat enough. A cold brew will put me right."

"Try this."

Milos handed over a stunted joint wrapped in black rolling paper. I assumed it contained either pot or hash and merrily struck a match. I know. Accepting drugs from a stranger is a stupid thing to do. Nancy Reagan would never approve of me; I rarely say no to anyone offering a good time. I never thought her antidrug slogan got it right anyway. Really want to drive a drug dealer crazy? Don't say no. Say maybe. Dealers hate to wait around while you make up your mind.

I toked twice, paused, and again considered how to outflank my opponent. The board had stopped playing tricks. But as I raised the pawn to shoulder height, the head of the piece grew bulbous and top-heavy. It pulled me backward.

I teetered on the edge of my stool for a moment and swooned. I surrendered to buoyancy. Buoyancy failed me. I could not float. Down, down, down my body fell, off a bar stool the height of a skyscraper. My brain went as well, rolling, tumbling ass over cerebellum down a velvet staircase studded with spikes.

Customers and staff ran over to help. I heard them babbling somewhere far off, cushioned snub-nosed sounds from under a bubble, imploring me to get up. Betty Boop shimmied naked on the pale, hairless chest of Koko the Clown. He passed an opium pipe to Cab Calloway, who was spinning on his heels, fronting an orchestra of skeletons. Hot jive. Hot jive. Cold fingers played hot jive. Bone bebopped against cold metal until . . . jazz slid into dirge . . . and then . . . crabalocker fishwife . . . sheep . . . barking . . . like . . . frogs . . . semolina pilchard . . . rat-faced gremlins . . . flagellating . . . Toulouse-Lautrec . . . yellow matter custard dripping . . . banshees devouring . . . flamenco dancers . . . dead dog's eye . . . a chanting castrato chorus . . . the egg man . . . Gertrude Stein buggering . . . Dr. Billy Graham . . . mouth . . . opens . . . goo goo goo joob . . . Davy . . . Davy Crockett . . . could . . . not . . . com . . . plete . . . a . . . senten . . .

Four hours later I awoke in a beer cooler, splayed on top of six cases of Labatt's. Oh, fuck. Not even my brand. Josh, the bartender, grabbed the front of my sweatshirt and gently hefted me to my feet.

"What the hell did you stick me on ice for? Did I look overheated?"

"No, Bill. You looked dead. We figured this was the best place to preserve the body."

My tongue tasted of glue mixed with sand. I gulped two tankards of water and joined Milos at the bar. "What was that shit," I asked, "opium? Angel dust?"

"Just some pot."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Laced with a little powdered heroin."

"Heroin! Jesus, why didn't you warn me? You could have damaged me!"

He waved me off. "Not with just two tokes. Besides, you fall pretty good."

"I've had lots of practice."

I first experimented with pot, hash, mescaline, peyote, and other hallucinogens during the sixties and continued to indulge throughout my major-league career. Guess that means the experimental phase is over. Drugs erased my shyness, made me more sociable. They wiped the mind clear of extraneous thoughts, so I could listen intently to what other people said without judgment or expectation.

A philosophy teacher once told me that all conversation represents a form of persuasion. On pot, I never tried persuading anyone of anything. My weed-wacky friends and I stopped confusing discussions with competitions. I became convinced that if everyone took drugs, we could put aside our egos and differences to improve the planet. There would be no quarrels, no borders, no governments. Instinct and telepathy would render language superfluous. Love would guide our actions, armed conflicts would become passe, the loaves would inherit the fishes, and the lambs would sleep with the dinosaurs.

Don't ask me what those last few sentences mean. I smoked several joints just before writing this.

I might not have gotten stoned so regularly had someone made me pay for the privilege. But when you win even the smallest fame as a pro ballplayer, fans give you drugs gratis just for the chance to hang with you. In Boston, a jock-sniffing doctor regularly supplied me and several Red Sox—I'm not naming any names, but there were a half dozen of us—with pharmaceutical-grade cocaine. One hit of that powder and my body instantly fell into suspended animation. I would sit on a stool for hours in some Inman Square bar unable to move anything except the top joint of my pinky while my mind floated to Rio de Janeiro and rumbaed at Carnival.

We often participated in coke relay races during the wee hours. Fans would pour two white parallel lines down the length of the bar. Two teams of three Red Sox each would line up on either side of those powdery trails and stand about three feet apart. The first player would snort as much coke as his nose could hold in one inhalation before passing the straw to his partner. Whichever team finished the line first won the prize: its members got to sit down.

In Montreal, fans rained hashish on me in the Expos bullpen and pressed joints in my hand as I left the ballpark. Go to the Cul de Sac, the 1234 Club, or Grumpy's and you could always tell when the coke had arrived; the line outside the men's room stretched longer than the one outside the ladies' room. Several Expos and I snorted blow off twenty-dollar bills in the bathroom stalls free of charge. Most fans insisted that we keep the twenties. Or they presented us with a bullet shooter, a Vicks Vapor Rub tube packed with coke guaranteed to clear your sinuses by drilling a hole through them. We also frequented a club called the Longest Yard, a name that described the amount of coke the average patron snorted there in a night.

I rented my basement to a drug dealer, a mysterious gentleman who called himself Alex. His last name changed from week to week. I strictly enforced one rule during his stay: he could not deal inside the house. So he set up shop on our stoop. Alex would sprinkle several lines of coke on a dish the first of every month and send it up to my bedroom via the dumbwaiter. His rent. It was the closest I ever came to paying for drugs, but the arrangement suited me. I've always supported the barter system.

During the regular baseball season, I tried staying straight on game days and generally succeeded. Once the Expos let me go, though, I had plenty of time to fall into trouble. A typical day started with a joint. Then a friend might drop in and lay some hash on me. We'd smoke; he'd throw me four joints for later. I would trade two of them for four tabs of mescaline. That evening I would exchange two hits of mesc for a gram of cocaine and head to a local restaurant where the head chef and I smoked his hookah—a Middle Eastern water pipe filled with hash. After that, I started partying.

My friends and I snorted coke to stay up, smoked pot to come down, or drank several six-packs or a bottle of wine to soften the edge. We repeated the process twenty-four hours later. We spent our nights searching for level ground, trying to strike a balance, to harmonize our yin and yang.

I know what you're thinking. Poor son of a bitch loses his career and he just completely falls apart; next he'll be telling us how he slept among garbage cans under blankets of newspapers. Getting thrown out of baseball had nothing to do with this. I was not trying to escape. I just enjoyed feeling dopey. And I hadn't drifted all that far from the game.

Six weeks after McHale released me, the doorbell rang as I sat in the bathroom admiring my picture on the cover of High Times magazine. I ignored the nagging buzzer. The questioning reporters, the commiserating fans—I had no desire to greet any of them. Just wanted some down time, a chance to reflect on my next move. But that damned bell rang again and again and still again and continued ringing until I finally yanked open the door. He introduced himself as Gino Lemitti, a mailman whose route covered a neighboring district. Should have known. Leave it to a postman to ring more than twice.

Gino stood with his friend Claude in my doorway under the moonlight. A bright star hovering in the sky behind the pair made them resemble two of the wise men from a Nativity scene. "Jesus ain't here," I cracked. "You have any presents for him, just leave them on the stoop." As it turned out, they had arrived bearing gifts.

"How would you like to be pitching again, Bill?"

"Why, you boys just buy the Expos?"

Gino was quick to explain that he did not have an affiliation with any major league club. However, he did manage the Longueuil Senators, a team in the Quebec Senior League. Soon as the news of my release reached him, Gino drove to the Ministry of Sports in Ottawa and persuaded its members to reinstate my amateur athletic status. Now he wanted me to join his pitching staff.

It sounded ideal. The Senators played their home games in a Montreal suburb just across the river from the Expos' Olympic Stadium and only ten miles from my home. I could stay sharp pitching in regular competition against the best over-twenty semipro baseball players in Canada while showcasing my talents for any scouts who visited the area to watch the Expos. Before agreeing, I needed to know only two things.

"How soon can I start, and will you let me bat cleanup?"

"You can hit anywhere in the lineup you want," Gino promised, "and would tomorrow night be soon enough? We need pitching badly."

Read More Show Less

Table of Contents

Prologue: Frozen Out in Port Hawkesbury 1
1 A Season Under the Influence 15
2 Small World 35
3 Ringside for the Apocalypse 49
4 Don't Cry for Me, Venezuela 63
5 Interlude 81
6 The Unnatural 87
7 To Russia with Glove 97
8 Stumped on the Stump 123
9 Almost a Good Idea 135
10 The Curse 147
11 Revelation in Maine 155
12 Flying with the Golden Jet 159
13 Babes in the Woods 169
14 A Mad Dash to Cuba 181
15 The Road Through Vinales 193
16 The Preacher Blows a Save in Landisburg 211
17 Vermont Tales 233
18 Back in the Land of Beisbol 243
19 Hangin' with the Big Dog 259
20 Of Fathers and Their Children 271
Epilogue: Have Glove, Still Travel 287
Index 293
Read More Show Less

First Chapter

1: A SEASON UNDER THE INFLUENCE

That chess board would not stop shape-shifting. I leaned over the bar in the Cul de Sac, a Montreal hangout on lower Crescent Street, trying to place a pawn on a black square that kept slithering out of reach. The white boxes melted over the lines and swirled into the blacks. Next the board expanded and flopped over the sides of the bar. A tablecloth. But only for a moment. It rapidly shrank again until it appeared no larger than a postage stamp. And then back one more time to normal size, only now the squares re-formed as cubes, elevated off the board in descending heights. An M. C. Escher etching.

Sounds like some nefarious drug held me in its clutches. No, I'd just run a minimarathon through the heart of Montreal. My blood sugar had dropped to my ankles, and dehydration had sucked up all my bodily fluids. My lungs felt scarred after inhaling ten kilometers' worth of car exhaust. This weakened state left me prone to hallucinations as all the toxins stored in my body after a week-long debauchery recycled to deliver a haymaker to my senses.

My chess opponent had introduced himself moments earlier as Milos, a fat, brooding man with a scraggly beard and thick Slavic accent. Never seen him before. I'd come in for a beer, and he challenged me to a game. It took him only a few minutes to notice my disorientation.

"You look all in," he said.

"Rough week. Not enough sleep. Ran too fast too far today. Didn't eat enough. A cold brew will put me right."

"Try this."

Milos handed over a stunted joint wrapped in black rolling paper. I assumed it contained either pot or hash and merrily struck a match. I know.Accepting drugs from a stranger is a stupid thing to do. Nancy Reagan would never approve of me; I rarely say no to anyone offering a good time. I never thought her antidrug slogan got it right anyway. Really want to drive a drug dealer crazy? Don't say no. Say maybe. Dealers hate to wait around while you make up your mind.

I toked twice, paused, and again considered how to outflank my opponent. The board had stopped playing tricks. But as I raised the pawn to shoulder height, the head of the piece grew bulbous and top-heavy. It pulled me backward.

I teetered on the edge of my stool for a moment and swooned. I surrendered to buoyancy. Buoyancy failed me. I could not float. Down, down, down my body fell, off a bar stool the height of a skyscraper. My brain went as well, rolling, tumbling ass over cerebellum down a velvet staircase studded with spikes.

Customers and staff ran over to help. I heard them babbling somewhere far off, cushioned snub-nosed sounds from under a bubble, imploring me to get up. Betty Boop shimmied naked on the pale, hairless chest of Koko the Clown. He passed an opium pipe to Cab Calloway, who was spinning on his heels, fronting an orchestra of skeletons. Hot jive. Hot jive. Cold fingers played hot jive. Bone bebopped against cold metal until . . . jazz slid into dirge . . . and then . . . crabalocker fishwife . . . sheep . . . barking . . . like . . . frogs . . . semolina pilchard . . . rat-faced gremlins . . . flagellating . . . Toulouse-Lautrec . . . yellow matter custard dripping . . . banshees devouring . . . flamenco dancers . . . dead dog's eye . . . a chanting castrato chorus . . . the egg man . . . Gertrude Stein buggering . . . Dr. Billy Graham . . . mouth . . . opens . . . goo goo goo joob . . . Davy . . . Davy Crockett . . . could . . . not . . . com . . . plete . . . a . . . senten . . .

Four hours later I awoke in a beer cooler, splayed on top of six cases of Labatt's. Oh, fuck. Not even my brand. Josh, the bartender, grabbed the front of my sweatshirt and gently hefted me to my feet.

"What the hell did you stick me on ice for? Did I look overheated?"

"No, Bill. You looked dead. We figured this was the best place to preserve the body."

My tongue tasted of glue mixed with sand. I gulped two tankards of water and joined Milos at the bar. "What was that shit," I asked, "opium? Angel dust?"

"Just some pot."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Laced with a little powdered heroin."

"Heroin! Jesus, why didn't you warn me? You could have damaged me!"

He waved me off. "Not with just two tokes. Besides, you fall pretty good."

"I've had lots of practice."

I first experimented with pot, hash, mescaline, peyote, and other hallucinogens during the sixties and continued to indulge throughout my major-league career. Guess that means the experimental phase is over. Drugs erased my shyness, made me more sociable. They wiped the mind clear of extraneous thoughts, so I could listen intently to what other people said without judgment or expectation.

A philosophy teacher once told me that all conversation represents a form of persuasion. On pot, I never tried persuading anyone of anything. My weed-wacky friends and I stopped confusing discussions with competitions. I became convinced that if everyone took drugs, we could put aside our egos and differences to improve the planet. There would be no quarrels, no borders, no governments. Instinct and telepathy would render language superfluous. Love would guide our actions, armed conflicts would become passe, the loaves would inherit the fishes, and the lambs would sleep with the dinosaurs.

Don't ask me what those last few sentences mean. I smoked several joints just before writing this.

I might not have gotten stoned so regularly had someone made me pay for the privilege. But when you win even the smallest fame as a pro ballplayer, fans give you drugs gratis just for the chance to hang with you. In Boston, a jock-sniffing doctor regularly supplied me and several Red Sox—I'm not naming any names, but there were a half dozen of us—with pharmaceutical-grade cocaine. One hit of that powder and my body instantly fell into suspended animation. I would sit on a stool for hours in some Inman Square bar unable to move anything except the top joint of my pinky while my mind floated to Rio de Janeiro and rumbaed at Carnival.

We often participated in coke relay races during the wee hours. Fans would pour two white parallel lines down the length of the bar. Two teams of three Red Sox each would line up on either side of those powdery trails and stand about three feet apart. The first player would snort as much coke as his nose could hold in one inhalation before passing the straw to his partner. Whichever team finished the line first won the prize: its members got to sit down.

In Montreal, fans rained hashish on me in the Expos bullpen and pressed joints in my hand as I left the ballpark. Go to the Cul de Sac, the 1234 Club, or Grumpy's and you could always tell when the coke had arrived; the line outside the men's room stretched longer than the one outside the ladies' room. Several Expos and I snorted blow off twenty-dollar bills in the bathroom stalls free of charge. Most fans insisted that we keep the twenties. Or they presented us with a bullet shooter, a Vicks Vapor Rub tube packed with coke guaranteed to clear your sinuses by drilling a hole through them. We also frequented a club called the Longest Yard, a name that described the amount of coke the average patron snorted there in a night.

I rented my basement to a drug dealer, a mysterious gentleman who called himself Alex. His last name changed from week to week. I strictly enforced one rule during his stay: he could not deal inside the house. So he set up shop on our stoop. Alex would sprinkle several lines of coke on a dish the first of every month and send it up to my bedroom via the dumbwaiter. His rent. It was the closest I ever came to paying for drugs, but the arrangement suited me. I've always supported the barter system.

During the regular baseball season, I tried staying straight on game days and generally succeeded. Once the Expos let me go, though, I had plenty of time to fall into trouble. A typical day started with a joint. Then a friend might drop in and lay some hash on me. We'd smoke; he'd throw me four joints for later. I would trade two of them for four tabs of mescaline. That evening I would exchange two hits of mesc for a gram of cocaine and head to a local restaurant where the head chef and I smoked his hookah—a Middle Eastern water pipe filled with hash. After that, I started partying.

My friends and I snorted coke to stay up, smoked pot to come down, or drank several six-packs or a bottle of wine to soften the edge. We repeated the process twenty-four hours later. We spent our nights searching for level ground, trying to strike a balance, to harmonize our yin and yang.

I know what you're thinking. Poor son of a bitch loses his career and he just completely falls apart; next he'll be telling us how he slept among garbage cans under blankets of newspapers. Getting thrown out of baseball had nothing to do with this. I was not trying to escape. I just enjoyed feeling dopey. And I hadn't drifted all that far from the game.

Six weeks after McHale released me, the doorbell rang as I sat in the bathroom admiring my picture on the cover of High Times magazine. I ignored the nagging buzzer. The questioning reporters, the commiserating fans—I had no desire to greet any of them. Just wanted some down time, a chance to reflect on my next move. But that damned bell rang again and again and still again and continued ringing until I finally yanked open the door. He introduced himself as Gino Lemitti, a mailman whose route covered a neighboring district. Should have known. Leave it to a postman to ring more than twice.

Gino stood with his friend Claude in my doorway under the moonlight. A bright star hovering in the sky behind the pair made them resemble two of the wise men from a Nativity scene. "Jesus ain't here," I cracked. "You have any presents for him, just leave them on the stoop." As it turned out, they had arrived bearing gifts.

"How would you like to be pitching again, Bill?"

"Why, you boys just buy the Expos?"

Gino was quick to explain that he did not have an affiliation with any major league club. However, he did manage the Longueuil Senators, a team in the Quebec Senior League. Soon as the news of my release reached him, Gino drove to the Ministry of Sports in Ottawa and persuaded its members to reinstate my amateur athletic status. Now he wanted me to join his pitching staff.

It sounded ideal. The Senators played their home games in a Montreal suburb just across the river from the Expos' Olympic Stadium and only ten miles from my home. I could stay sharp pitching in regular competition against the best over-twenty semipro baseball players in Canada while showcasing my talents for any scouts who visited the area to watch the Expos. Before agreeing, I needed to know only two things.

"How soon can I start, and will you let me bat cleanup?"

"You can hit anywhere in the lineup you want," Gino promised, "and would tomorrow night be soon enough? We need pitching badly."
Read More Show Less

Customer Reviews

Be the first to write a review
( 0 )
Rating Distribution

5 Star

(0)

4 Star

(0)

3 Star

(0)

2 Star

(0)

1 Star

(0)

Your Rating:

Your Name: Create a Pen Name or

Barnes & Noble.com Review Rules

Our reader reviews allow you to share your comments on titles you liked, or didn't, with others. By submitting an online review, you are representing to Barnes & Noble.com that all information contained in your review is original and accurate in all respects, and that the submission of such content by you and the posting of such content by Barnes & Noble.com does not and will not violate the rights of any third party. Please follow the rules below to help ensure that your review can be posted.

Reviews by Our Customers Under the Age of 13

We highly value and respect everyone's opinion concerning the titles we offer. However, we cannot allow persons under the age of 13 to have accounts at BN.com or to post customer reviews. Please see our Terms of Use for more details.

What to exclude from your review:

Please do not write about reviews, commentary, or information posted on the product page. If you see any errors in the information on the product page, please send us an email.

Reviews should not contain any of the following:

  • - HTML tags, profanity, obscenities, vulgarities, or comments that defame anyone
  • - Time-sensitive information such as tour dates, signings, lectures, etc.
  • - Single-word reviews. Other people will read your review to discover why you liked or didn't like the title. Be descriptive.
  • - Comments focusing on the author or that may ruin the ending for others
  • - Phone numbers, addresses, URLs
  • - Pricing and availability information or alternative ordering information
  • - Advertisements or commercial solicitation

Reminder:

  • - By submitting a review, you grant to Barnes & Noble.com and its sublicensees the royalty-free, perpetual, irrevocable right and license to use the review in accordance with the Barnes & Noble.com Terms of Use.
  • - Barnes & Noble.com reserves the right not to post any review -- particularly those that do not follow the terms and conditions of these Rules. Barnes & Noble.com also reserves the right to remove any review at any time without notice.
  • - See Terms of Use for other conditions and disclaimers.
Search for Products You'd Like to Recommend

Recommend other products that relate to your review. Just search for them below and share!

Create a Pen Name

Your Pen Name is your unique identity on BN.com. It will appear on the reviews you write and other website activities. Your Pen Name cannot be edited, changed or deleted once submitted.

 
Your Pen Name can be any combination of alphanumeric characters (plus - and _), and must be at least two characters long.

Continue Anonymously
Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Posted December 27, 2009

    I Also Recommend:

    Very entertaining novel

    As a diehard Sox fan, growing up in New England in the '60's, 70's & 80's; Bill Lee is historic for his antics. In fact I became an Expo's fan and still cannot figure out who is Stan Papi.

    Anyway, this novel is a great read and shows the human side of a ball player who tried to make The Game real to fans and teammates. I enjoyed how he discusses baseball, family life, and the Hunter S. Thompson rituals he went through.

    I also read "The Wrong Stuff", while entertaining this book is much more human. I would recommend this as a must read for any Red Sox fan who wishes to understand how a player thinks while in the Show, and to those who want to believe baseball is played by saints.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted September 15, 2005

    Bill Lee makes ya just LOVE this Sport

    As a Fan of Bill Lee's since 1975, I was 'elated' to find this Book on the Shelf at my local Bookstore. If there is anyone who loves the Game more than Mr Lee, I haven't heard of him......His travels, all over the world, as he says, 'To Find a Baseball Game', was just, enjoyable. His crazy character, in my view, is great for the Game, and hearing about the people he met, and carrying his Glove & Bat over his shoulder, walking to the Ball Field, WHEREVER it was, reminds us how simple, the love for this Game should always be. He reminded me, as a kid, with MY glove in hand, ringing the door-bell of every kid in the neighborhood, to try and get a Ball game going, over at our local Park. I coach a Baseball team (13 & 14 year olds) and I read this Book mid-way through our season, when our season wasn't going very well and I literally 'changed' the way I coached the rest-of-the-season, and relaxed, and the kids had FUN playing, and they won 7 of their final 8 games of the season........ Thanks, Bill, for helping me LOVE this game all-over-again, and thanks, for helping my kids (indirectly as it was) with THEIR love of the Game. Don't EVER stop playing OR writing about Baseball, Bill Lee.....you ARE what this Game NEEDS.........

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted May 27, 2005

    On the road with the Spaceman

    Bill Lee is back. A cross between Hunter S Thompson ' Fear and Loathing in Vegas' and Jack Kerouac's 'On the Road'. Baseball is his passion and nothing seems to stop Lee in his quest to put on a uniform , tug on his cap and dig his cleats into the earth. A must read for any baseball fan.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted February 20, 2005

    A Sublime Piece of Writing

    'I ate them on the bus, and the sweetness of the fruit lingered in my mouth for hours. But the smile she gave me when I handed her that dress and her grandson those shoes and the grins on the faces of those elderly Gigi Stars who discovered their youth waiting for them in a box of baseballs will remain with me until my memory surrenders to time.' Has there ever been a more beautiful passage rendered in a baseball memoir. This superb book is filled with such writing. Witty, honest, insightful, Marx Brothers zany in some parts, it far superior to The Wrong Stuff, the baseball classic this duo penned twenty years ago. Lee is charming and self-effacing throughout this tale of man driven to continue pursuing a dream despite the obstacles that face him including encroaching age. I've never read a baseball book like this. It has the feel of fine novel and I think it would be enjoyed by anyone even if they know nothing about baseball. I persuaded my wife to read it--she thinks baseball is boring--and she could not put it down. When she reached the rousing, triumphant end all she could say was, 'Wow, that was really something' and then she recommended the book to her parents. This is more like a travel book; the baseball in here provides the background and nothing more, although when they authors do write about the games they impart a nuanced insider's view that is edifying and entertaining. Lee and Lally write with keen eyes for detail as they describe the exotic places and rich characters Lee has met during his long and unusual odysey in search of the perfect game. It's not many books that can make you laugh, think and cry stimultaneously, but his marvelous addition to the world of American literature does exactly that. It is at turns amusing, troubling and downright poignant without every becoming sentimental. I challenge any man to read the chapter on Fathers and their children and not come away with a knowing tear in their eyes. This book is filled with belly laughs, but it will also hit you in the guts. Well done indeed.

    1 out of 1 people found this review helpful.

    Was this review helpful? Yes  No   Report this review
  • Anonymous

    Posted November 24, 2011

    No text was provided for this review.

Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews

If you find inappropriate content, please report it to Barnes & Noble
Why is this product inappropriate?
Comments (optional)