I have a story to tell that may interest you. It’s the story of a newspaper that has been a major part of my life, and the lives of most everyone I know, for as long as any of us can remember. The story is told, not from the perspective of a knowledgeable insider, because I’m not and never have been, but from the perspective of someone from the outside looking in, someone who reads the local newspaper most every day. Someone, probably, like you.
Newspapers, and the people who run them, tell us a lot about ourselves and the world we live in without realizing, I suspect, how much they reveal of themselves in the process. It is from these bits of self-revelation, gathered over a long period of time, that I have been able to piece together this story. I’ll leave it to you, a fellow reader, to decide for yourself what is fact and what is fiction. Keep in mind, however, that it’s only a story.
Few adults who lived through the Vietnam War and the Nixon presidency would argue that the way the news is reported in this country today is the same as it was before those tumultuous years. What was once embraced only by the lowest of the tabloids is now considered standard fare in the most prestigious newspapers in the land. And yet, when that change took place on the local level in most towns and cities across the land it was so subtle that the turning point was hardly noticed.
Not so with the newspaper I grew up with. That fine old institution, as solemn and gray as the cement exterior of its gothic style headquarters, whose masthead proudly boasted of the twin virtues of independence and honesty, succumbed to the forces of change in a rather dramatic fashion. My story is an attempt to piece together the circumstances and characters surrounding that event as best I can.
Chronologically, the story begins when it all began for me, back in the early fifties when baseball had already established itself as the most important thing in my life and the sports section of the Providence Beacon in general, and "Easy Ed" O’Halloran’s sports column in particular, fed the furnace within me and lent credence and respectability to my addiction.
The natural beauty and pleasing climate of this country’s smallest State has made Rhode Island a playground for the rich and famous for over one hundred years, but it is the ethnic and cultural diversity of its people that makes it truly unique, a potpourri of spices and ingredients that make an interesting and flavorful stew. The characters in this book have been plucked from that stew and, hopefully, you will find it satisfying, as well.
Enjoy!
In spite of the heat already radiating from the tennis courts at ten in the morning, Ted Williams came to play in a heavy gray sweatsuit that had seen better days. Regardless of the ragtag outfit that hung off his frame in layers, he was still an impressive figure.
Tall, broad shouldered and movie star handsome, Williams took a back seat to no one in the looks department. His booming voice and animated personality captured the attention of everyone in his presence and rarely set it free. No matter who or what provided the competition, it was near impossible to keep your eyes off the big guy for any length of time.
Williams pounded his forehand shots with tremendous pace, but with little regard for the dimensions of the court. In contrast, his powerful backhand stroke was graceful and surprisingly accurate. Fortunately for O’Halloran, size and strength count for little in tennis. The smaller figure in tennis whites was a better tennis player than the big guy in gray, and the sweatsuit of the larger one soon earned it’s name.
When they were finished, the big guy with the amplified voice box, drenched in sweat, was obviously pleased with the workout and with the playing partner who made it possible. For his part, O’Halloran had to make a conscious effort to keep the grin on his face from splitting his head wide open.
He was glad that Williams was pleased, but running the future hall of famer from side to side in pursuit of the furry white tennis ball gave him so much hidden pleasure that he was afraid he might have to add it to his list of sinful pursuits the next time he pulled the curtain on a confessional. If Williams wanted to run, thought O’Halloran, the sonofabitch got what he came for.
"Thanks for the workout, Bush. I’ll buy the cokes," Ted boomed as they shook hands coming off the court.
"Sounds good," said O’Halloran, who knew he was making headway with The Kid when he referred to him as Bush, as in bush leaguer. Not exactly a term of endearment, but better than most things Williams could call him.
Williams led O’Halloran into Brian Nelson’s cubbyhole of an office and took a couple of coke bottles out of a beat up old refrigerator, popped off both caps using a bottle opener screwed to the wall, and handed one to O’Halloran.
The small frame shack had an overhang in front, a couple of wooden chairs, and a limited view of the nearest tennis court. It provided an oasis where you could rest your weary bones hidden from the direct gaze of the hot sun and take advantage of whatever breeze was stirring, which the two men did.
"I wonder if Brian found another partner for me for this afternoon? I won’t bother coming back if he hasn’t. He didn’t mention anything to you, did he Bush?"
"No he didn’t," answered O’Halloran. "But I’m sure he’ll be in shortly for lunch. I think he’s giving a lesson on one of the back courts."
"I’d like another workout today if I can get it. The time has come to get serious about baseball and get my legs in shape before training camp so I can bear down and concentrate on other things once I get there. It gives me a leg up, you might say. But you can’t play tennis by yourself, you need a partner who can give you a good workout and you filled the gap. You’re the only sportswriter I’ve ever known who ever did anything strenuous, other than chase slow horses and fast broads."
"I enjoyed it," O’Halloran said with conviction. "I wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime, but not today. I developed a bad habit back home... it’s called breathing. If I went back out there again today I’d be one dead sportswriter," said O’Halloran without bothering to hide a smile that would make his dentist proud.
"Same time tomorrow morning then?" asked Williams.
"Sure, why not?" answered O’Halloran.
The following day Williams managed to fill another sweatsuit with spent body fluids while being jerked around the tennis court by an openly ecstatic Easy Ed O’Halloran. Following their match they again sought shelter from the sun underneath the overhang in front of Brian Nelson’s office. Both men were more at ease with each other than they were the day before.
"I’m surprised you play tennis right handed," said O’Halloran. "Whenever I think of Ted Williams I think of a left handed person."
"I’m actually right handed in just about everything except swinging a bat," said Williams. "A lot of baseball players are right handed but bat left. Some damn good hitters, too."
Ted’s mind warmed up like a relief pitcher. Softly at first, then he came at you harder and faster. "You’ve probably never given it any thought, but a hitter batting from the left side is actually using the right side of his body almost to the exclusion of his left side. His dominant eye, the right one, is closest to the pitcher, his right shoulder, right arm, and right hand control the direction of the swing, it’s the right foot that steps toward the ball, and it’s the right hip that cocks and provides most of the power. The left side of the body pushes, but the right side does all the work."
"Interesting," said O’Halloran looking interested.
Williams was right. O’Halloran had never given it any thought. Coming from anybody else, he probably still wouldn’t have given it any thought. But coming from Ted Williams, the thought might be worth a column some rainy day next summer.
"The strange thing is that it doesn’t seem to work the other way around."
"How’s that?" O’Halloran asked politely.
"A lot of ballplayers bat left and throw right but you seldom see the opposite, a lefthander batting right. As a matter of fact, I can’t think of any offhand, past or present..."
Williams was interrupted when Brian Nelson approached, followed close behind by a scroungy looking mutt that O’Halloran had noticed earlier in the day, laying in the shade with it’s head resting on a front paw as if it were waiting patiently for a bus.
"Who’s your friend?" asked O’Halloran.
"Nobody’s my friend," answered Brian Nelson.
Instantaneously, O’Halloran realized to whom he spoke and that he was being had. He and Brian had played a variation of this word game many times in the past, amusing themselves and their wartime buddies with their nonsensical banter.
But O’Halloran hesitated for a moment. They were no longer nineteen, no longer desperate for diversions of any kind, no longer anxious to embrace whatever silly merriment came their way, and suppose Williams took offense at their juvenile behavior? Screw Williams thought O’Halloran, and plunged ahead.
"I’m talking about the dog," said O’Halloran.
"So am I," said Brian.
"What the hell do you mean," said O’Halloran, "I asked you who your friend was, and you said nobody."
"That’s right," said Brian, "the dog’s name is nobody."
"Nobody?" exclaimed O’Halloran. "Why in hell would anybody name a dog nobody?"
"Anybody didn’t name the dog nobody," answered Brian calmly. "I named the dog nobody. Anybody had nothing to do with it."
"But why give the poor dog a stupid name like nobody, for crissake?" asked O’Halloran.
"So it can be a somebody," said Brian. "With a name like nobody, this poor dog before you can turn darkness into light, evil into good, negative thoughts into positive vibes. Like, ‘nobody loves me,’ ‘nobody cares,’ ‘nobody gives a sh*t.’ See what I mean? This flea bitten mutt is instant therapy for a world gone bonkers, a psychic pup who can turn things right side up for all those poor souls still wandering in the desert. He has the power to turn shit into manna from heaven."
"I see what you mean, alright," said O’Halloran. "You’re crazy as a god**mn loon. But I’ll say one thing about you."
"What’s that?"
"You’re nobody’s fool," he said.
Williams had been in the company of a lot of locker room screwballs before, but rarely had he seen the likes of these two jokers.
"How’d the tennis lessons go?" Williams asked Brian Nelson, "and don’t tell me nobody liked them." Nelson and O’Halloran roared with delight, as if they were admitting a new member to a very exclusive fraternity. For his part, Williams not only talked with his hands, but his whole body shook when he laughed.
