[SelzShoes]

“Pitching coach? I thought I was here to throw. Good Lord, what is a man to expect?”

Al Simmons held his next bite of steak aloft. “Diz, both of us are pulling double duty too. Sam is the hitting coach. The club is just getting off the ground, we got to make every dollar stretch a little bit further than other teams,” Bucketfoot Al lobbied the ownership group hard to spend the money to bring Dizzy west, now he was lobbing Dizzy to stay. “Look, would you be having these doubts if the Phillies or the Browns had called you.”

Aside from the fact the Browns no longer existed, Dean accepted the point. “Yeah, but I don’t know anything about coachin. That’s not what I do.”

“But brother, you know about pitching. Sam is in the same boat—he’s never coached, but he can hit. I’ve never managed, but I know the game.” Simmons was somehow managing to devour his dinner while conversing; word and bites never seemingly mingling. “The beautiful thing is: They don’t expect us to win. We can have a helluva great time, and if we win, that’s just gravy brother. That’s just gravy.”

Dean leaned back in the booth. “Just how bad is it going to be?”

Knife and fork lay crossed on the plate. “We’re going to be young. Tony Cuccinello just backed out. But we got a couple crack Negro players, but, man, it’s going to feel like varsity day most days.” Simmons reached out and put his hand on Dizzy’s shoulder. “They need someone to teach them to win.” The gravity in his voice started to slip, “and if we have a great time doing it, well, then life is good.”

Dizzy pushed his potato around with his fork. “So all of the fun, none of the pressure?” Simmons and West nodded in tandem. “I’m willing to give it a shot gents.”