[SelzShoes]

It was nine in the morning, and already the heat was unbearable. Leland MacPhail, hunched over his desk in the Yankees temporary Arizona office, longed for the Florida days of his Brooklyn and Cincinnati experiences. When a man could go to the cooling breeze of the ocean to find relief from too much John Barleycorn. Instead, he was packed inside a trailer with too many (noisy) worker bees.

The support staff had seen this before from MacPhail; and tried their best to not bother him, less he rage at any and all of them. A taste of blood was all that was needed; someone would be taking a long trip home today. MacPhail waited for his excuse to rage.

Fate, however, decided to spare the drones.

To say Jerry Priddy was fresh from the morning workout was to use ‘fresh’ in the sense of the immediate—not in the sense of a crisply cut lawn or just washed sheets. His entrance, coupled with the noticeable reek of sweat dripping from his uniform and body, filled the trailer with no regards to the nostrils of those assembled.

Lee MacPhail choked back vomit from the stench.

With great pride and confidence, Priddy approached MacPhail. The office staff sighed relief, someone else was foolish enough to engage the General Manager. “Mr. MacPhail?”

Leland lifted his head slightly, only to return to his hunch upon seeing who was disturbing his attempted rest.

“Mr. MacPhail, I feel my talents and value to this club deserve to be appropriately compensated. And in light of this I wish . . .”

“Who. The. Hell. Are you?”

“J-Jerry Priddy, your second baseman.”

MacPhail raised his head slightly. “Joe Gordon is my second baseman, and you look nothing like him.” Slowly the General Manager raised his body to sitting upright. “Are you even one of my players?” he asked dismissively.

Priddy nodded.

Lee moved papers around, pulling out a neatly typed roster sheet. “You have a contract with us?”

“Yes sir.”

“How much?”

“Well, I was hoping for ten thousand.”

The office staff began to draw back, lest MacPhail decided to batter the player with objects and not words. “No you moron, what did you sign for. Not what you want.”

“$6,800.”

“And what did you do for the Yankees in 1941, refresh my memory.”

“I started the season as the everyday second baseman,” Priddy truthfully, but incompletely offered.

“And? What did you do with the stick?”

Jerry mumbled an answer.

MacPhail stood motioning to the office staff. “I’ll tell you what he did, he hit .213 and was such a load of c—p with the glove his a— was shipped to Kansas City. And this bastard has the nerve to come to me--a man who should have his head examined for giving such a piece of s—t a second chance with the New York Yankees—and he asks me for Ten Thousand Dollars?”

“If this is a bad time, I can. . .”

“NO! This is a perfect time. You know why? I’m in the f-----g mood to just throw money away.” MacPhail took his wallet out and pulled a wad of cash out, and then proceeded to throw the bills towards the office staff. “See, those people work. They deserve everything they get and more—pick it up boys, don’t be shy. But you. Man, if I gave you $6,800 I must be drinking too much, because the best you should hope for is making enough on relief so you don’t starve to death.”

Priddy turned, realizing that this was not a good time at all.

“Trying to sneak out on me? Alright, you’re suspended—15 days without pay.”

“But, that’s most of the rest of spring training, I, I . . .”

“You want to make it 30? Then get the hell out of my office. I don’t want to see you, smell you or hear about you for two weeks. And by God if I’m lucky enough to find someone stupid enough to take you .213 hitting a--, Hell, Red Ruffing hit .303, you’ll never wear that uniform again as long as I’m around. You got that.”

Priddy nodded weakly and scampered out the door.

MacPhail turned to his office staff. “Good morning so far boys. Hell, let’s take an early lunch. Oh, and someone tell Joe that he will be without the services of that nobody for a couple weeks.”