The collegiate baseball career of John Whittingham was brief. As a sophomore, he appeared in just one game of varsity baseball at U.C.L.A. He played third base and went 2 for 3 with a walk. He was, by all accounts, a capable athlete, and he has never commented publicly on why he gave it up, though if we are to judge him by his actions later in life, he never lost his love of the game.
- Michael Cosgrove, A History of Baseball in Los Angeles
3.13.1928 – Los Angeles
John was awoken by a pounding on the door. As he sat up in bed, John could hear his roommate, Teddy, grumbling on the other side of the room.
“I got it,” said John, his feet searching in the dark for his slippers. He got to his feet quickly and threw on a dressing gown, walking across the room as he did so. Opening the door, he was not so much surprised as disappointed.
“Jesus, Georgie, what time is it?” he asked.
George, hat in hand, walked past John and into the room. “I don't know, Whit. Late, early depending on how you reckon it.” The familiar smell of bourbon and stale cigar smoke followed in George's wake. George Linton was a large guy, with broad shoulders like John. Well fed and solidly put together. One was easily mistaken for the other at a distance. George and John were the same age and played ball together. George at first and John at third. George's father was a banker and his family were rather prosperous in those prosperous times. Comfortable living seemed to have robbed George of what natural ambition and drive he might have otherwise have possessed. How he made it out of freshman year in good standing was a wonder.
John turned around and looked down at the portion of the floor illumined by the shaft of light coming in from the hall. Not only had George brought with him his own particular aroma of dissolution, he had tracked in water as well, a fact that did not go unnoticed across the room.
“Georgie, what the heck?” protested Teddy. “Did you go for a swim?”
George sat down on John's bed. “I was up north,” he said, softly. “You remember that place, Rash's, Whit?”
John, still standing in the door way, nodded at George. He turned to Teddy, “unlicensed gambling establishment, if you can believe it,” John said.
Teddy guffawed. “I can.”
“Way the hell up north, Georgie, on a Monday night, what were you thinking?” asked John.
George continued as if he hadn't heard, or maybe he just assumed the question was purely rhetorical, “I was leaving and out of nowhere there was water. A whole rumbling mess of water came rushing in from I don't know where. Suddenly there was, gosh, maybe two feet of water where the cars were parked. I got in my car and got out of there. I saw one of those motorcycle cops on the way. He said a dam broke. I drove straight here and I thought maybe you'd want to know John, 'cause it was up that way. Gee, I'm tired.”
George lay face down on John's bed. “Keys under the seat if you want to borrow the car,” he said before passing out.
Teddy snorted. “He's stinking drunk, Whit. You want to help me get him to his own room?”
John gave no reply, but got dressed in a hurry while Teddy glumly protested, and then he ran out of the house. George's Stutz was easy to spot. It was the car with the right front tire resting up on the curb. John hopped in, reached under the driver's seat and found the keys. They were wet. The whole floorboard was damp. He unlocked the ignition, cranked the Stutz's vertical eight to life, and soon was off. He reckoned he had enough gas to get where he was going, but not enough to bring him back. Belatedly, he checked his watch. It was nearly three-thirty in the morning.