John (4) | (51.10)

[mragland]

3.20.1928 – Los Angeles

During practice the set of wooden bleachers down the third base line was usually unoccupied, save for the occasional player's girlfriend or curious passer-by. Today, one of the reporters for the school paper was sitting near the highest row, a freckle-faced sophomore by the name of Charles Harrington, originally from Pasadena.

"Hey, Professor," Charles called out to assistant manager George Booth, who was down on the front row, clipboard in hand, watching the infielders practice turning a double play. He turned slowly to face Harrington, squinting as he looked up in the afternoon sun.

Dr. Booth was a man in his late thirties, himself originally from Virginia Beach. Booth was a full time professor of Greek and classical studies and a part-time baseball instructor who had played a couple of years professionally in the old Tri-State league during the summer to help defray the cost of attending college in Princeton. His build still better resembled that of an outfielder than it did that of a classics professor.

Booth looked the young man up and down. "You're that rawboned kid with the school paper, Harrison, was it?" he asked.

"Harrington," said Charles. "Say, where's that hotshot third baseman I saw out here the other day against St. Mary's?" he asked, waving his arm toward the left side of the infield. "He could sure sock 'em."

The club's manager, Jack Warstein (originally from Lincoln, Nebraska) who split his time between serving as the backfield coach for the football team and as baseball manager, had been busy hitting grounders to the infielders. He overheard Harrington's query to Booth and turned briefly to scowl at the young man, but said nothing and resumed hitting the ball over to short.

“Come on, Miller!” snapped Warstein. “I wanna see you up on the balls of your feet not leaning back on your heels!”

"Whittingham," said Booth, quietly. "He's not with the team, I'm afraid. I'm not sure he's even still with the school, to be honest. A question maybe better put to Dean Melton."

"That's tough," said Charles, who reached for the pencil he had tucked behind his ear and picked up his notebook, "what's his trouble?"

Booth sighed.

"You don't know?” he asked. “Aren't you the reporter?" Booth stood up and climbed the bleachers to sit down next to Harrington. "This is not for attribution," he said as he took his seat, looking Charles in the eye. The two conversed for a few minutes in near-whispers, with Booth doing most of the talking and Harrington looking by turns curious, embarrassed, and a little surprised.

When they were done, Booth patted Harrington on the knee and went back to his original seat and again took up his clipboard. "You talk to your editor. He'll tell you how much of that he deems fit for publication."

As it happened, none of what Booth mentioned to Harrington made its way into The Daily Bruin.