Thomas here.”
Kelleher laughed. “Gee, I wonder why you want to talk to him, Tim. Steve Thomas, this is Tim McCarver.”
McCarver shook hands with Stevie, then introduced himself to Susan Carol, impressing Stevie when he said, “I’m Tim McCarver, nice to meet you.” Stevie had noticed that a lot of celebrities either didn’t even speak to people they didn’t “need” at that moment or blew through any introduction that was made.
McCarver turned to Stevie. “Bobby’s right, of course. I need your help,” he said. “We like to tape our opening when we get to the ballpark. We’ve been trying to get the Nationals to confirm your story about Doyle pitching, but they’re playing it very close to the vest. Can you just give me an idea of how well-sourced you are on this?”
Stevie looked to Kelleher. He didn’t think there was any reason not to tell McCarver why the story was fail-safe, but he wasn’t certain.
“Put it this way, Tim,” Kelleher said. “He didn’t get the story secondhand.”
McCarver smiled. “Excellent. That’s all I need.” He put his hand out to Stevie again. “Congratulations on breaking the story.”
A voice behind them said, “Tim, the car’s downstairs.”
Stevie saw Ken Rosenthal, Fox’s sideline reporter, standing behind McCarver.
When Kelleher saw Rosenthal, he grinned and said, “Hey, Kenny, we never see you anymore now that you’ve gone TV.”
Rosenthal was short and had brown hair and a quicksmile. Stevie always liked watching him on TV because he clearly knew what he was talking about but never pontificated.
“Yeah, I’ve come a long way, Bobby,” Rosenthal said, laughing. “I used to be your caddy, now I’m McCarver’s caddy. But I
do
get better seats now.”
“Too true, Junior,” Kelleher said.
McCarver thanked Stevie again, and he and Rosenthal waved goodbye as they headed for the escalator.
“Please tell me you think they’re good guys,” Susan Carol said. “I really do like their telecasts.”
“They’re good guys,” Kelleher said. “Junior still thinks like a reporter and is
not
in love with himself.”
“Junior?” Stevie and Susan Carol said together.
Kelleher and Mearns both laughed. “Believe it or not,” Mearns said, “when Kenny was a young reporter with the
Baltimore Sun
, Jose Canseco thought he looked like Cal Ripken, so he started calling him by Cal’s nickname.”
“There are probably only about five of us who still remember that,” Kelleher added. “Come on, let’s go.”
They took a cab to the ballpark, and since they already had their credentials, they were inside and on the field just as the Red Sox started batting practice. Since the managers’ pregame press conferences didn’t begin until 5:30, everyone stood around in groups chatting while David Ortiz, Jason Bay, and J.D. Drew crushed long home runs into the seats and over the Green Monster. Stevie had half expected people to come up and ask him about the story, but no one did.
“The lineup is posted in the dugout,” Mearns reported. “Doyle’s the starting pitcher. I guess ESPN can confirm the story now.”
“I wonder if they can call the lineup card a source?” Stevie asked.
Mearns went off to do an interview with one of the local Boston TV stations. Kelleher was called away by a couple of writers Stevie didn’t recognize. That left him standing alone with Susan Carol a few feet from the Nationals dugout.
“So what’d you do this afternoon?” Stevie asked, trying to sound casual. “Bobby and I tried to call you for lunch, but you didn’t answer.”
“Oh, I just went for a walk,” she said. “I didn’t swim this morning, so I wanted to get some exercise.”
“What happened to your cell?”
She forced a smile. “Left it in the room. I decided I could live without it for an hour. Where did you guys go to eat?”
Stevie paused for a second. He really hadn’t thought out what to say if Susan Carol didn’t volunteer the fact that
Kelleher laughed. “Gee, I wonder why you want to talk to him, Tim. Steve Thomas, this is Tim McCarver.”
McCarver shook hands with Stevie, then introduced himself to Susan Carol, impressing Stevie when he said, “I’m Tim McCarver, nice to meet you.” Stevie had noticed that a lot of celebrities either didn’t even speak to people they didn’t “need” at that moment or blew through any introduction that was made.
McCarver turned to Stevie. “Bobby’s right, of course. I need your help,” he said. “We like to tape our opening when we get to the ballpark. We’ve been trying to get the Nationals to confirm your story about Doyle pitching, but they’re playing it very close to the vest. Can you just give me an idea of how well-sourced you are on this?”
Stevie looked to Kelleher. He didn’t think there was any reason not to tell McCarver why the story was fail-safe, but he wasn’t certain.
“Put it this way, Tim,” Kelleher said. “He didn’t get the story secondhand.”
McCarver smiled. “Excellent. That’s all I need.” He put his hand out to Stevie again. “Congratulations on breaking the story.”
A voice behind them said, “Tim, the car’s downstairs.”
Stevie saw Ken Rosenthal, Fox’s sideline reporter, standing behind McCarver.
When Kelleher saw Rosenthal, he grinned and said, “Hey, Kenny, we never see you anymore now that you’ve gone TV.”
Rosenthal was short and had brown hair and a quicksmile. Stevie always liked watching him on TV because he clearly knew what he was talking about but never pontificated.
“Yeah, I’ve come a long way, Bobby,” Rosenthal said, laughing. “I used to be your caddy, now I’m McCarver’s caddy. But I
do
get better seats now.”
“Too true, Junior,” Kelleher said.
McCarver thanked Stevie again, and he and Rosenthal waved goodbye as they headed for the escalator.
“Please tell me you think they’re good guys,” Susan Carol said. “I really do like their telecasts.”
“They’re good guys,” Kelleher said. “Junior still thinks like a reporter and is
not
in love with himself.”
“Junior?” Stevie and Susan Carol said together.
Kelleher and Mearns both laughed. “Believe it or not,” Mearns said, “when Kenny was a young reporter with the
Baltimore Sun
, Jose Canseco thought he looked like Cal Ripken, so he started calling him by Cal’s nickname.”
“There are probably only about five of us who still remember that,” Kelleher added. “Come on, let’s go.”
They took a cab to the ballpark, and since they already had their credentials, they were inside and on the field just as the Red Sox started batting practice. Since the managers’ pregame press conferences didn’t begin until 5:30, everyone stood around in groups chatting while David Ortiz, Jason Bay, and J.D. Drew crushed long home runs into the seats and over the Green Monster. Stevie had half expected people to come up and ask him about the story, but no one did.
“The lineup is posted in the dugout,” Mearns reported. “Doyle’s the starting pitcher. I guess ESPN can confirm the story now.”
“I wonder if they can call the lineup card a source?” Stevie asked.
Mearns went off to do an interview with one of the local Boston TV stations. Kelleher was called away by a couple of writers Stevie didn’t recognize. That left him standing alone with Susan Carol a few feet from the Nationals dugout.
“So what’d you do this afternoon?” Stevie asked, trying to sound casual. “Bobby and I tried to call you for lunch, but you didn’t answer.”
“Oh, I just went for a walk,” she said. “I didn’t swim this morning, so I wanted to get some exercise.”
“What happened to your cell?”
She forced a smile. “Left it in the room. I decided I could live without it for an hour. Where did you guys go to eat?”
Stevie paused for a second. He really hadn’t thought out what to say if Susan Carol didn’t volunteer the fact that
Similar Books
