was made from a kit. In a clever way of circumventing the Volstead Act, vintners sold grape bricks, solid blocks of concentrated grape juice that came with detailed instructions on exactly what you should not do with their product or you would end up with wine—and that would be illegal.
Katie Perriman was serving the real stuff, though, bottled before Prohibition. I’d have preferred beer, or a sweeter wine, but the dry white I was sipping wasn’t bad. In fact, it was the most enjoyable aspect of the gathering.
This wasn’t the way I’d planned to spend Saturday evening. But after our 2–1 victory over the Dodgers, Lloyd Tinsley came into the clubhouse and announced that Mrs. Perriman had invited the entire team to her house as a thank-you for the “tribute” to her husband at the ballpark.
I felt obligated to go, and Margie agreed to come with me; we figured we’d put in enough time to be polite, then leave for a late dinner and dancing.
The Perriman home was a rambling three-story Victorian that would have been considered a mansion in most parts of the city. Situated on fashionable Price Hill, however, it was one of the more ordinary residences.
Inside what the butler called the “drawing room” half the Reds team stood awkwardly around a lavishly stocked buffet table. The antique furniture, Oriental rugs, and gilt-framed paintings that filled the high-ceilinged room made for an intimidating atmosphere, and it seemed that the main goal of every ballplayer there was to avoid coming into contact with anything breakable.
While Katie Perriman sat on a daybed at the far end of the room with several other women to keep her company, her guests stayed near the food and drinks, exchanging few words. The lack of conversation among the players wasn’t unique to this occasion, however. Although the club could play well enough together on the diamond, there was little social interaction once the games were over. Some preferred to keep to themselves, like Jake Daubert, who had the personality of a blank lineup card, and my road roommate Bubbles Hargrave, who had a stuttering problem—he’d been given his nickname because of his trouble saying B’s. And there were those who were avoided by others, like the arrogant youngster Curt Stram, and temperamental pitcher Dolf Luque, “The Pride of Havana,” who sometimes challenged his teammates to duels. Absorbed in the refreshments were manager Pat Moran, who was gulping wine at a pace to make it the alcoholic equivalent of whiskey, and bony old coach Dave Claxton, who kept stuffing down shrimp and crackers.
Completely absent were Garry Herrmann, Lloyd Tinsley, and the businessmen who’d been at the game; this wasn’t a public event, and they wouldn’t get their names in the papers for coming, so why bother.
I was the only one who’d brought a date, so at least I had Margie to talk to. But since I was also the only one as far as I knew who’d even met Ollie Perriman, I felt I should be the first to pay my respects to his widow. I excused myself from Margie and approached our hostess.
Katie Perriman was still in mourning attire, but without the hat and veil. Her round face was heavily powdered and her drab brown hair was in a chignon. By far, her most attractive feature was her vivid green eyes.
“Mrs. Perriman,” I said, “my name is Mickey Rawlings. I met your husband a couple of times, and ... and I just want you to know that I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. My Ollie was a sweet man.” She raised a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes—although they didn’t appear wet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”
The other women immediately dispersed, probably grateful to be temporarily relieved of their duty to stay with the bereaved.
That meant I was going to be stuck with her for a while. “I, uh, I was going to be at the opening of your husband’s museum. He showed me the things he’d collected. Sure did a
Katie Perriman was serving the real stuff, though, bottled before Prohibition. I’d have preferred beer, or a sweeter wine, but the dry white I was sipping wasn’t bad. In fact, it was the most enjoyable aspect of the gathering.
This wasn’t the way I’d planned to spend Saturday evening. But after our 2–1 victory over the Dodgers, Lloyd Tinsley came into the clubhouse and announced that Mrs. Perriman had invited the entire team to her house as a thank-you for the “tribute” to her husband at the ballpark.
I felt obligated to go, and Margie agreed to come with me; we figured we’d put in enough time to be polite, then leave for a late dinner and dancing.
The Perriman home was a rambling three-story Victorian that would have been considered a mansion in most parts of the city. Situated on fashionable Price Hill, however, it was one of the more ordinary residences.
Inside what the butler called the “drawing room” half the Reds team stood awkwardly around a lavishly stocked buffet table. The antique furniture, Oriental rugs, and gilt-framed paintings that filled the high-ceilinged room made for an intimidating atmosphere, and it seemed that the main goal of every ballplayer there was to avoid coming into contact with anything breakable.
While Katie Perriman sat on a daybed at the far end of the room with several other women to keep her company, her guests stayed near the food and drinks, exchanging few words. The lack of conversation among the players wasn’t unique to this occasion, however. Although the club could play well enough together on the diamond, there was little social interaction once the games were over. Some preferred to keep to themselves, like Jake Daubert, who had the personality of a blank lineup card, and my road roommate Bubbles Hargrave, who had a stuttering problem—he’d been given his nickname because of his trouble saying B’s. And there were those who were avoided by others, like the arrogant youngster Curt Stram, and temperamental pitcher Dolf Luque, “The Pride of Havana,” who sometimes challenged his teammates to duels. Absorbed in the refreshments were manager Pat Moran, who was gulping wine at a pace to make it the alcoholic equivalent of whiskey, and bony old coach Dave Claxton, who kept stuffing down shrimp and crackers.
Completely absent were Garry Herrmann, Lloyd Tinsley, and the businessmen who’d been at the game; this wasn’t a public event, and they wouldn’t get their names in the papers for coming, so why bother.
I was the only one who’d brought a date, so at least I had Margie to talk to. But since I was also the only one as far as I knew who’d even met Ollie Perriman, I felt I should be the first to pay my respects to his widow. I excused myself from Margie and approached our hostess.
Katie Perriman was still in mourning attire, but without the hat and veil. Her round face was heavily powdered and her drab brown hair was in a chignon. By far, her most attractive feature was her vivid green eyes.
“Mrs. Perriman,” I said, “my name is Mickey Rawlings. I met your husband a couple of times, and ... and I just want you to know that I’m sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. My Ollie was a sweet man.” She raised a lacy handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes—although they didn’t appear wet. “I don’t know what I’m going to do without him.”
The other women immediately dispersed, probably grateful to be temporarily relieved of their duty to stay with the bereaved.
That meant I was going to be stuck with her for a while. “I, uh, I was going to be at the opening of your husband’s museum. He showed me the things he’d collected. Sure did a
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