Just then, Nancy and Anne came into the office. Nancy gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek. I said, "You don't have to say it, Nancy. I know. I haven't changed a bit." She looked at my white beard, fluttered her eyelashes and said, "Pat, you haven't changed a bit."
We all laughed.
I said, "I heard you've become quite the businesswoman."
"Well," she said, "for years I was just eye candy."
I said, "Nancy, you were never just eye candy." She had been a tanned, beautiful, California blonde when I first met her, in 1973. She's still beautiful in her 60s, with blonde hair and sharp cheekbones that could be Slavic or Native American. In all the times I met her, she always had a sly remove. She was enigmatic, unreadable, like January Jones in Mad Men. Her husband was the obvious one, a big, emotional, blustering teenager. Nancy was the mystery.
We explained to Anne how we'd known each other for 40 years but haven't seen each other much in the past 20. When he was still pitching, a lot of my communication with Tom was over the phone. I'd call him up after a game and say, "It's me." He'd say, "I know. What do you want?" I'd say, "You're throwing too many breaking balls." He'd say, "You really think so." I'd say, "Absolutely." He'd say, "What the fuck do you know?"
I said to Anne and Nancy, "Tom's always been jealous of my fastball." Nancy tilted her head slightly and said, "Really? I didn't know that." I nodded and said, "Of course, he'll never admit it."
Tom bellowed, "Yeah, and between the two of us, we won 311 major league games."
I said, "I tell everyone that."
Anne looked at us both, then said to her mother, "Dumb and Dumber."