You were asking me about my meeting with Cochrane today after the Senators beat us up, so I thought I would fill you in a bit. With all the commotion and snoopy reporters around, locker rooms and especially losing ones aren’t the best places to share private issues.
Mickey has been worried about me. I guess I was late to batting practice a few weeks ago and even though I’ve been hitting over .400 the last ten days, I’ve been a little distracted in the field. Like moms, being worried is what skippers are good at, so we had a few at the hotel bar here late last night.
I told him what’s going on with Markie, or at least what I think is going on, but he didn’t seem to get why it was bothering me.
“I hit a fan in Philly with a line drive foul ball once,” he said. “Guy was just about bleeding out of his eyes. Ambulance came, and I did all the right things. Paid him a hospital visit, gave him one of my bats. At a certain point, though, shit’s out of your hands.” I told him this is different. A ten-year-old kid and his family are missing on the other side of the world, and I can’t exactly pay them a visit.
“Tough break,” is all he said to that, “we got some ball clubs to catch.”
I know there’s been some talk in the Detroit papers about Mickey’s job being in jeopardy, so he’s been hiding in his beer a little too much, but I’ll tell you: As far as this problem of mine goes, he’s been less helpful than the jerks here in Washington.
Sorry. Maybe you should sit out a week with a fake injury and go to Austria and look for them.
Don’t think it hasn’t crossed my mind.