So what happened in Briggs’ office after the game? Rumors are flying!

–Harry E.

Dear Harry,

It wasn’t pretty. You probably caught me and Cochrane screaming at each other after the top of the 7th. That was after he laid into Gehringer for making his second error in the three games with the Yanks, as if that was the reason we got outscored 38-14 in the sweep.

Our lousy pitching is why we’re in 6th place and going nowhere, but Briggs has also had it up to here with Cochrane, and needed to flex his stupidity a little after today’s game.

“What’s all this hooey going on in our dugout?” the old cheapskate began.

“Charlie made another bad play,” said Cochrane. “So I chewed him out and Hank got in my way.”

“Says you, Mickey. You’ve been riding us like a bunch of kid’s ponies all season.”

“I don’t need you disruptin’ my team.”

“Really? You call 42 home runs disrupting?”

Mickey’s got a point,” said Briggs. “Much as you might disagree with him, he is still the manager, and I’m paying you handsomely to play, remember?”

“Sure, if that’s what you’re calling it.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know damn well, Mr. Briggs. I got us into the World Series in ’34 and ’35, won the Most Valuable Player award, and you wouldn’t reward me with anything close to what I was asking for.”

He studied me through his round glassses a moment, then turned to his son Spike, the team treasurer, who was seated at a small desk in the corner of the room.
“How much was Mr. Greenberg’s new contract for, Spike?”

“Let me see…$25,000, pops.”

“Quite a fine living wage, I would say, for an American in the midst of a serious depressed time.”

“Sure. At least it’s more than the ten cents an hour you were paying your assembly line men at Briggs Manufacturing.”

“I don’t see how that’s relevant. And my automotive workers also weren’t spending valuable time writing to congressmen and alarming the press about issues on foreign soil they have little control over.”

“It might actually be a beneficial thing if you did that yourself, sir.”

Briggs’ face reddened. He could barely speak, and turned to Cochrane instead.

“Can you get a handle on this situation, Mickey? I have more pressing matters to deal with.”

“Sure ,” Mickey uttered, with a minimal amount of confidence. “Let’s go Hank,” he said to me, “We got the Red Sox to prepare for.”

I didn’t even bother to respond. All I knew was that a handful of Boston pitches were about to get mashed.



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