Free Fear Strikes Out by Jim Piersall, Hirshberg

time for spring training, I reported back to the Louisville club. I was looking forward to it because Mike Ryba had been made manager of the Colonels. To make me feel even more at home, Ed Doherty, who was president of the Scranton club when I played there, had also been promoted to Louisville. Doherty, a tall, friendly, prematurely gray man who always treated me well, is now president of the American Association.
    A month after the 1949 season started, Mary flew to Louisville to see me. She stayed with friends for several days, and just before she flew back I said, “How about setting a date?”
    “Like right after the season’s over?”
    “Yes—sometime in October.”
    The next time she came to Louisville, my dad was there. He had met Mary in Scranton, and was not upset when I told him we were going to get married. It wouldn’t have made any difference, of course, but I was relieved because I had been apprehensive about his reaction. I knew there’d be no trouble with Mom. She and Mary got along very well, and, in fact, Mom already was aware of our plans and approved of them.
    I was very happy, even though assailed by vague worries over finances. I was assuming a new responsibility, but Mary was so willing to co-operate that I almost felt that I was taking advantage of her. Each time I started to tell her about my obligations in Waterbury, she put a finger to my lips and said, “Don’t worry about it, honey. Whatever you say is all right with me. Don’t you know that yet?”
    I did know it, but I still couldn’t help worrying about money. Occasionally, while I tossed around trying to get to sleep at night, I’d be plagued by simple mathematics, as I tried to figure out how much I’d have to give the folks, how much we’d need to live on, how much I could put into the bank and how much more I could make over my baseball salary.
    One day I asked my father, “How much do you need every week? Tell me exactly.”
    “Thirty-five dollars,” he replied.
    “O.K.”
    After that I did all my nocturnal figuring with that as a base. After I had set aside thirty-five dollars for my parents, how much would Mary and I need to live on? And how long would there just be the two of us? We both wanted a family. How much more would it cost to have one? And what if one of us should get sick? How could I possibly figure out how much that would set us back? No matter what happened, the thirty-five dollars for Mom and Dad would have to be taken out. That was a prime responsibility.
    But whenever I brought up the subject of money with Mary, she laughed it off.
    “Don’t lose any sleep over it,” she insisted. “We’ll get along.”
    “I know, but I want you to have a nice place to live. Honey, I’ve got to make a lot of money.”
    “You will. I know you will.”
    “We’ll have to live with Mom and Dad, and I hate to think of your being in that flat.”
    She kept assuring me that it was all right, but the more I thought about it the less I liked the idea. Mary would never be happy on East Main Street, no matter what she said to the contrary. I began to wonder if I could swing a house. I had some cash in the bank and if I could work out reasonable payments—
    W E WERE MARRIED on October 22 at the Church of the Nativity of Our Lord in Scranton. Mary’s cousin Ruth Holleran was maid of honor, and Tony Howley was my best man. The priest who married us was the Reverend John O’Brien, Ann’s brother. Father O’Brien had become a good friend of mine. He later officiated when his sister married Dan Kuchar.
    A number of people came over from Waterbury. My folks, and one of my aunts—my mother’s sister—were there, and so was Bernie Sherwill. Al Dostaler, who had played on the Leavenworth High School basketball team with Bernie and me, the Tracys, and Jarp O’Neil came, too, along with several family friends. It was a wonderful wedding and everyone, including me, was very happy.
    Back in Waterbury, we moved in with my