I could not have been mistaken. He was Old
Well-Well, famous from Boston to Baltimore as
the greatest baseball fan in the East. His singular
yell had pealed into the ears of five hundred
thousand worshippers of the national game and would
never be forgotten.
At sight of him I recalled a friend's baseball
talk. ``You remember Old Well-Well? He's all
in--dying, poor old fellow! It seems young Burt,
whom the Phillies are trying out this spring, is
Old Well-Well's nephew and protege. Used to
play on the Murray Hill team; a speedy youngster.
When the Philadelphia team was here last,
Manager Crestline announced his intention to play
Burt in center field. Old Well-Well was too ill
to see the lad get his tryout. He was heart-broken
and said: `If I could only see one more game!' ''
The recollection of this random baseball gossip
and the fact that Philadelphia was scheduled to
play New York that very day, gave me a sudden
desire to see the game with Old Well-Well. I did not
know him, but where on earth were introductions
as superfluous as on the bleachers? It was a very
easy matter to catch up with him. He walked
slowly, leaning hard on a cane and his wide shoulders
sagged as he puffed along. I was about to
make some pleasant remark concerning the prospects
of a fine game, when the sight of his face
shocked me and I drew back.
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